My son is getting taller. When I look straight at him I can't tell that he's grown at all, and according to the doctor's charts his height definitely isn't breaking any records. It's as I have to slowly move the drying rack and kitchen appliances back several inches on the counter that I realize just how much he's grown. Sure he's up on the very tippiest part of his toes, stretching as far as he can to grab whatever forbidden object his heart desires at that nanosecond in time (before he moves on to a particularly expensive glass object or my favorite bottle of wine from the wine rack) but nonetheless his determination couldn't stretch him that far a week ago. That's how I know he's growing.
It's usually when I see him actually holding said object that I realize his most recent growth spurt. I try to be good about the baby proofing -- though I'll admit I think redecorating the entire house to accommodate tiny, disobeying hands is a little overkill - but objects nonetheless get left out. On this particular morning, it was a toothbrush my son had gleefully shoved in his mouth in the split second I was focused on putting away dishes that alerted me to the several inches he had obviously grown overnight.
My husband works the early shift, which means he 's up before our son. In an effort to not wake him, thanks to the unintelligent way our house is designed with a master bathroom that shares a wall with the same wall the baby's crib is on one room over (okay, maybe it's partially poor planning on our part), he brushes his teeth in the kitchen. This means, said toothbrush, along with the tube of toothpaste we share, is on the kitchen island every morning when my son and I wake up.
Since my 16-month-old has a (healthy) obsession with brushing his teeth, he took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself that morning, and quickly began brushing his full-set of pearly whites with my husband's toothbrush... or so I thought.
What I didn't realize, until my husband got home and I recounted the story of his toothbrush, pointing to the stolen object now safely placed several inches back on the counter, was that it wasn't his toothbrush at all. It was mine.
That morning I had taken my toothbrush into the kitchen with me to brush my teeth for two reasons. 1) It would allow me to keep an eye on my son while he ate breakfast in his highchair - and fed half to the dog - and 2) The toothpaste was already out there. The little stinker had stolen MY toothbrush, which actually makes more sense because everything that is mine is at least 100x better than my son's. Most mornings we brush our teeth together. I let him scrub mine while I shine his, or its a no-go.... Kids are weird.
Now it's probably important to mention that I'm OCD. Not in the I-have-to-turn-the-lights-on-and-off-seven-times-before-I-leave-a-room-for-good-luck sort of way, but more in the I-can't-stand-when-my-picture-frames-aren't-perfectly-asymmetrical-in-just-the-way-I-like-them sort of way.
Two years ago the thought of someone else using my toothbrush - even my husband - would have resulted in one of two scenarios 1) making an impromptu Target trip to buy a new one or 2) boiling it in hot water for 10 minutes until I had time to make an impromptu Target trip to buy a new one. Instead, I shook my head in disbelief, smiled briefly the way you have to when your child gets into harmless mischief and relocated my toothbrush back to the safety of my vanity in the master bathroom - where I would use it again that night without so much as rinsing it off.
They always say having kids changes you - and my stretch marks are proof of that. But most important are the changes on the inside. I can no longer stomach sad stories posted on Facebook about the horrible things that happen to babies (please friends, stop posting them) and I've somehow also become a more efficient, motivated individual. I didn't notice this particular change until that moment: my illogical OCD wasn't as bad as it used to be. Sure I still vacuum the baseboards now and again and a pile of laundry anywhere but inside the washing machine makes me cringe, but the germaphobia is a little less. I guess having a boy will do that to you. I now gladly stick out my hand for stray pieces of hardened mud found in the house (dragged in by the dog) as my son happily places them in my hand. The excitement on his face to hand me an object to throw away is priceless, only made better by the times I let him throw them away himself. (I guess that extra OCD energy is being transferred somewhere). And I can see, in this simple experience, that my son, the toothbrush thief, isn't the only one growing.
Now if my husband uses my toothbrush, I'm still running to Target.
-N.
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