How To Tell If Your Day Is About To Turn Ugly

Let's just say you were looking forward to a calm Sunday with your family, a little sleeping in, a little church, a little day off from the cares of the world. Sounds good doesn't it?

I thought so, especially the sleeping in part--until Kid D woke me up Sunday morning with this, "Mom, there's water dripping from the ceiling. Inside!"

That, my friends, is how you know your day is about to head south. Fast.

There are some things you can sleep through and deal with later like: the sound of cartoons in the other room, the sound of kids getting their own cereal, or even Kid D saying, "The cat threw up on the floor." The last one makes you groan, but at least you know it's not going to get worse, the deed is done after all. But you can't sleep through water dripping from the ceiling because it is going to get worse. A lot worse. And because it is not supposed to rain inside.

And that rain should never come from the toilet.

Toilet rain is just ugly.

And it doesn't get any prettier when coming through your basement ceiling in bucketfuls after collecting on the main floor bathroom like some sewage-tinged wading pool.

Oh, and water isn't that much better when it sprays out of your main water shut off valve in addition to spilling from the toilet. Just saying.

Sigh, I guess you could just say we have an affinity for toilets. And water. So much for sleeping in.

A Grind, A Plop, and A Lot Of Smoke--And Inflicting Pain

How did your New Years go? Ours went off with a bang...or maybe I should say a grind, a plop, and a lot of smoke. Here's how it went down.

First Hubby's car started making a horrible grinding sound. You know the kind that means your car just became roadkill, and you immediately see an image of yourself as a Flintstones character followed closely by dollar signs. Lots of them.



But we weren't smiling.

And we don't have a dinosaur for a pet. Just saying.

As for the plop, well it was worse than the grind--for Kid B at least, and for my heart. You remember how I blogged about the magic of Christmas and waiting for decades for my disabled sons to get excited? And how it had finally happened? And how happy I was?

Well, Kid B asked for something for the very first time. Ever. He wanted a Mario Cart DS. And that was all. It's the only thing he's ever wanted in fourteen years, and he asked for it every day. A lot. Santa brought it cause he's an old softy.

Kid B had five glorious days with his DS, then it slipped from his fingers and fell with a plop into, you guessed it, the toilet. The evil thing ate it.



We, yet again, shoved a hand down the toilet and retrieved the DS. It now lies in pieces in a bag of rice drying out for a week accompanied by fervent prayers for a miracle.

Kid B feels like this:



Except he's a lot bigger and has more hair. Oh, and more clothes.

I feel worse.

Now on to the smoke. Sigh. Sunday we prepped a chicken to cook while we went to church. I set the oven for 325 degrees and headed out the door. Three-and-a-half hours later we came home and opened the door to billowing smoke. Like this:



But without the flames. Every sad story must have at least one silver lining, that's ours.

One of our kids (probably Kid C cause he often inspires...er inflicts drama on us) helped us out by cranking the oven to 475. Yup. Smoke and charred chicken. And smell that bonded on a molecular level with every surface in our home. Ug.

Yes, it was that kind of weekend.

What does this have to do with writing? Tons. As a writer you must inflict pain on your characters, loads of it, like some demented torturer obsessed with producing tears and heartbreak.

Why? It helps them. Really it does. It provides challenges for them to overcome, and they morph into a hero right in front of your eyes as they rise above all the pain and suffering. It also creates sympathy. You love them for their pain. (This means you should love me right now. Just saying. He he.)

Think about Katniss, would you love her as much if nothing bad ever happened to her? Or Harry Potter? What if he'd had a great childhood with loving parents, and friends, and magic in his life, and roses, and lots of great food, and a dog, and and and... Well, he'd be boring for one, and not nearly as endearing as the Boy Who Lived.

So, does this make me feel better about my weekend? Yes. A little. After all, who wouldn't want to be compared to awesome characters in some small way? I mean, I can go to the grocery store today and tell some poor, unsuspecting stranger that me and Katniss are buds. (And, yes, the odd looks will be so worth it.) Maybe I will even morph into something wonderful in time. Here's to hoping and overcoming drowned gameboys.

I'm Swamped Today

Today is crazy busy. The kind of crazy busy where you have seven kids screaming and running around you in circles. The kind of crazy where you still have a toilet sitting on your deck, and you're worried about what the seven screaming children will do with the toilet. The kind of crazy where you think things like, Maybe it will be okay if they use it.

But the point of all this is, I'm not going to get around to a real blog post today. I mean, I could continue to rattle on and not say anything of real importance. (Please don't mention that I rarely, if ever, say anything of real importance. It might shatter my self image. And that would be mean.)

So anyway, I vow to post something slightly above sad and pathetic tomorrow. Maybe. For right now, be content with this pic of me giving seven children the evil eye every time they get too close to the toilet. And, Mom, sorry I used the word toilet four times in three paragraphs.

Three Apple Cores Down Under or The Great Toilet Adventure

Since the last blog post (Which, if you are paying attention was only TWO days ago. Yeah me.) several friends suggested I blog about apple cores and toilets. This may sound like a strange combination. It is.

But not for our house.

My ten-year-old loves apples. Not likes, or enjoys, or even is extremely fond of, but loves them. We can't keep enough of them in the house. He'll eat a ten pound bag in a day. We have to lock them up. Really.

The eating isn't the bad part. It's the disposing. You would think that any child who eats so many apples and is told so many times (at least ten a day) to throw his cores in the garbage, would have a thorough understanding of the concept. Not so. He has Fragile X Syndrome and certain things just don't stick. This is one of them. We find apple cores (and more things than you can imagine) scattered everywhere. Under beds. In drawers. Behind dressers. In closets.

And in toilets.

This wouldn't be so bad if he didn't flush them, but he gets some strange satisfaction out of seeing them swirl around and disappear down the hole. The only problem is everything, and I do mean everything, that follows doesn't go down the hole. Um yeah. Nasty.

We've become champion toilet removers. My hubby and I can empty, remove, de-clog, and replace a toilet in seven minutes flat. Most of the time. Not this time. It was bad. Soooo bad. Soooo clogged. Soooo foul. I hesitate to go on. I may be scarred for life.

We took the toilet off, turned it upside down, and stared at the mass of brown, reeking mess oozing from said hole. Someone needed to reach in and clean it out. You guessed it. Me. Up to my elbow.

I spent the next half hour scouring my arm. I don't know if an apple will EVER look appetizing again.