Scrub Babies, take a seat. Your Scrub Mommy and I have something important to tell you. Wow, this is gonna be tougher than cooked-on grease. I’m sure you’ve felt some tension in the kitchen these last few months, that’s because Scrub Daddy and Scrub Mommy are getting a divorce.

We want you to know it’s not your fault. We love the grime outta you little Scrubbies. You make our sink a home. But there’s gonna be changes around here. I’ll be staying by myself now, down the street in a new bachelor pad. Don’t worry, you’ll still see Scrub Daddy every other wash cycle. And when you come stay with me, you’ll both have your very own sponge holders.

Please, Scrubbies, dry the grease from your eyes. I’ll always be your Scrub Daddy. You’ll still see me rooting you on from the front row at every swim meet. I’m just a phone call away for any questions about pre-algebra and pre-rinsing. The only difference is that Scrub Mommy will be the one reading you bedtime stories from the back of the dish soap.

Remember: Every sud has a silver lining. It’ll be an adjustment at first, but just think—now you’ll have two Christmases’ worth of spoons, forks, and knives to wash!

I’m sorry if you’re feeling confused. When you’re older, you’ll find out that life is just as messy as an old plate of spaghetti. Sometimes you can’t get all that crusty sauce off the stainless steel contours of your heart—especially when you catch Scrub Mommy under a pile of bowls getting fresh with Mr. Clean.

Fine, I say to myself, we can still make this work. Think of our history. Think of our children. But no, Scrub Mommy doesn’t want to go to marriage counseling. Scrub Mommy wants to explore. All of a sudden, it isn’t enough that she slept with Dr. Bronner in college. Now she needs to get her groove back with the Bounty Man—like our wedding vows meant nothing and we’re just some back-of-house summer fling in a commercial kitchen.

Congratulations, Susan. You made a cuckold out of Scrub Daddy.

What would our ancestors think? Those sea sponges made the ultimate sacrifice so we could live this easy life of synthetic plastic. I’m sure they’d just love knowing their progeny was off polishing knobs instead of plates. Way to waste the potential of that proprietary FlexTexture foam.

What if you got pregnant, huh? I bet that thought never even crossed your mind. Is that what you wanted, a bastard Brillo pad running around? You know, I could’ve stepped out on you, too. Mrs. Meyer is constantly giving me the look. You know the one—not like I’m Scrub Daddy, but like I’m a Scrub DILF. Yeah, she’s just dying to give me a squirt.

Sure, I’ve been a little distant since I lost my job at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I’m sorry. The gig was supposed to be recession-proof, but those Magic Erasers were a major disruptor in the cleaning space. I was at a low point. That job was all I knew how to do after spending all that time getting my PhD in Washology. Still, that’s no excuse for the self-medicating and the late nights with Bar Keepers Friend.

Now that I’ve finally found a second life as a bathroom sponge, I’m starting to get back on my feet. The shower scum isn’t ideal, but it’s honest work. In this life, we can’t all be born into luxury like Loofahs. That’s a tough lesson, but the sooner you learn it, the better. Look at me. I’m pretty sure I’ll eventually have to eat actual shit. But that’s sacrifice. I’ll do whatever it takes for you kids to have more than I did—even if that means rimming the toilet so my Scrub Babies can afford an education at Harvard School of Bubbles.

It’s too late for Scrub Mommy and Scrub Daddy to work things out. But remember, we’re still a family. I don’t want you getting corrupted by all that conservative garbage you hear from the Charmin Bears. That family is dysfunctional. I work in the same bathroom as the dad, Leonard. Between us, I never see him wipe. If you ask me, Papa Charmin is using the powder room for a different type of toot.