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STORYTELLERWherein We Illustrate the Axiom "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished"My intentions were born in a place of kindness, a place of tenderness, a place of love. And I was rewarded with a karmic kick in the jumblies. Two nights ago I checked in on Abby, as I am wont to do. I was exhausted but, before I go to bed, I always like to make sure that she's sound asleep and that she's not twisted awkwardly in her blanket, or that her face isn't pressed up against the pacificer which can leave a deep red mark on her face by morning. It was about midnight and was past time for her to eat. If a little blanket-arranging or light jostling on my part woke her up, then I'd take her downstairs and feed her. Better now than in 40 minutes when I'm sound alseep. She had managed to pull the blanket up over her face and when I, with a delicate touch, removed it—she woke. And she cried, which is her perogative as a tired and hungry four-month-old. I apologized and, gathering her in my arms, took her downstairs to fix a bottle. I make a habit of changing her diaper before her bottle is ready, partly to wake her up, and partly so that she's not sleeping in her own issue all night long. I left the hot water running over her bottle in the kitchen. Placing Abby on the changing table, I removed her diaper and noted that it was nearly completely dry. As I turned my attention from her to grab a fresh diaper, she pees. It runs across the sheer surface of the changing matt, along her back, and promptly gets absorbed by her pajamas. Damn. She's still crying, mind you—because she's tired and hungry. Well, I then have to strip her down and wipe her off, which makes her cry more because I have now added "cold" and "wet" to her List of Grievances or, perhaps in her mind, they are Things Dad Still Hasn't Fixed Yet, Despite My Strong Urgings. Once cleaned, I put her down, sans clothes, in a bassinet, and take her urine-soaked pajamas down into the laundry room. At this point she's been screaming for a few minutes now which is starting to make me edgy. And my hands smell like pee, which makes me edgier. And as I'm running down the stairs ... holy mother of crap, that's a huge cricket! I see the offensive little vermin crawling along and, at this point, all I can think is, "You're dead, dude." I grab a small wad of paper towels from the laundry room and, after three swats at him, his little hoppity legs can't get away from me. I squash him, run down the hall to the bathroom and throw him in the toilet. And flush. And the toilet gets clogged. Upstairs, the water is running over the bottle. Upstairs, my half-naked daughter is still screaming. Downstairs, I'm swearing at a cricket and his paper-towl death shroud that have now clogged my toilet. Under the precept of, "Brawny can't absorb ALL of the water in my commode and eventually, even he has to yield to the softening power of so much liquid" I flush again. The water level rises rapidly. You'd think I would've learned. Neither the cricket, nor the papers go down. OK, now let's freezeframe that image Dukes of Hazzard style. Without getting into too many of the horrific details, allow me to explain to you my basement toilet. It has, on occassion, a bad habit of not, shall we say, expediting all of its baggage to its final destination. Every now and again there's a bit or two that is marked "Return to Sender." Such a bit was returned. Now, back to the story. The toilet's clogged and the water's rising. I grab the closest thing at hand, the toilet brush, and try and manuever the small wad of paper towels out of the bottom of the toilet. But the water's rising too fast. I'm like James Bond or MacGuyver standing over the bomb that has about three seconds left before detonation. I swat the books and air freshener off the toilet tank and heave off the lid, nearly dropping it on my toes in the process, nearly cracking the floor tiles in in the process. I lift up the floater that operates the fulcrum-and-button device on the opposite end when—sonuva!—the cheapass plastic button breaks off. Meaning that, no matter how high I lift the floater, the water ain't gonna stop. It's already going into the overflow pipe at this point. I swear like I've never sworn before. I reach down behind the tank and shut off the water at its source. The bits and pieces float in the toilet. The cricket floats around and around like a dead Viking Cricket. I leave the toilet brush in the bowl and consider this entire trip down into the basement a complete loss. Abby's still upstairs. Still crying. The water in the kitchen is still running. I mounted the stairs, sweating and upset and angry and covered in toilet water. As I reached the top of the steps I see Kerri holding Abby. I add this to the lists of disappointments that have piled up in the last two minutes. Kerri gets so little sleep as it is, I hated that she had to get up. I passed the two of them and didn't say a word. I went to the kitchen to wash up, where I nearly scalded my hands on the uber-hot water that is now pouring out of our tap. I cleaned my hands and arms and go upstairs to get Abby a new outfit that—let's be honest—she'll probably ruin by morning anyway. I slowly calmed down. I put Abby in clean pajamas. I told Kerri that I broke the toilet in the basement (this is, in fact, the second toilet I've broken in our house) but that I'd fix it later. I tell her she should go to bed and that I'd feed Abby. Reluctantly she goes. I take a deep breath, and watching Abby peacefully chomp on her bottle made most of the stresses melt away like so much butter on a warm day. Or something else melty and relaxy that makes more sense. All of this because I wanted to be a good father. If no good deed goes unpunished, then many good deeds are surely going to damn me. Epilogue: The silver lining to this story is that by breaking the toilet, I ended up fixing a pre-existing problem with it. After replacing the water-pipe, it now works better than before. No more "Return to Senders." Back to Storyteller. |