Newton's Law at Tooth Time

There's been "drama," as my neighbor put it, and it knows no bounds.

I've asked my daughter, every day this week (and last), "Is this worth tears?" 
But of course, it is not "this" that has emotions at the surface.  Her friends don't want to play her games.  She's going to be asked to wear a skirt with built in shorts, somebody is going to hog the monkey bars--all recess.  She just knows it.  And there's so little time left-five school days 'til Summer vacation.  So, it seems 'til then, the world is against her, attempting to squash her, making her wear a Girl Scout uniform one night a week, forcing her to brush hair and teeth, and use a hamper for dirty clothes.

These rules are old.  Five days left--emotions are high, all around. 

Newton's Third Law of Physics:  "To each reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction."
May I boil his genius down to one law and apply it to my three children under six, then add half a tube of toothpaste?
My reaction:  "Clean up this sink!  A bit is alllll you need--you know that, get this cleaned off."

It wasn't the usual wide streak of paste from the lip of the sink to the drain.  It was like a contractor cocking job, it was like half a rubber water-wing, it was a sculpture, an aerial view of the Andes.

It was stuck and it was tuff.  It was a drama-inspirer in the "girl's sink."  I didn't want to hover, instruct or reinforce my point further.  "Wash it up," and to her brothers at the other sink, "brush," I said flat, and left. 

Empathy began to froth at the boy's sink and soon the brothers stopped doing teeth circles and put their tools to work.  All three in one sink, scrubbing one extra wide line of plastered paste.

My youngest is cute, but maybe not a Newton, yet he knows if one child that is in trouble for a "bad" behavior, the best thing for him to do with his time is be on the best side of "good."

I peeked at the progress.  My oldest two, who can get at odds easily, were a team-a toothpaste team-nearly done, beautiful job.  And at the other sink, a health and wellness commercial was budding: tiny teeth circles, a rinse, an aimed spit a zealous attempt at "good-ness."

He is my baby, who knows his a-b-c's and can count to eleven.  He took his foaming brush from front teeth and began with long strokes to toothbrush his hair.  The best brushing job I'd seen him do; a baby James Dean.  He watched himself in the mirror, combed his eyebrows-up, scrubbed the tippy tip of his nose, and across the nostrils, opened wide a tooth check smile, and rejoined his siblings where they all started, cleaning big chomper teeth way in the back.