A Poop Story

Fair warning: this is a POOP story!

I should have known something was up when the potty became a meeting ground.

“I need to go potty!” my five year old declares. Yeah fine good whatever, I’m looking at earnings surprises right now honey just – go. Go potty. Score one for the gipper. Whatever. (As an aside, I can hardly wait until the only person whose digestive processes I need keep tabs on are my own.)

Now, for the record: my five year old has been doin’ the potty thing for two and a half years now. She’s well past the point of requiring my hovering about anxiously in the background to do her business.

But then the three year old wandered in there and a meeting commenced. Discussions of poop, quantity, quality and the making of, ensued (‘do you have to poop?’ ‘why yes, yes I do’ ‘do you gots a lot of poop?’ ‘uh-huh, a-cause of daddy tooked me to McDonalds yesterday and that makes a lot of poop!’), until finally, thoroughly grossed out and wondering if these really were my children, I said to the ref that it was time to get out of there and let the player finish her game, if you know what I mean.

Well, the ref stood right by the door and advised the player to make sure, absolutely sure that she wiped good. Because if you don’t, you get a red butt. {bwa-hahaha, you said butt} (As another aside, I also can hardly wait until the words ‘butt’ and ‘poop’ become embarrassing rather than hysterically funny.)

A few seconds later, there was screaming and carrying on. Sure as poop, poop had happened. So had toilet paper. Lots and lots and lots of toilet paper. The toilet bowl was filled to the point where the only thing keeping the water from pouring over the floor was the surface tension of the lake.

Now, there are few things that gross me out more than a backed up toilet. Seriously. I’d rather deal with any diaper than a backed up toilet. Hence, I am about as far from an expert in the fine art of toilet-un-backing-uping as you can get and still be a user of said devices.

However, taking a quick glance around, I determined that no big, strong, manly-type guys were about to dash to my rescue.

Nope, it was just me, and the plunger. And two screaming little girls who insisted on giving me a running commentary as I sprinted for said plunger, which I vaguely remembered seeing in the garage at some point.

“Mommy! The water’s coming! The water’s coming!!”
“EEEEEEEEW! That’s POOP in it!”
{wild shrieks of laughter because someone said ‘poop’}
“Mommmmmeeeeeeee!” (the cries are getting more urgent as I begin throwing things out of my way, searching for the damned plunger) “MOMMMMEEEE! The water! It’s on the floor! It’s on the floor!!!”
{much cursing is done, sotto-voce because I don’t want to hear these words again from those cute little lips – where is that beep-honkin’ plunger?!}
“AAAAA! Mommy! MOMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
{Oh, there it is, right next to the door I came in here through}

The water (and…other…matter…) is sheeting all over my floor. The floor which, by the way, I had just sanitized this very morning. Why do I bother?! The children are standing in my way, screaming and shrieking. The baby has awoken and begun crying for attention.

I wade into the bathroom and realize I have no idea how to use a plunger. Hmm. Well, OK. It’s a pretty simple concept, right? I mean, it’s just…this part is the pushy-sucky-part, and all I need to do is…hmm…get a good seal on the thing there and then, what? Push? Pull? Yeah. Push-pull. That’s gotta be what you do…

{squish-thok-squish-thok-squish-THOK!!!}

Followed by the most beautiful sound in the world: {fluuuuuuuuussssssssshhhhhhhhh}

Whew.

The water subsided back to where it belongs. After a long, tense moment (honestly, you’d think there was a rattlesnake in there!), I gingerly depressed the handle on the toilet and, with calm efficiency, the water flushed out and refilled again, sparkling and clean.

Double whew.

That’s it for me today, friends. The market closes in eight minutes anyway, and I think it’s about martini time around here.

Thus endeth another day and I, the Reigning Goddess of the Den of Chaos, am going to get an early start on my evening. A very, very, VERY early start. A martini and a double-dark-chocolate-brownie ought to work pretty well on my nerves.

Backed up toilets. {{shudder}}

Anybody want a couple kids? Cheap? Anybody? Anybody?!