When I say I’m seriously considering tracking the number of footsteps I pace between the kids bathroom and our ensuite of a morning… I’m not lying.
Here’s the thing…
You buy toothpaste, and we all know that first squirt from the tube is always the best one, invigorating almost, the three colours all swirled nicely, evenly, almost as if they were aligned by the tooth fairy herself.
As you get closer to the end of the tube the memories of a once perfect dispenser lay dormant in left over clumps in the sink, spread in ways that something with the consistency of toothpaste shouldn’t be able to do. It’s not physically possible, but somehow strange little people in the house manage to do it. It’s as if they hold the key to changing the fabric of matter itself. Blobs seemlessly spread in the basin, on tap handles, the hand towel and even the floor. It’s like the aftermath of marshmallows that fell off a campfire stick that came crashing to their death, the evidence only to be seen when the sun came out the next morning.
I swear there have been times where I’ve found residues of the stuff on my sleeve on the way to work, mistakenly, only drawing to a conclusion it was a mangled mess of tartar control, whitening paste and spearmint supreme gloriously decorating my cuff.
How do they even still have teeth? The sink gets more toothpaste than their little toothbrushes?
Then it gets to my turn of a morning and I’m forced to run the backend of my toothbrush along the mangled tube, squeezing tiresley to get the left overs out, peeking down the empty hollow barrel like John Wayne peering into an empty water bottle in a cowboy movie.
I pace to our bathroom. Nothing. No other tube insight. Maybe more toothpaste appeared in that moment… I go back to the other bathroom. Nope, still nothing except the abyss and some fresh mint looking finger prints on the mirror. Still, I go back to the other bathroom once more, now questioning my own sanity. Nope, nothing there again.
I surrender to the tube, accepting a measly 4mm dollop on the end of my bristles. I’ll buy some more toothpaste today I say.
It’s the next day… shit, I forgot to buy more toothpaste.
Oh look, my bathroom is a fresh mint museum.
And life goes on.