I noticed something about my 2-year-old the other day that I’m terribly embarrassed about: He’s got plaque between his front bottom teeth.

Gasp!

This is especially horrifying because, as the daughter of a dental hygienist, I’ve been schooled all my life on the importance of good dental hygiene. I grew up in a house where my sisters and I always found a piece of fruit at the bottom of our Christmas stockings. A visit to the dentist — biannually, like clockwork — wasn’t something to dread, but anticipate, for it was also a chance to see Mom in action at work. I never feared the dentist, and very rarely got a cavity.

I thought I’d been careful to pass along good dental hygiene habits to my kids. We’ve been brushing Kostyn’s teeth every night since, well, since he had teeth. And now that he’s 2 and a half, we help him brush in the morning, too. He eats limited sweets and never drinks juice. We don’t keep candy in the house and never give him sticky, sugary snacks (although he did have a lollipop once and boy was that a hit). He doesn’t even know that sugar-coated cereal exists. And he hasn’t used a pacifier since he was 21 months old.

He does ask for milk when he wakes up from his nap, so I suppose I should start forcing him to switch to water instead for his afternoon snack (because there’s no way I’d get him to brush his teeth three times a day). Other than that, I don't know what I'm doing wrong or what else I should be doing. As a mom (and, did I mention, the daughter of a dental hygienist?!), this feels like my first failure.

The boy still gets freaked out about getting his hair cut, so I can’t imagine how he’ll do at the dentist’s office. But I think we’re going to find out very soon.

When our 11-month-old, Evan, became mobile, we spent a fair amount of time babyproofing the house. What we didn’t do — and wish we could — was to toddler-proof the baby. 

Our toddler, Kostyn, loves his brother. He gives him spontaneous hugs and reserves his biggest smiles and warmest greetings for Evan. He follows his little brother around, mimicking his movements, trying to get him to play. He says things to me like, “He’s my best friend,” which make me about as happy as a mom can be.

But it seems every exchange between the two of them ends in one of two ways: Either I scoop up Evan and make them both angry that I separated them, or Evan gets hurt. Evan gets hurt with alarming frequency given the fact that I watch them like a hawk. In my defense, the kiddie assault usually happens without warning. (Well, that’s not entirely true. The warning that I’m given is the fact that Kostyn is in the same room as his brother.) One second they’re giggling and playing with cars, and the next minute Kostyn is screaming “No Evan!” and shoving him backward or yanking a car out of his tiny hand. 

Thankfully, after a momentary crying jag while Mommy reprimands his big bad brother for the 8 millionth time, Evan springs back up like Wile E. Coyote, ready for another round. Kostyn emerges from his bedroom to say “Sorry Evan” and they both smile at each other and start to play together like best buddies again. Evan either has an enormous, forgiving heart, or a tragically poor short-term memory. 

But the physical contact is not always over toys. Sometimes Kostyn just walks by Evan and throws an elbow or intentionally steps in Evan’s path, knowing that the little guy, who’s still unsteady on his feet, will topple right over. It looks cruel and inconsiderate and senseless, a random act of violence that doesn’t appear to be connected to any territorial pursuit or jealous outburst.

We’ve tried Time Outs and Time Ins. We’ve heaped extra attention and affection on the victim and ignored the perpetrator. We’ve separated and scolded. We’ve given equal toys to both boys. We’ve accommodated Kostyn’s need to play alone sometimes, and distracted Evan away from block towers and train tracks and other special things Kostyn is building. 

We’ve tried to focus our words on how we should treat people — “We are loving and sharing and gentle with people” — instead of merely telling Kostyn “No!”

And still, inevitably, another hit-and-run.

I know a lot of it is the fact that we’re dealing with a toddler, who is still by nature pretty self-centered, and an almost-1-year-old, who is just starting to learn about boundaries. I know that they’re establishing a pecking order, learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and kind of figuring out who they are by bouncing their demands and likes and toys and bodies off each other. In that same vein, I’m amazed by how physical their relationship is at this young age. They love to wrestle. They love to chase each other so closely that their bodies are touching as they toddle around, Evan on his feet and Kostyn leveling the playing field by “walking” on his knees. 

This week I’ve learned there’s a gaping difference between sick days Before Children, and sick days After Children. 

6:30 a.m., B.C.: The alarm wakes me up. I feel awful — headache, feverish, sore throat, stuffy nose, the works. I roll over, grab my cell phone and leave a message for my boss telling her I feel like the walking dead and won’t be in today. (Insert a hacking cough for effect.) I pull the blankets over my head and fall back to sleep.

6:30 a.m., A.C.: The baby wakes me up. I feel awful — headache, feverish, sore throat, stuffy nose, the works. Turns out the baby feels similarly. He’s cranky, crying and hungry, and will not be shushed back to sleep. Up and at ’em...

8 a.m., B.C.: I’m sound asleep.

8 a.m., A.C.: I’ve nursed the baby, changed his older brother’s diaper, made breakfast for both boys, made myself a smoothie, downed the smoothie and half a cup of coffee, washed the breakfast dishes, picked up all the food the baby threw on the floor, made the beds, and read two Winnie the Pooh books — all with a splitting headache and sore throat.

10 a.m., B.C.: I wake up from a sound sleep and feel slightly better. Stumble into the kitchen to make some toast and brew a fresh pot of coffee. The orange juice burns my throat. Coffee’s not much better on the throat, but it might help this headache...

