What is it About Water?

I should have been a plumber. Something around here is constantly getting wet by the gallon, not by the cup. Usually, not always, but usually Ian is involved. Today both of my children flooded my world.

The kids have been getting along really well this weekend. Things have been relatively quiet. This morning, after a late breakfast, Ian went upstairs to play with his toys. Ainsley stayed downstairs to watch t.v. I was in the kitchen planning this week's menu and making my grocery shopping list.

Steve is on a business trip and called from his hotel to let me know he was leaving for the airport soon. We chatted while I worked on the kitchen and had breakfast. When I hung up the phone, I thought to myself, For once it will be nice for him to come home from a trip to a family that isn't in crisis mode.

As I took a load of the kids clean laundry back up the stairs, Ian called for me. It sounded as if he was in the bathroom. I looked in his bathroom, his bedroom, Ainsley's bedroom, the play room. Then I saw the closed door to the guest bathroom. He called for me again. I reached for the handle and found it locked. Ian knows locking the bathroom door is not allowed. I began to worry.

Then I saw the carpet on the outside of the bathroom was wet. O.K., so there's a mess to clean up. No big deal. But he refused to open the door. He insisted I was going to be mad at him. Don't panic. Stay calm. Don't get angry. I tried to assure him, in the most loving voice I have, that I would not get angry. Whatever mess there was could be cleaned up, and everything would be fine. He wasn't buying it.

I sneaked into the next room to find something I could use to unlock the door from my side. Nothing I could find would work. I'm sure if I were 7 years old I could find plenty of things that would open the door. Finally, I told him if he didn't unlock the door, I was going to have to call the fire department to come get him out. Not even that convinced him I would be able to handle the situation with grace and dignity.

Have I lost it that many times that my kids are afraid of me? That they don't trust my word? I've never lied to them, why is he thinking this way?

"You're going to be mad at me forever! I hate myself!" and he began to cry.

Oh, my God! He's too young for this. Depression and self-loathing aren't due for at least 6 or 7 more years when his first real girlfriend dumps him for some jock.

After more begging by Ainsley and me, he finally opened the door. There he was naked, shivering, and teary-eyed. I grabbed a towel and wrapped him up. Then we sat on the floor and had a good cry. I sent Ainsley on little errands to get her out of earshot while I asked Ian why he'd done this, but more importantly, why he said he hated himself. He'd wanted to take a bath, but not a real bath. So he filled the sink with water and sat in it. It overflowed and made a mess, and that's why he hated himself - because he'd made a mess.

After some reassuring that it was just a little water, not a catastrophe, he went to his room to read quietly in his bed. Then he wanted a snack. About 45 minutes later, I finally got the mess cleaned up and calm restored to our home.

At 1:30 I decided it was time for me to get out of my pajamas and get on with the day. Upon entering my bathroom on the first floor, my feet encountered a soaked bathmat, then an Oriental rug that squished when stepped upon, and finally, water logged carpet in the closet.

"Well, golly!"* I said.

*Substitute any string of effervescent 4-letter words here.

I looked all around the room trying to find the source of the water. No faucet was on, the toilet was not running, nor was there water near it. But the bathtub faucet was wet on the top side. I looked up and saw 2 tiny droplets of water clinging to the light fixture above the tub - directly below Ian's personal water park.

Guess I should have been an electrician, too.

I cleaned up that nice little pond, then rolled up the rugs and carried them outside. Have you ever tried to lift a wet wool rug that fills a large bathroom? And carried it through the house to the back yard? Then placed in on a hammock so it could dry? I think this should replace power lifting in the next Olympics.

O.K. crisis number 2 (or 1 1/2, depending on how you look at it) dealt with and gone. Whew. Ainsley had a great idea. Take popcorn and lemonade outside and play in the club house. Brilliant child, that one! She ran outside with one yellow crock on her foot (she couldn't find the other one) and headed for the club house. Ian continued putting together a Bionicle on the kitchen table while I popped the corn. Soon, I heard Ainsley calling me.

Somehow, she had gotten her head stuck between the protective slats of the clubhouse. You know - the ones that are supposed to keep a kid from putting their head through and getting stuck! Funny thing about heads: they don't like to go back the same direction through which they came. She was good and stuck.

I screamed for Ian to come out and help me. Fortunately, he came running. At first I asked him to stay with Ainsley while I went to the garage to get a screw driver to take out one of the slats. Ainsley got hysterical. She didn't want me to leave her. My brain was whirling. Think, dammit, think!

I started giving Ian instructions on where to find a screwdriver in the kitchen. Geez, there are like 150 drawers in there, he'll never find it. So I told him to go to the kitchen and bring me the phone. I'd call my neighbor, Kris, and if he didn't answer, I'd call 911 - for real this time! Ian ran in the house. While he was gone, Ainsley kept pushing on my shoulder with her head. The next thing I knew, she had maneuvered her body sideways and slid all the way through into my arms.

Thank God this child is brilliant!

O.K., the part about getting her head stuck - not so brilliant. But ON THE WHOLE, and extremely bright child.

Ian came running out with the phone. I thanked him, then grabbed both of them in the world's tightest family hug we've ever had. When I finally let loose of them enough for us all to breath, I began counting the minutes until Steve's plane would land. He should be home any minute. When he walks in the door and asks how we've been, I'm going to say, "Go read my blog. I'm going for a walk."