Toothbrush

March 2008

“Mom, where’s my toothbrush?”

“Did you check in the bathroom?”

Did I check in the bathroom? Cue exasperated sigh. Clearly, Mom is going to be of little help in this quest. I am on my own.
My mind begins whirling through all the possible scenarios. I quickly rule out burglary (who would want to steal a toothbrush?) and alien abduction. Could this have been my own doing? Did I lose my toothbrush?

I consider pulling each of The Siblings aside for individual interrogations. The divide-and-conquer method has won victories for me in the past, but I have little reason to suspect them this time.

As I begin to pace sociopath-like through the house in search of my missing toothbrush, the high squeals of childish laughter and the hissing of a hose diverts my attention outdoors. I squint through the glare of the sun and wave to The Siblings as they spray down the grimy anterior of Mom’s minivan and my own “grandma-tested-teenager-approved” Toyota Camry. How wonderfully innocent they look, running through the iridescent arch of the water spewing from the hose. Beside them, a faded bucket filled with sudsy rags and brushes lies neglected in the grass. I feel instantly guilty. How could I have suspected The Siblings of taking my toothbrush, when all along they had been outside, innocently washing…

Oh no.

They wouldn’t. They couldn’t have.

My horror begins to escalate as I catapult off the front porch and make my way towards the vile bucket of grime. I dump its contents onto the crumbling driveway and as the soap begins to clear, I see it. My toothbrush. Its aqua blue handle stands out in stark contrast with the white lather of car cleaner and the muddy water, mocking me for my naivety. How could I have missed this? My embarrassment grows as I think about the smug pride I had felt when, not fifteen minutes ago, I was cleverly ripping off a kindergartener in exchange for a vacuumed and scrubbed car. The joke was clearly on me.

With the fires of hell burning from my retinas I turn my wrathful vengeance to the soapy fiesta that is The Siblings, post-carwash.

“WHO DID THIS?” I wonder briefly if the neighbors can hear me before deciding that I don’t particularly care.

“Who did what?” I take a deep breath and compose myself.

“Which one of you took my toothbrush to wash the car?” Silence.

And then, “We needed it to do the tires.”