The last few weeks have produced somewhat heightened stress levels here. And that’s putting it politely.
It all began one Wednesday night when, within an hour the entire floor of our open plan hall, kitchen and sitting room buckled, spouting grimy water from between its brackets. I was called from the depths of slumber by the fella, who had the wild eyes of a man who knew, FOR SURE, that this was definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, absolutely, my fault.
I examined said water as best I could without contact lenses in, hummed and haa’d, and agreed with him, before murmering that I was going back to bed and we could discuss it in the morning. I lay awake for most of the night having an internal nervous breakdown about what was lurking downstairs. And the fact that the insurance probably wouldn’t cover it.
During the next few days I
a) ripped up all of my beloved flooring
b) discovered that the whole of downstairs was flooded with sewage
c) like a maniac bleached, and re-bleached the floor before allowing the kids back into the house
d) called plumber number one, who couldn’t remove the blockage
e) had expert poo-unblockers out who had to put a giant pump down our main waste pipe and blast it out
Most importantly, we discovered:
f) the flood was caused by baby wipes. BABY WIPES. I knew, because it had been drilled into me by my own mother, that baby wipes were never, ever to be put down a jacks, but sadly, it seems that the fella and my toddler chose not to hear the warnings over the years.
I have cried sad ugly tears over this. I have stamped my feet like a teenager. I have used it as an excuse to keep smoking the two cigarettes I allow myself each day. But the best reaction I have seen was Matthew, who upon seeing our floorboards gone, roared crying and started shouting “Fix Floors! Fix Floors!”
Yes. Fix Floors Indeed.
This morning, however, I have had a realisation. I was lying awake, giving out in my head about our stupid floors, and the fact that now our tv is broken, and blah blah blah when I remembered something pretty bloody important. This exact time, a year ago, I had real problems. Like, life or death problems. Like, am I going to be able to meet and love and look after my beautiful son problems.
So, after this little rant, I will give out no more. I will try to see the positive, and mostly, I will be grateful for toilet humour whenever I am giving my floors the stink eye.