I heard it before I could see it. Water poured like Niagara Falls over the edge of the toilet bowl.
I paused in the doorway, unsure what to do first. About that moment, the water reached the tips of my boots. I swiped at the “pretty towels” — the ones usually reserved for just looking at — and confined the flood of water to the bathroom.
“What wrong toilet, Mommy?” Parker, my 2-year-old, asked with wide blue eyes.
The heaping pile of wadded toilet paper rose above the bowl like whipped cream on hot cocoa while the cardboard tube floated on the floor.
“You used too much toilet paper,” I answered sharply. This wasn’t the first time this had happened — or the second, or third. It was becoming a frequent occurrence — weekly, if not daily.
“Why toilet bwoken, Mommy?” he asked, just as innocently as before.
“Because you put too much toilet paper in it,” I sighed with exasperation — more concerned with the job at hand than answering his ever-repeating question.
As he asked yet again, Keagan, my 9-year-old, poked his head around the corner. “It’s like when you cram your mouth full of cookies,” he explained. “Your mouth is so full you can’t get them down your throat. It’s like that with the toilet.”
I stopped plunging for a minute so I could watch this conversation. My 2-year-old looked up at his brother and was silent a moment as he seemed to process the simile. Then he wrinkled up his little nose. “That gwoss, Keagan!” he responded animatedly. “Parker not eat toilet paper!”
Keagan responded with more patience than I had while he repeated his analogy. Again, Parker shook his head with a look of disgust. “Gwoss, Keagan! Parker not put cookies in the toilet!”
The corners of my lips were twitching in a smile. Friends had told me that being a mom of boys would consist of cleaning pee off the toilet seat and listening to giggles over body functions. What they didn’t tell me is that those same boys (my husband included) would take me right to the brink of insanity, then melt my heart with a sweet kiss — and a perfectly timed fart.
“You’re going to miss this,” I whispered to myself, taking a mental picture of this moment in time: my oldest standing in the bathroom doorway of the wet bathroom floor, my youngest in the hallway with a golf club, the toilet plunger finally starting to make progress — wait, a golf club? I swung my head back to the hallway in time to see my oldest duck as a plastic ball zinged through the air and brushed my neck as it landed in the bathtub.
“No head shots!” I hollered out the door. “Body shots only!” My patience was once again gone.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Mommy,” Parker said, with just the right amount of surprise and apology in his little voice.
I smiled. I really will miss the rocks in the dryer, tractor toys in the fridge, little muddy, rubber boot tracks on my freshly mopped floors, empty rolls of tape next to “fixed” ladders, chairs and cupboard doors.
While pregnant, I envisioned myself to be a Pinterest mother of blonde, book-loving, tractor-driving girls. Well, it turns out I’m more of an Amazon Prime mom of crazy, messy, loud, smelly, emotionally unstable, frustrating, boys. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Unless I sit on a wet toilet seat — then I have momentary visions of Pinterest.