My four year-old daughter is a wonderful, special person. She is bright, very polite, can make friends with anyone, helps out with her 16-month old baby brother, takes very good care of her baby doll children, and always has a hug for mommy or daddy. Unfortunately, no child is perfect, my sweet little daughter included. Getting her to eat a full dinner is a task like to try a glacier’s patience. Her room occasionally looks as if the bomb squad has been using Barbie/My Little Pony ordinance to practice detonation, and the clean up of said explosion tends to produce melodramatic weeping long before any toys are actually returned to their proper places. Beyond that, though, she has one particular gift that causes no little amount of consternation.
My daughter can clog a toilet by walking into a bathroom and looking at it.
We’re not sure what happens in there; it’s a puzzle for the age. My own theory is that she’s raising orphaned turtles and returning them back to the wild via the plumbing. The Puddinette wonders if perhaps she’s flushing socks, individually, since one often seems to disappear inexplicably. Honestly, it’s probably for the best that no one can explain it, but the fact remains that my trusty plunger and I are called into service much too frequently.
As I am the father of four children, three of which are boys, it obviously comes as no surprise to me that our plumbing is occasionally taxed. Chucking something into the toilet just to see it swirl about and disappear is something of a pastime for young male children. However, the frequency with which I find myself staring into a gleaming white porcelain bowl filled with too much water that’s going absolutely no where is alarming.
One day, having just gotten home from work to find my lovely daughter complaining of the potty being stopped, I muttering to myself that “I spend more time with my plunger than a truck stop janitor does.” I told my wife later that same night that if things didn’t change, I was getting a shirt with the name “Smitty” embossed across the breast and “Puddin’s Home Janitorial” printed on the back. She laughed and suggested that if I didn’t get back to work, I’d have my pay docked. Since then, Smitty gets the call two or three times a week to report to “Bathroom 2, for maintenance”.
My daughter, apparently, has no interest in seeing Smitty’s retirement. She strolled into our bedroom today as the Puddinette was putting laundry away and announced calmly, “Call Smitty, the toilet clogged again”. My wife related the story to me as soon as she stopped rotflmao’ing. Smitty wasn’t quite as amused. :)
You know a man’s home is his truck stop when his cute-as-a-button four year-old daughter pages him to the Men’s Room with his plunger. Luckily, when she’s 16 and some boy arrives to pick my little girl up for the Prom, I won’t need to be polishing my firearms as a warning. I’ll have this post, carefully saved in an aging manila folder, ready to produce at a moment’s notice for the purposes of embarrassing her infinitely.
That ought to teach her to call me Smitty.