Warning: If you have a weak stomach or are opposed to reading about bathroom habits DO NOT READ FURTHER. I post this mainly to impress Steve's family.
Before I married Steve I had no idea he had a family secret. A BIG secret. A secret I discovered on our honeymoon. Late one evening Steve went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. I waited for him to come out so I could use the bathroom next. I waited, and waited, and waited. Then I timidly knocked on the door. (We were still on our honeymoon, so of course I knocked.)
"Steve, are you okay?"
"What's the matter?"
"Steve, are you sick?"
"Then, what's wrong?"
"Well . . . I sort of plugged the toilet."
"I flooded the toilet, okay? There's no plunger in here, so can you please go down to the front desk and ask for one?"
At this point we argued for a few minutes because I was too embarrassed to go ask the attendant at the front desk for a plunger. I'm can't remember why I caved, but I eventually trudged down to the front desk. The attendant at the desk looked at me dumbly when I made my request:
"You want what?"
"A plunger. You see, my husband flooded the toilet." (Notice that I make sure to specify that I was not the culprit. Heaven forbid that someone think that I clogged the toilet.)
The girl at the desk looked at me strangely and then went into the janitors closet to look for a plunger. She returned empty handed.
"We don't have a plunger."
"You're sure? You don't have one anywhere?"
"Um. What am I supposed to do then? It's almost 11 o'clock at night."
"I dunno." (Did I mention that the attendant was probably still be in high school?)
"All right," I sighed. "I guess we'll figure something out."
I realize now that I probably should have made the attendant look again. I mean after all, this can't have been the first time the hotel had this problem. They had to have a plunger SOMEWHERE. Instead I hauled my confrontation-avoiding hiney back to the room and told Steve the sad news. We ended up at some grocery store at 11:30 at night buying a plunger. Our first plunger. How romantic. I should have seen the signs then.
It wasn't until I shared this experience at a Gammon family get-together that I found out the full secret.
The Gammon siblings have intestines of steel. Apparently, it was at least a weekly occurrence for someone to plug the toilet when the kids were growing up. And it wasn't just the boys. Steve's brother-in-laws swear that they have to keep industrial-style plungers in their homes to keep those Gammon girls from overflowing the white throne. And according to Steve's toilet-clogging siblings, the toilet does not flood from an over use of toilet paper--if you get my drift.
Anyway. I have a point to this disgusting story.
This afternoon, in an effort to avoid a nap, Allison informed me that she went "poo-poo in pants." I took her to the bathroom and pulled down her pants to find a baseball-sized mess in her pants. After disposing of the "poo-poo ball" (this was Al's term, not mine) into the toilet, I went to flush.
My two-year old flooded the toilet.