Warning: This post contains references and inferences to poop, pee and such. Plan your meal accordingly.
This morning, before anyone else was up, I clogged the toilet.
Lest you think me a troglodyte, it was accidental. Unlike children who will remain nameless (Ruby and Zac), I did not use an entire roll of toilet paper doing my business. We live in a 1920s-era house. Our toilet is probably 1960s. A certain sensitivity to, uh, content comes with the territory.
The water rushed to the top of the bowl, swirling aimlessly. Awesome. Just what I wanted to do at 6:26 a.m. I hunted up the plunger from under the kitchen sink. I stalked back to the bathroom and administered CPR on the yawning maw of the hole. Push, push, push. Nothing. Broken up bits of…matter floated, mocking me. Squish, squish, squish. Nothing. Huh. Now what? Usually it took very little to get things moving again. I tried again. And again.
Unaware of my plight, Jonathon slumbered upstairs. Dare I wake the man for this?! I wanted to solve it on my own. I mean, “I am woman, hear me roar”, right? Well, no roaring before 7:00 a.m. generally, but you get the idea.
The large rubber suction cup gulped water but pulled up nada. I flushed it again, thinking hopeful thoughts. Nope. The brackish water swirled a taunt. The water level edged closer to the toilet bowl’s rim. Great.
This toilet is the workhorse – if you’ll pardon the expression – of our house. We have another one upstairs as part of our master bedroom setup, but it doesn’t get nearly the use this one does. I clean the downstairs bath very regularly because of it.
After several minutes of pushing down with my massive brute force and getting no results, I called it quits. I mounted the stairs and woke the fixer of broken things. There’s a patron saint for that. No? How about St. Jude Thaddeus, patron saint of desperate causes. He’ll do. In a pinch, though, I’ll take Jonathon. He’s cuter and still alive.
Jonathon walked downstairs. While reading my Bible in another room, I heard the sploosh of the plunger hit the ceramic. Then I heard all the water drain out of the bowl. Just like that. One touch. All clear! Geez. Jonathon saluted me and went back to bed.
Why didn’t it work for me?
And that, folks, is what this whole week has been like. I can’t fix it on my own. I try, strive and get frustrated. I can’t control things and circumstances. Or people. I might even cry over issues. I can’t make my body do what I want it to do. The blockage won’t move under my brute force. I can only trust and seek help. I can pray. I can relax in the Father’s hand. That’s when the “all clear” comes, when I’m done
putting forcing it all to come together. One touch, one word from Him and I’m at peace.