When Toilets Make You Cry

Our downstairs toilet overflowed tonight. A member of our family (who shall remain unnamed) has had diarrhea for several days, and earlier this afternoon used the toilet in our small downstairs half bath. I noticed at that time that it was backed up, but as we have three toilets and only one plunger, and lately the plunger has been living upstairs, I elected to shut the door and take care of the problem later. For several hours the kids played happily with the neighbor boy. I dealt with a fussy Brooklyn, cleaned the house, and prepared dinner. As I called the boys into dinner, Kadon felt his usual dinnertime urge to use the bathroom. He came running into the kitchen about a minute later, carrying the plunger (which he kindly retrieved from my bathroom!) and telling me that there was too much toilet paper in the toilet, and I needed to plunge it.

Now, plunging is not something I have ever been able to do effectively. I plunge a toilet as most girls would--flushing the toilet, and then-without touching the disgusting black part, and with more force pushing down than pulling up. At our house, Ammon always took care of our plunging needs, which were many over the years thanks to his quirky digestive system. In fact, Ammon possessed excellent and stunning plunging skill, and often joked that it was something I needed to learn to do. Obviously, I never took him up on the offer. This evening when Kadon informed me the toilet was plugged, I tried to plunge as I normally do. This time, though, it wasn't enough. I flushed the toilet and put the plunger into the bottom and pushed down with considerable mite. To my horror, the water continued creeping up the edge of the toilet until it spilled over onto the floor. I quickly screamed for the kids to gather towels, and Jeremy showed up triumphantly in the doorway with a fistful of paper towels.

"Not those towels!" I screamed. "Real towels!! From my bathroom!! RUN!!!" The kids both scrambled up the stairs, and Brooklyn wailed from her spot on the kitchen floor. In an effort to alleviate the still clogged toilet, I made my second bad decision of the evening--flushing it again. This time, putrid water gushed over the edges of the toilet, soaking into the towels and leaving a two inch puddle around the back of the toilet. In increasing hysterics and foul language, I reached around to the back of the toilet and quickly turned the shut off valve. The immediate issue of flooding averted, I was still facing several gallons of water on the floor, and a still clogged toilet. I ordered Jeremy to grab his sister and to lock all three children in their rooms. In extreme frustration, I did the only thing I know how to do in situations like this--I called my father in law.

Russ picked up the phone, unaware of the mess that was about to land in his lap.

"My toilet is flooding, and I don't know what to do." I wailed. "I don't know if somebody put something in it, or if it's too much toilet paper, or what happened, but it's completely clogged and I have two inches of water on my bathroom floor!" Russ calmly shared with me his plunging technique, and within a matter of seconds the water drained out of the toilet.

"It worked." I said, defeated. "It's this kind of shit I need a husband for."

"I know." Said Russ. "I'm sorry."

I knew I was about to lose composure, and didn't want to do so in front of Russ yet again. In tears, I said "I have to clean this up and get the kids dinner. Thank you for your help." Before he could reply, I hung up the phone and threw it into the living room. As I used every towel in the house to mop up the mess and start a large load of laundry, I sobbed loudly. Between Brooklyn screaming upstairs and my loud crying downstairs, I'm sure the neighbors wondered what had become of the Fellows family.

I handle the weight of grief okay most of the time. I have learned to go about my daily life--both by becoming immune to the pain of old routines, and mostly through setting up new routines that aren't as painful. It is times like this, though, times that I should never have to deal with. Times that I have always been able to depend on my husband that I miss him the most. More than that, tonight brought out my absolute inferiority when it comes to household tasks. I don't know how to plunge a toilet, change a spare tire, or do basic repairs around the house. I don't feel qualified, nor do I have the desire, to learn how to do all these things. I long for the quiet, secure days of being able to rely on Ammon.

I miss him more than ever tonight, and it's all because of a silly toilet.

EDITED TO ADD:
Once I finally cleaned up the mess, fed the children dinner, called Russ back to apologize for becoming hysterical, and popped two large bags of popcorn with which to drown our sorrows, my neighbor called me.

"Are you having problems with your downstairs toilet?"
"I was. Why?"
"Because I am, Ruthie is, and the parking lot is covered in sewage water."
"Oh! You mean I screamed at my kids about putting something down the toilet for nothing?"

I'm happy to report that after 2 hours with a large pump truck in the parking lot, all systems seem to be operating normally. I guess next time I should check the parking lot before I assume that my children have transplanted something foreign into the toilet strictly to cause me grief.