The Toilet Strikes Back

Waking up to a 9 year old, screaming at the top of their lungs, in not my most favorite way to greet the day. If it were not for the fact that, said 9 year old, could fit in with any Broadway show with the amount of drama we deal with on a daily basis, we probably would have moved a bit more swiftly from the comfort of our bed at such an un-godly hour.

"It's flooded!" she screams, in a state of panic.

I knew exactly what she was referring to, as only the day before she had told us the toilet was flooded, only to find out that the water had simply drained from the toilet after being a bit too full (you don't even want to go there).

"Are you sure," I was a bit irritated to say the least.

"There's BLUE water all over the floor."

That sentence pulled me into a complete standing position, as I rushed to asses the damage.
There was, in fact, blue water all over the floor. It had pooled, ever so neatly, around piles of forgotten clothing, then managed to wander beyond what I would consider acceptable boundaries for blue toilet water. Not only did we have water on the floor, but we most certainly had numerous amounts of whatever had clogged the toilet in the first place. As I looked down, I noticed my feet had reached the bacteria haven that was my floor, and I was standing on a used piece of toilet paper. There are no words.

Mornings, first of all, are not my favorite part of the day. Having been pregnant several times, I believe my body has decided to take on all of the previous symptoms I once experienced with each and every one of my pregnancies. My gag reflex had turned against me. The whole situation was an attack on more than one of the senses. There was only one person who could handle a job like this...The husband. The man was clad in LONG pajama pants. LONG pajama pants that fell beyond the stretch of his feet. He went in, unaware. I was the captain of towels. I sent him in prepared, as best as I was able. He and his pajamas met their match in a puddle of water that belonged anywhere but my bathroom floor. He also managed to relocate the toilet paper I had found only moments before, which clung to him like a leech on steroids.

My ability to contain my disdain with what had unfolded before me had been lost.

"Who the heck flushed this toilet?" My voice was raspy, I knew any previous good mommy moments were about to be erased from the minds of my children forever.

A whole round of "Not me's" echoed throughout the entrance to this hell I'd come to find myself in.

In my house, we have a invisible being that lives here, and loves to get out all every toy that we has ever been purchased for the people that reside here, puts 500 sheets of t.p. into the toilet, spills water on the most valuable objects that we own, cuts the hair of my precious children's dolls, and well, the list goes on. It's more than a nuisance, I just can never seem to catch him in the act. I assumed it was he, that flushed the defective commode.

"Okay fine," I handed them each a towel. "Until you tell me who did this, then you ALL have to help!"

Suddenly my 4 year old recovered from her what appeared to be an abrupt onset of memory loss, "I think I might have wiped a lot or something." OR SOMETHING? Last time I checked this child had a strong, irrational feel of all things liquid. Blue water, chasing her out of the bathroom seemed a bit out of her realm, without a bout of intense screaming that would last until every member of the house were awake. Since I had not be awakened by such an incident and it was the 9 year old who had originally found it, there was only one final option.

"You did this, didn't you?" I pointed an accusing finger at my 7 year old.

Her reaction was just as expected, "Um, when I was asleep I might have accidentally flushed it, but I don't really know because I was asleep and I don't really remember."

And, if that doesn't say it all, I don't know what does.

Discernment

Following through with my complete lack of people skills, I have made a strict stance against my front door and the people that exist on the "other side". My 4 children, however, have either, not been made aware of this or have refused to recognize my pleas to "not answer the door under any circumstance" as ridiculous and unwarranted motherly advice.

At 1:30, a faithful old man, dedicated to pestering busy stay at home mothers, made his way to my front door after having thrust a bag full of hormone and pesticide ridden treats at me the day before. He'd let me know that he would, in fact, be back the next day to yak at me until, out of exasperation, I found something in his catalog that I would be able to store in my freezer until the expiration date came and I was able to throw it out. Piddling away money on unusable items is not generally how I like to spend my time, so my resolve, let him come back after I was able to recycle my copy of the Schwan's (ice cream and frozen dinner delivery service) latest novel, and I would meet him with my front door in front of me.

Persistence must be part of the job application because that man stood behind that door for a good 10 minutes. Strangling my kids was not an option, so it was all I could do to restrain them from removing the only barrier I had between me and the sinister salesmen. There was only one way the man may have thought that we weren't at home. He was deaf. Between all four of our dear dogs barking at a fever pitch, and my 4 lovely daughters doing all that they could to draw attention to themselves in any available window, the man must have thought we were running some type of institution. If indeed he did, it did not deter him from another lengthy stop only an hour later.

Since the previous visit had made all 4 of my darling daughters acutely aware of my unwillingness to open my door for this man, they proceeded to read, at the top of their lungs (for those who could) the side of his truck that had been parked, haphazardly, almost nailing the big yellow fire hydrant in the front yard.

Them: "Mom, he has ice-cream, it says so on his truck"
Me: "Yes, but we don't buy that kind of ice-cream"
Them: "But Grandpa always gets us ice-cream from those kind of trucks, why don't you?"
Me: "Because."
Them: "It's because mom's are boring, and only grandpas and grandmas do fun things like that."

Now, not only was I viewed as uptight and rude for not answering my front door, but I was also denying my poor deprived children their right to a sugar-high. It felt great. It was my only retaliation to being portrayed as a hermit who locks her children indoors. The baby's face was smashed up against the glass, that I had purposefully covered in a thick plastic film when a neighbor had felt led to peer in while I was dressed, most inappropriately, while I was cleaning my bathrooms one day. Feeling like a prisoner in a nut house, I peeked through the little hole at the top of my door, only to see the crazy man waving to my 1 year old. Obviously the film wasn't doing it's job.

So, after 15 minutes of shooing the children into corners, and trying to soothe a most distraught baby, who was yelling "Guy!" in a most frantic voice, he left. It made me half wonder if I just shouldn't have opened the door and told the guy I wasn't interested in the first place, but then I remembered my resolve, and realized it was just the way it should be.

And so it begins

I've written most of my blogs in times past, with the careful editing of select "choice" words, in the hopes that I'm neither offending, nor boring anyone. To be quite honest, that's not how I exist in my daily life. My life offers many quaint opportunities to be quite offensive. I have 4 children, after all, who dictate how I am able to respond and interact with other people. I am usually blunt. I'm not overly sympathetic. I find humor in things that most could find quite serious.

This is a blog about my REAL life, and my adventures in laughing at myself...and usually others as well.