I had been asked to relate the debacle that unfolded in my kitchen a week past. Perhaps it will be expunged from my soul with the writing of it.
You might recall that Linus and I were going to make chocolate mint sticks during Eliza’s nap. We were underway, and I decided that I should kill several birds with one stone and refill the humidifier. It takes awhile, so my usual method is to set it over by David’s work sink and put the spray nozzle in (held open by a rubber band) to let it fill. There is a fill line, and a hole strategically placed to apparently punish one for failing to remember the humidifier is filling.
Meanwhile, a series of events took place in the space of about thirty seconds. The first, Eliza woke up from her nap groggy and most definitely not refreshed. Linus, left alone at the mixer, decided to add all the flour at once. Not two cups of flour indicated by the recipe, ALL the flour in my canister. The chocolate chips melting in the saucepan (because, you’ll recall, our microwave was still being fixed) remained forgotten, and stuck to the bottom of the too hot pan. I’m talking burned to the bottom an inch thick.
With Eliza on my hip, I attempted with one hand to scoop out the extra flour and get out another saucepan for more chocolate. Suddenly, in a rare moment of quiet, I heard a pleasant, trickling water sound. Soon realizing what this probably was, and shrieking in dismay, I deposited the cranky Eliza on the floor and ran over to find an inch of water on the floor of the adjacent laundry room. The kids annoyingly and reliably forgot their troubles and showed up underfoot almost immediately, while I rushed to grab some sort of receptacle to place under the overflow hole that was still spouting water onto the floor. I yelled at Linus to grab some towels from the bathroom, simultaneously realizing that all the big towels I had were WET and IN the washing machine. All others were, of course, up two flights of stairs.
Kids seem to have a universal fascination with water, especially water in places where it shouldn’t be. It took very little time for them to wade in gleefully, while I methodically tried to dam up the water with mixing bowls and washcloths. Once I had staunched the source, I took the soaking wet rugs by the back door outside to hang on the clothesline. I came back in to find all the dirt that seeps through the rugs over time a sludgy and muddy mess. The saving grace of the entire situation lay in the fact that no surface in our old house is level, the carpenters of the time apparently not bothered with such things as plumb lines or levels. This meant that the water seeped to the outside corner of the utility room, and hopefully did cause a mold problem.
And then, Eliza pooped.
Ah, the joys of motherhood and domesticity.