We had a quiet moment this evening. I don’t mean a peaceful moment to ourselves, or a pleasant evening out on the town. It was one of those uncomfortable silences. If you are a parent you know the type. It hits you all the sudden. A moment of panic and fear of the unknown. It’s that silence that only can be produced by a nefarious little child. There was a quick glance between Jayna and I and a simultaneous “what is she doing?”
I’m going to step back a few minutes. This evening was a pleasant enough evening. We finally got to spend some much needed time outside. Fired up the Hasty Bake and cooked some steaks. The windows to the house were open and all was right with the world. We ate dinner and started getting ready for bed. This is about a thirty minute to an hour long process at our house. It never ceases to amaze me how a 3 year old can tear up a house like a F5 tornado. It also amazes me that the destruction can occur at warp speed, but cleaning it up is like pulling teeth.
So we send the 3 year old up stairs to begin the disaster recovery effort that is every evening for us. For the most part, she can handle this on her own. She is usually very proud of herself for doing such a good job and wants to show us her room and how clean it is.
This evening was a little different. The rain pipe for the upstairs bathroom runs right down the wall in the living room. I’m not sure exactly who thought this would be a good idea when they designed the house, but that’s the way it is. A few minutes after heading upstairs, we hear a swoosh of water travel down the drain pipe. This is no big deal. As I’ve mentioned in the past, the 3 year old is pretty self sufficient in the bathroom arena. About 30 seconds later we hear the all too familiar swoosh again. This is where the terror began. I should probably go check that out.
I went up the stairs and the daughter was innocently cleaning her toys up in her room. She looked at me like, “what?” I stroll in to the bathroom and I am immediately uncomfortable. Have you ever been in one of those turnpike gas station bathrooms? You know the ones that are dripping wet from floor to ceiling. They have puddles in the floor, wet tissue stuck to the walls and your primary focus is to not touch anything. Hell with washing your hands, you’ll get some sanitizer when you get out of there. That’s kind of what our upstairs bathroom was like.
There was water all over the toilet and puddles in the floor directly below it.
“Um, sweetie pie.”
“Yes daddy.”
“What did you do in the bathroom?”
“I cleaned the toilet daddy.”
“Um, sweetheart, what did you clean the toilet with?”
“A big paper towel daddy.”
I returned to the bathroom to investigate. There was about half a roll of wet toilet paper in the trash can next to the toilet. Back to the room.
“Um, where exactly did you get the water to clean the toilet?”
I probably shouldn’t have asked this question. I knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. I could have lived my whole life without knowing for sure.
“From the toilet daddy.”
I think I just threw up a little.
“Come wash your hands right now. And use soap.”
She looks at me like, “what is your problem, I just cleaned up the toilet.”
I cleaned up the puddles of water and started a bath. There’s now way she is escaping a cleaning this evening. We had a long talk about not putting our hands in the potty. Only mommies and daddies clean the toilet. I have always said I can’t wait until she is old enough to help with chores around the house. Just fair warning, you should be careful what you wish for.
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