My youngest son turned 8 on Wednesday. This is how Ezra's lovely birthday ended: me versus his yetzer hara, separated by a bathroom door.
After a dinner of his choosing, an episode of MasterChef, and a cookies and cream birthday cake, I carried him up to bed. On our way up the stairs I held him tightly, his head resting on my shoulder and his toes brushing against my calves, wondering how much longer he will allow me to give him his nightly ride up the steps. I put him down in front of the bathroom and told him to brush his teeth.
He said he wouldn't. I asked him again. He refused again, crossed his arms and drew his line in the sand. So I drew mine. I closed the bathroom door and told him I would open it when he finished brushing his teeth.
And then he gave it to me — a triple dose of his yetzer hara, the evil side of his impressive iron will.
The yetzer hara is translated as the "evil inclination." It's your dark side, and we all have it. In Ezra's case, his most prominent yetzer hara is the dark side of his determination. Ezra, when faced with something challenging – riding a bike, throwing a fast ball, perfecting a dive, writing in cursive, building a LEGO Star Wars ship, multiplication – will work until he masters it. Behind the bathroom door, refusing to brush his teeth, this determination sounds like stubborness, like obstinance, like defiance.
"I won't brush my teeth!"
"You open this door and then I'll brush my teeth!"
"Shut up!"
"I wish that I get away with not brushing my teeth"
"This is the worst birthday ever and it's your fault!"
"I hate you!"
In the hallway on the other side of the bathroom door, I was trying my hardest not to release the Kraken (my yetzer hara). My inner Kraken was indeed pounding on its cage as I asked myself, "How is this still happening? Why this jihad against hygiene? He's 8 years old and throwing the same tantrums he threw at 3."
But then, probably around the time Ezra was throwing his body into the door like a cop on a drug bust and blaming me for turning his birthday into a night at Guantanamo, I smiled. I had to hand it to him. The kid does not give up easily. I wouldn’t want to go up against him once he learns which battles are worth fighting and how to fight them. It's my job to teach him before he is too old to contain in a bathroom.
After more than 15 minutes, he finally relented, brushed his teeth and got into bed. I sat down with him.
"How do you think you handled that?"
"Badly."
"You said things that weren't nice."
"I didn't mean them. I was trying to get my madness out," he explained. Then he apologized.
"I hate brushing my teeth," he said.
"Yeah, I think we get it," I said. "But teeth brushing is not negotiable. Don't fight me on things you can't change. Fight for things you can."
"Mom, you're really strong. I was trying my hardest to turn the handle on the door."
"You'll be stronger than I am one day," I told him, giving him a kiss.
But not today.