Every year from preschool to 1st grade the anti-cavity avatar still visits classrooms. I remember those little red tablets and now have some on hand, the household preschooler having thrown the whole packet onto the "flat file", the kitchen island where incoming detritus gets its preliminary sort before hitting the "circular file" or the "Oh, Sh*t! They need how much?" expedition to office.And now I know that the little red tablets (they are still red, got the packet open by tearing it with my teeth) have a name. (They are also proudly manufactured in Missouri. Very midwestern, this idea of sparkly whites.) Disclosing tablets, a name for the tooth bane of my elementary school existence, because my rocket-scientist mother bought into the theory that these would reduce dental costs associated with offspring, and prevent tooth decay magically by appealing to the competitive vanity and embarrassment of kids who would not be caught dead among their peers with revealing pink stains on their teeth. She didn't reckon on my brother, who thought the red stuff was pretty cool and would leave as much as possible on display, kind of an Indonesian betel nut chewer effect.
Mom actually went out to buy more disclosing tablets when we ran out. We kept running out because I kept hiding the tablets. Brush and floss, but still that stuff just wouldn't come off, and brushing that long cut into my reading time...really Mom, these are just supposed to serve as a guide, not become part of a lifestyle.
Tastes better than I remember. You know, these things will never really work until you make them as easy for a preschooler to open as a can of Coca-Cola....woops. Wow, a fiend of the night. I am not ready for full disclosure.
