Disaster struck last night. In the bathroom. With the kiddos.
Here’s what happened, at least what we can piece together because we, the responsible ones, were no where to be seen. I was bringing a bottle upstairs. Chase was likely on bended knee putting Go, Dog. Go! back on the shelf when the screaming started.
And it was that kind of terrified kid screaming, the sobbing hystericalscreaming that just goes right to your amygdala and I did a little hop and then jumped all ten stairs like
There was no blood, no bump, no hanging flesh that I could see. Jonquille’s fist was wet and she was holding it out as if it were some monstrous dead rat. Couldn’t I see? Cassius, it should be noted, was nonplussed. He’d just flushed the toilet was all. What was all the wailing about?
We pieced together that Cassius had thought it would be a great idea to put his toothbrush in the toilet. Jonquille, trying to be mama’s best helper, reached in to fish it out. This, we guessed, is precisely when Cassius flushed. Ah, the feeling of a little hand, slightly larger than a walnut being sucked hard and possibly through the toilet to some unimaginable place. And the toothbrush! The green toothbrush! It suffered worst of all! It was gone. Bye Bye. Adios amigo.
Jonquille was hysterical. And who can blame her? What in God‘s name is a toilet any way and where does that water go and the crocodiles that she’s sure lurk about downstairs (because of the Five Little Monkeys book) could be in there and they could have eaten the toothbrush.
As I said, this is all guesswork because our facts were simply this: hysterical little girl, nonplussed older brother, lost green toothbrush, flushed toilet and the repeated wailings of “Find it! Find iiiiiittttttt!” from Jonquille. And how does one explain indoor plumbing to a two-year-old? Does one begin with how privileged we are in the first world to be able to poop and pee inside the house and have it taken away for us or does one just skip to the latter half, the magical, half-lie: Whhhoooosh, it all goes away!
Much as I wanted to, I skipped the privilege piece and just stroked her head and repeated her recount of the events and told her that the toothbrush was fine and that I bet we’d find it tomorrow. Parenting is inevitably a series of lies that you tell your children. And again, I comfort myself with Aristotle, though I’m sure he never changed a poopy whatever they had back then. Censorship is a-ok when they’re young. Developmentally, they’re little saplings. Gotta put a fence around them so they don’t fall down. That includes complex concepts like indoor plumbing and first world privilege and the fact that the crocodiles won’t come out of the toilet and eat you because mama won’t let them.
Needless to say, tragedy averted. Casualty count: one green Snoopy toothbrush.