10 a.m., A.C.: I muster all my energy to “play puppet” with the 2-year-old, who’s been begging me to play with him all morning. The baby is a snotty mess who doesn’t let a tissue come near his face. He prefers to rub his runny nose all over my clothes, neck and hair. Both boys are coughing and sniffling and trading their germs on every toy in the play room. Making mental notes on which toys need to be sanitized leaves me feeling even more exhausted. I decide to fumigate the whole house next weekend. 

12:00 p.m., B.C.: I lie under a fluffy comforter on the couch, immersed in a “Real World/Road Rules” marathon. I get up just long enough to nuke my coffee and grab a banana.

12:00 p.m., A.C.: The pediatrician has an opening for both boys at 12:50 p.m., and with a 20-minute drive to get there, the race is already on to get everyone ready. I make early lunches for the three of us, clean the kitchen once again, change two diapers, find socks and shoes for them, brush my teeth, pack a diaper bag, let the dog out, and wrestle coats onto two whiny little boys who are both desperate for naps. 

2 p.m., B.C.: Hmmm, I bet a nice hot bubble bath would make my achy body feel better. I grab a magazine and a hot cup of tea and fill the tub. 

2 p.m., A.C.:  I sit in the Walmart parking lot letting my 2-year-old play with the radio and air vents while the baby naps for a few more minutes in his car seat before we all head inside to pick up a prescription for my son’s ear infection. My head is pounding and this cough hurts my chest and throat. “Mommy, you do it,” Kostyn says with a smile, waiting for me to close and open the vents on the driver’s side for the 400th time in 10 minutes. I’m irrationally jealous of the baby sleeping behind me. 

3 p.m., B.C.: Naptime! I fall asleep on the couch, waking in an hour just in time for “Oprah.”

3 p.m., A.C.: I plod through Walmart trying to scoop up enough medication, Kleenex and provisions so that I won’t have to leave the house again for a few days. The baby grabs at my coat and whines to get out of the cart; the toddler is asleep in the shopping cart basket. Now I’m jealous of him.

4:30 p.m., B.C.: Still not feeling great, I rummage through the medicine cabinet and take the first thing I find that seems to suit my symptoms. 

4:30 p.m., A.C.: I still feel like death warmed over, but because I’m breastfeeding I’m reluctant to take any medication. I’ve called both sisters to ask their advice, consulted a breastfeeding Web site and pored over the active ingredients of several cold meds, finally settling on one that I’m fairly confident won’t do much to help me, but won’t do much to harm the baby, either. Time for another round of diaper changes...

6 p.m., B.C.: I call to ask my husband when he’s coming home. “I’m so bored,” I say. “I haven’t spoken to another adult all day!” He brings home Chinese takeout and ice cream, saying the hot and sour soup will clear my sinuses and the ice cream will soothe my throat. 

6 p.m., A.C.: I call to ask my husband when he’s coming home, because I need to know how many more miles of this marathon I’ve yet to run. I’ve been holding the baby for the last 40 minutes to keep him from crying, and he doesn’t seem to care that I keep telling him “You sound how I feel.” It is sweet relief when my husband walks in the door, but there’s no time to slump on the couch. Together we fix dinner, feed the kids, clean the kitchen again, give baths, pick up toys, change diapers, dispense medicine, play, tickle, laugh, feed the pets, read books, wipe away tears, scold, cuddle, nurse, rock and kiss goodnight. 

8 p.m., B.C.: I feel refreshed after my afternoon nap and I smell like jasmine bubble bath. The sweet and sour soup did wonders for my sinuses. We watch TV all night without any interruptions.  

My son Kostyn had a play date this morning and it made me realize something: Play dates make me feel like I’m on a date. 

I haven’t been on a date with anyone besides my husband since -- well, heck, I can’t even remember the last time I was on a date with my husband. Let’s just say I’m rusty when it comes to dating. 

This particular play date was with our next-door neighbor and her little girl, who’s 2, just like Kostyn. Why we parents think 2-year-olds need social calendars is beyond me, but her mother and I had been doing the “We really should get together! Have coffee! Let the kids play!” song and dance since we moved in five months ago, and they seem really nice. It was high time I invited them over. 

So there I was this morning, showered before 10am, which was the first thing that tipped off my kids to the knowledge that today was no ordinary day. I also washed the breakfast dishes right after breakfast, instead of piling them into the sink to be joined by the lunch dishes a few hours later. I vacuumed the living room. I even straightened the playroom, for goodness’ sake. And I can’t be certain, but I think I may have applied mascara. 

Oh yeah, this was definitely a date. 

Just like a date, I remained mildly nervous throughout the perfectly pleasant hour of playtime. I accidentally made the coffee too strong. I worked too hard at filling the awkward silences. But eventually, we settled into each other’s company, realizing that mothers of 2-year-olds have a lot in common. I picked her brain about preschool, and she complimented me on the arts and crafts my son has displayed. We talked about swimming lessons at the Y, sibling rivalry and the careers we put on hold. We watched our kids play together without acknowledging each other. We laughed. My son shared his toys without a fuss, and my dog made the little girl’s day by playing ball with her. Inside, I beamed, knowing the date was going well.

When it was all said and done, we coaxed the kids to say goodbye to each other in that awkward way parents use their kids sometimes to speak for them. 

“Kostyn, tell Ella thank you for coming to play with me!” 

“Ella, tell Kostyn he can come over to your house next time!” 

And then we made plans for a second date. I mean a second play date. For our kids.