The Toothbrush Saga

“Moooommmmmm!”

“Be right with you, honey. I’m just getting Ruby unbundled.”

“Wheeeeee!” Tristan, the three-year-old, wiggles out of his snowsuit and bounces on the couch.

“Mom, can Raina quit screaming?” says Vincent, the bookish one in fourth grade.

“Tristan, quit jumping like that! You’re going to fall again… Vincent, just go chill in your room, won’t you?”   

“But mom, it’s too loud in here,” Vincent says, as if quiet came with a magic wand.

“Hey, Eddie boy, you have a good day?” Edwin snuggles up against my leg looking for a hug. He’s in kindergarten, tall and affectionate.

I plop baby Ruby down in her playpen. “Eddie, dear, take off your jacket and play with Ruby. See if you can keep her happy.”

“Moooooommmmmm! My toothbrush fell into the TOILET!!! It fell into peeeee! It’s my neeewwwww toothbrush!” Raina at seven, had her first visit to the dentist this afternoon. The sparkly toothbrush was her reward for sitting nicely in the chair.

“You said you would heeellllp me! Moommmmm!” Her despair cry, echoing from behind the bathroom door, has morphed into a sob.

I, however, am busy. It’s five o’clock and I need to heat the applesauce for my nine-month-old, Ruby. I usually grab the cold bowl from the fridge and set it inside a small saucepan of boiling water on the stove to heat. Add Gerber cereal, and milk, and stir.

But Raina is panicking. She’s the one who often needs the extra reassurance. Emerging from the bathroom, her big dark eyes are awash with tears. I give the applesauce a quick stir and head into the bathroom to investigate the crisis.

“Waaaaah!”

“Mom, she doesn’t want to play with me,” Eddie says in his low, husky voice.

“Thanks, Eddie boy,” I say as I go by and pick Ruby up. “You tried, but sometimes little sis is just hungry. Why don’t you choose a story and wait on the couch?”

“Mom, you SAID you would help me,” Raina’s got hold of my skirt now.

“Don’t worry, I can sterilize the toothbrush in just a second. Just make sure no one else uses the toilet in the meantime.”

Just then I spot the hindquarters of my scamp, Tristan, vanishing around the corner and heading into the neighbors’ apartment…

“Vincent, put your book away for a minute and go find Tristan. I’m running his bath.”

Edwin lies quietly on the couch, a toy car in his hands, turning it this way and that. Edwin can always occupy himself with little, and rarely asks for extra attention. God knew I needed that boy third in line. But Tristan, number four, makes up for lost time. He’s just mastered door knobs, light switches, and outlets. Turn your back for a second, and he’s gone, hurt himself, broken something, or snitched something from the next-door apartment.

Raina’s gone back into the bathroom to stare forlornly at her toothbrush, submerged like a wrecked ship in a yellow sea.

Vincent returns dragging Tristan behind him. I set a disappointed Ruby back in her crib so that I could turn the bath water off. I show Tristan the sack of bath toys, and he doesn’t protest as I undress him and leave him splashing in the warm bubbles.  

“Waaaaaah!” a hungry wail from the crib.

Raina’s at the door, brows furrowed sweetly, reminding me silently that SHE is next.

I take her hand and we walk down the hall.

This is no big deal. Plunging my hand in the toilet bowl, I retrieve the dentist’s wonder gift. I briefly curse the bathroom shelf, stupidly hung right above the toilet on the back wall of the bathroom. 

I give my hand a little shake and return to the kitchen to lift the hot bowl of baby mush out of the saucepan. The last inch or two of boiling water still splutters, and I drop in the rescued toothbrush, sparkles and all. “It’ll just be a second, darling, and it will be as good as new. Dry your eyes now and come to the couch.”

“Mammmaaa! The water’s cold, I wanna get out now,” it’s Tristan again.

My nine-year-old, Vincent, has retreated to his Jim Kjelgaard world of Alaskan adventure—the world of dogs and boys. He’s the responsible one but still too young to help his brother out of the tub.

 “I’ll be there in a minute Tris,” I yell. “Don’t try climbing out by yourself. Remember last time!” Last time his slippery little butt had catapulted over the tub edge and split open his lip in a torrent of blood.

Ruby is hollering now, impatient to be fed. Raina stands on tiptoes by her crib, storybook under one arm, and drops a rattle through the bars. “Mom’s coming soon with your applesauce--soon, Rubsie. Let’s not cry.” She wipes at her sniffles with the back of her hand and rolls the crib over to the couch.

“Edwin you have to sit up, Mom’s going to read a story.”

Edwin sits up. He hasn’t gotten around to picking out a book, but his sister’s choice is just fine. He and Raina make baby talk with Ruby while they wait, distracting her from hunger.

As I come in with the applesauce, I pick up baby Ruby and fasten the bib. I plan to spoon in the goop while reading (practically reciting) the story. Madeline’s escapades are well-known to all of us.

I have barely gotten through the “twelve little girls in two straight lines” part when a little scuttling sound hurries down the hall and Tristan bursts through wet, shiny, and naked. His arms are windmilling like usual. 

“Mama, I’m here!”

Thank God. “Run get your towel, sweetie. And I’ll help you.” Multitasking is my second name.

“Vincent!” I holler. “Put your book away a second and bring me Tristan’s PJ’s-- please.”

He comes into the living room with the appropriate bundle. “Mom, what’s that smell?” he asks, his nose alert, and eyes looking around warily.

“What do you mean, dear?”

Just then the fire alarm splits the air. All five kids slam their hands over their ears, leap to their feet, and shriek. Then grabbing onto each other in terror, they dash in a tangle for the exit-- no jackets, no footwear-- absolutely no consideration for the winter weather.

For a split second, I am frozen. Then, my brain snaps into a wild, panic. I know the culprit. It’s me! ME and that idiotic toothbrush forgotten on the stove!

Horror grabs me around the throat as I spring into action: Plunk the screaming baby back into the crib and rush towards the kitchen. Purple, black smoke surges towards me. Hold my breath, close my eyes, and dive for the stove. Snatch the saucepan, boiled dry with a layer of melted plastic. Fly to the outside door and fling the smoking missile into the snow.

Tear back to grab the baby and throw some clothes on Tristan who scampers back down the hall, wildly, gleeful in the mayhem. Grab my shoes and try to collect the kids who are jumping up and down in the driveway in the dark.

Meanwhile, the smoke has diffused like a dense fog throughout the apartment complex. The fire department has arrived with fanfare and flashing lights. Folks from adjoining apartments have raced me outdoors. They look askance at my ill-dressed children. A neighboring grandmother clucks her tongue and ducks quickly back into her house to fetch coats and blankets. The fire crew enters to investigate. The siren is a sustaining brain drain in my head. I can’t even think straight.

After several mortifying minutes, the fire chief approaches me: “What were you doing in there?” he asks mystified. “You must have been very distracted, ma’am.”

“I was JUST reading a story…”

While we shiver in the snow, fans are placed in the windows to air the fumes. The fire crew informed me that no one should return to the apartment for at least two hours. Thankfully, a family living upstairs, where the fumes have not reached, offers to help me settle my kids in their house for the time being.

***

That night my husband, the principal of the elementary school, comes home late from a school board meeting. Peace reigns and the children sleep like angels, each in his or her bed.

“Hey, honey, how was your day?”

If only you knew, I think, as I fall into his strong, comforting arms for a hug.

“Let’s make some tea, and you can tell me all about it.”