This evening I handed Michael his toothbrush and turned to the sink to wash my hands, assuming he would suck the berry-flavored toothpaste while he waited for me to help him polish his fangs. I dried my hands and rotated to face him only to discover he was thoughtfully dipping his toothbrush in the toilet.
That's when I decided we'd had enough teeth brushing for one night and opted to put him in bed.
But then I wondered, has he done this before? Has his toothbrush taken a nightly bath in the potty without my realizing it?
I think I can safely say that I don't want to know.
It's sort of like when you find a stray sippie cup wedged behind the couch or under a bed and think, "Please don't be milk. Please don't be milk." And then you opt to just throw the thing in the trash rather than risk being hit with the smell of rotten dairy and having to use a butter knife to chisel out the lumpy blob of cottage cheese at the bottom.
So many things you don't want to know about involve food - like what's in it. Even though I love ranch dressing I just can't stand to think about the jar full of mayonnaise that went into it. And New York City has an irritating habit of rubbing ingredient lists and calories in your face while you eat. For some reason they just don't seem to get that I automatically assume a plate piled high with french fries, cheese, and bacon is absolutely terrible for me.
The same way I assume that whatever my son picked up off a city sidewalk is disgusting, dirty, and possibly contagious - which is exactly why I carry around hand sanitizer and dispense it like there's no tomorrow. Unfortunately my vigilant sanitation patrols don't stop him from licking a subway pole or the bottom of his shoe now and then - and I really don't want to know what those tasted like.
Or what that sticky stuff in the back of my refrigerator is... spilled lemonade? Rotten tomato? A strange chemical reaction between pickle juice and karo syrup?
That's why I just shut the fridge and back away slowly.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.