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.