While W ran downstairs to heat up the various lavender scented beanies for the younger children’s beds this evening, I kept an ear out from the study to make sure they weren’t doing anything too ridiculous.
I heard a panicked half shout, a half cry, a thump, another half cry, and then silence.
Then it started - full on air-raid siren grief from upstairs. The parent spider sense kicked in - it was the youngest, and it was real.
I ran up the stairs, and discovered her cross legged on the landing, head in her hands, screaming tears rolling down her face.
“What on earth is wrong?”
I just about deciphered “toothbrush” from the babble that came out between gasps for air.
“What about the toothbrush?”
“In toilet”
By now W had arrived too, and we pieced together what had happened pretty quickly. Little Miss 5 had been stood on the stool at the sink, putting toothpaste on her toothbrush. She slipped (she can’t stand still), fired toothpaste up two walls, fell across the toilet, and threw her toothbrush straight into it.
It was so hard not to laugh.
Little Miss 5 broke our hearts though - to be so upset over a such a simple thing as losing “her” toothbrush made me realise how much stock she held in this seemingly simple task that she takes pride in doing. She’s been brushing her own teeth since before she was 3 years old, and not even swallowing the toothpaste since she was 4 (don’t laugh).
Luckily Mrs Beckett has a secret store of new toothbrushes, which was brought to bear immediately. Accidental missile toothbrush was retrieved and thrown away.
Panic over. We live to fight another day.