Splish splash

Just before Sage turned two, she learned the first few lines of “Splish splash, I was taking a bath,” and loved to sing them. She wasn’t particularly selective about when she sang what originated as a bathtub song. One day, at one of my prenatal appointments, there was a medical student that came in to observe. I was busy talking to the doctor, but I could see Sage was trying to get the medical student’s attention. Finally I heard her inform the student loudly, “Splish splash I was taking a bath!” When all else fails, quote Oldies songs, I guess.

A few weeks later, I poked my head into Sage's nursery class on Sunday. Eight little kids were busy eating graham crackers and raisins when Sage piped up, “Splish splash, I was taking a bath!” The nursery leader, surprised, said, “Oh, really, Sage!”

One of my favorite words from 2^nd grade was “onomatopoeia,” meaning, a word that sounds like what it means. (Examples: buzz, beep, thud.) Anyone who has a one-year-old child can assure you, from experience, that “splish splash” is a prime example of onomatopoeia. A toddler playing in the toilet makes exactly the noise “splish splash.” The splish is the initial dunk into the water, and the splash is the slapping of the water against the toilet bowl. Or, if the initial entry was forceful enough, the splash is likely the water making contact with the arms, face, and body of the toddler, or even possibly the bathroom floor or walls. Do I sound like I know from experience? Well, after today I do!

This morning I was putting on my makeup in my typical mommy weekday fashion (the bare essentials as fast as I possibly could). I was hoping to get out of the bathroom before Eliza found a stray piece of TP (probably used from the garbage) that she could relocate to the toilet bowl. I was just screwing the mascara lid closed when I heard the dreadful “splish splash.” Eliza had just dunked a graham cracker into the toilet and was bringing it toward her mouth. With lightning-like reflexes that surprised even myself, I snagged the piece of cracker, and was lathering Eliza’s hands at the sink before she could blink.

After a gentle scolding, I set Eliza outside the bathroom door, hoping she’d toddle happily over to the many exciting toys that were genuine toys, and not in any way related to bodily functions. I resumed my Olympic training for the 5-second-foundation-application event, mentally congratulating myself for my quick work with the graham cracker. Not surprisingly, Eliza was back in the bathroom before the 5-second-workout was over, and I handed her my powder brush to buy myself 10 more seconds to put my makeup back in the bag.

I have tried to relive the following 10 seconds and figure out what happened to those lightning-like reflexes that previously saved Eliza from her attempted morning snack of sewer water s’mores. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Once again, came the "splish splash." Eliza was merrily stirring away—churning up the toilet water (now laden with crumbs from the disintegrating graham cracker) with my makeup brush.

Splish splash, the makeup brush was taking a bath. Onomatopoeia in the flesh.