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By James, Age 3. A bubbly tale of curiosity, questionable hygiene, and big feelings.

Hi people. It me. James.

Today I made the water do SO MUCH fun. Sink was a splash mountain, and the soap was making fog like in dragon stories. Trucks needed cleaning. The cup needed cleaning. The sink’s weird edge part needed cleaning. So I looked for tools.

I SAW IT. The blue pokey brush. Mom’s toothbrush. It was standing like a hero in the corner cup thing.

I said, “Are you brave?”
It didn’t say no.

So I scrubbed.
I scrubbed the sink. I scrubbed the truck’s wheels. I scrubbed the soap dish (it had some issues).

🚨 Then the bubbles came. MYSTERY BUBBLES. They flew from the cup and made plops. I got very excited. I smiled with my whole face. Felt like a toothpaste commercial except no rules.

Then—I don’t remember all the details—but maybe I put it in my mouth to taste the victory? Just a little bit. Not all the bristles. Just like… the memory part of the bristles.

Mom walked in. She said my name like it had seventeen letters.

“Jaaaaaaames.”
Big sigh. Stared at her toothbrush like it was ruined in a war.

I said, “Don’t worry. It’s clean now.”
She sat down on the tub like her knees quit.

So. AITA?

I feel like I helped. The sink was sparkly. The trucks were safe. The mystery bubbles were magical. But mom said her toothbrush is “emotionally compromised” now. She put it in a sandwich bag like it needs therapy.

I don’t know if that’s bad. I didn’t mean bubble betrayal. I just wanted greatness. I think I’m a helper. With foam.