“Daddy!”
“What?” That ought to do the trick. Saying “what” should always do the trick.
“DADdy!”
“WHat?! I’m downstairs! What do you need?” This had better not be something like his sock is on backwards or something. Daddy does not want to spend the rest of the day running up and down the stairs, even though Daddy’s physician might like this plan.
“DADDY!” I stand up at this one. This one sounds like a possible actual concern.
“WHAT DO YOU NEED? COME DOWN HERE AND TELL ME!” Please come down here and tell me. Please come down here and tell me. Please come down here and…
“DAAAAADEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Now I am running up the stairs. This is a screech of pure panic, and I am expecting to see my son in mortal danger, head caught in a bunk bed, or perhaps held at gunpoint by hostile terrorists. But I do not see either of those things. As I dash up the 14 steps between the living room and the bathroom across the landing, a picture slowly starts to come into view, like a mid-90’s jpeg slowly downloading via an AOL chatroom. First I see the top of his head, a little higher than it ought to be. Now his terrified face. He is holding something. It is a plunger. He is thrashing a plunger wildly in and out of the toilet, with the seat down no less, oh, and, he is standing on a stool. I guess this is for better leverage. “What’s going on?!” I shout, as I envision floods of nasty water cascading down the stairs in my direction.
“It’s CLOGGED!” he replies desperately, continuing to wield his plunger unprofessionally.
As I sprint into the bathroom I am relieved to see no water on the floor, so I pull the plunger out of his hands and gaze deeply into the toilet bowl to assess the situation.
“Edward,” I say calmly, “why is there a half-eaten apple in the toilet?”
He looks up at me and says the only thing he could say in this scenario. “I don’t know…”
“Well, did you drop it in there? Did you put it in there on purpose? You must surely remember how your apple got into the toilet and wedged itself down there.”
“I. DON’T. KNOOOOOWWWWW!” Cue the hysterics. Clearly I am not helping this problem.
“Okay Buddy, it’s fine, why don’t you go play in your room while Daddy fixes the toilet?” He sniffles a few times, clearly reluctant to remove himself from what is looking to be the most exciting event of the day, but eventually he shuffles off at least into the hallway and I try to formulate a plan.
I could reach in there I guess, but that is super gross. Also, the apple is somewhat eaten, so there isn’t any skin visible, and the stem is facing downward and not accessible. It’s pretty well in there too, so I don’t know if I could get a hold of it, even if I decided to stick my hand into the toilet, which I am reluctant to do. I can try to get some tongs, but it seems unlikely that I could get them around the fallen fruit. Less than 50% of this thing is visible, as it is formidably wedged into the, um, what do you call the thing where the stuff goes out of the toilet? The exit pipe? The sewage hole? Anyway, that’s where the apple is, and I don’t know how to get it out. We have already tried the plunger to no avail, so we need a new plan.
Suddenly, inspiration! I race downstairs, grab a kebab skewer and head back to the bathroom. Shquilk I manage to impale the thing and pull it free of its watery prison. Into the trash it goes, and a bonus flush, just for posterity. The bathroom has been restored!
“Yay! You did it!” Edward is very excited that the debacle is over, and the likelihood of severe punishment has diminished. And as for me, I feel as though I have slain the dragon and become the conquering hero that every child deserves from their parents. I toss the soiled skewer into the kitchen sink and triumphantly declare:
“Why don’t you go play downstairs for a little while…?”