As a mother of three, one might think my tale involves a typical parenting blunder, perhaps dealing with some unfortunate bath time mishaps (you know, extracting little surprises from the tub after an enthusiastic splash session—something every parent has faced once or twice… or maybe ten times when you have three kids). However, the incident I’m about to recount is leagues beyond that. And, surprisingly, my kids are not to blame in this poop saga. So buckle up, because this is a wild ride.
The Concert Night
Picture this: a warm August evening a few years back. To celebrate my 35th birthday, my closest friends—Megan and Chloe—and I attended a Luke Bryan concert. We indulged in overpriced drinks, braved a rainstorm (what can I say, lawn seats were just a tad cheaper), and enjoyed dancing while shouting, “Luke, I want to have your baby!”—as any self-respecting moms would. It was a night just for us, free from kids and husbands.
After the concert, Megan dropped Chloe and me off at her house. With her kids at their grandparents and her husband away, we had the place to ourselves. We spent the night indulging in junk food, laughing uncontrollably, and recapping our adventures while attempting to sober up.
The Incident
Around 1 a.m., I headed to the guest room, while Chloe retreated to her own room. As I settled in, my stomach began to rumble (a likely consequence of all those nachos and dips we had devoured). I made my way to the bathroom across the hall—her kids’ bathroom—and took care of business. Feeling relieved, I flushed the toilet. That was my first mistake.
For reasons unknown, the toilet refused to flush. In my somewhat inebriated state, I failed to notice a massive wad of toilet paper lodged in the pipes. Thinking I could fix it, I tried to flush again—my second, and fatal, mistake. Suddenly, the water began to rise like a turbulent flood, and before I knew it, the toilet overflowed, spilling everywhere. I quickly exited the bathroom, probably yelling for Chloe, who came rushing down the hall with a look of horror.
“I’m so sorry! I overflowed the toilet!” I exclaimed.
“Oh no! I forgot to mention that the kids tend to clog it. We can clean it up,” she replied.
Just then, we heard an ominous rushing sound and started frantically searching for its source. Chloe bolted downstairs, and I heard her gasp, “Oh no! Water is coming through the kitchen ceiling! It must be from the bathroom!”
Rushing downstairs, I saw water dripping from the light fixture above their pristine blue kitchen island. Chloe desperately tried to move the items on the island as she lamented, “Oh God, this is terrible. It’s pee water… but we can fix this.”
At that moment, I’m sure my panic was evident, as she stared at me and screamed, “OH MY GOD, KIM! TELL ME THIS ISN’T POOP WATER!!!”
As if summoned by my guilt, the plumbing erupted like a sewage tsunami, transforming the trickle into a torrent of murky waste cascading from the light fixture. This was the same kitchen where Chloe’s family prepared meals and gathered with friends.
The Cleanup
Chloe continued her frantic scurry back upstairs, tossing me a bucket and barking orders like a drill sergeant, “START BAILING!” I threw towels down on the soaked floor and began to scoop the vile water into her children’s bathtub. Miraculously, it seemed to work—or perhaps the flood had already soaked into the house—because soon, Chloe yelled from the kitchen, “It stopped! Thank goodness!”
Uncertain of our next steps—reminder: we had been drinking all day—we tried calling Megan multiple times (she didn’t answer!), then my dad about seven times (who, mind you, was asleep at 2 a.m.). When he finally picked up, we explained the absurdity of waste water pouring through a light fixture, worried it could lead to a disaster. After recovering from the shock of our late-night call, he advised us to turn off the breaker and just go to bed, likely thinking we were having a bad dream.
We ventured down to the basement to find the right switch, discussing the potential unsanitary implications of our mishap. After thoroughly scrubbing the kitchen and cleaning myself up, I returned to bed while Chloe wandered down the hall, still in disbelief.
The Morning After
We didn’t sleep well, plagued with the fear that despite our efforts, the house would somehow combust. How would they even explain this in an obituary? Thankfully, we woke up intact, albeit with pounding headaches and laughter echoing from the night’s events.
The scene was worse in the morning, with blatant water stains on the kitchen ceiling, which Chloe’s husband would undoubtedly notice when he returned later that evening. Megan FaceTimed us to ask why we had called her so many times, and we struggled to share the story through fits of laughter.
Chloe decided to call her stepdad, who had experience with plumbing disasters. When he arrived with a dehumidifier and tools, I felt a wave of relief. He didn’t say much as he assessed the damage, but I could tell he was mentally cursing. He unclogged the toilet and disinfected the entire bathroom, which I thought deserved a medal, but no one else seemed to find it amusing.
Chloe, ever the optimist, remarked, “You know, I actually wanted new light fixtures in the kitchen, so this gives us a perfect reason!” As if the conversation were merely about redecorating, and not the aftermath of a poop flood. In the end, they repaired the ceiling and installed some chic new lighting. Thankfully, our friendship remained intact despite the chaos.
Conclusion
In summary, this comically disastrous night serves as a reminder that sometimes, the best stories arise from the worst mishaps. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, know that laughter truly is the best medicine.
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