Baptism By Poo

The day we moved into our townhouse, Andrew and I were lucky enough to have the help of six family members.  Many hands did, in fact, make light work.  

We emptied our storage unit, carted all our earthly wares to the new place, and unloaded it.  Piece of cake.  And then we sat down for a nice, huge Costco muffin before we headed back to Vancouver to drop everyone back at their vehicles.

But before we left the house, someone had to poop.  Four of the eight of us had Kestner blood running through our veins, so it was bound to happen.

And it would have been fine, except that this someone, my brother-in-law, must have relieved himself of the Emperor of Turds, because I heard him yell for help from the upstairs bathroom.  For real, he called my name in a panic and told me to get up there.

I shouted a worried, "Why?", up the stairs, and was told that....  (wait for it...)...  The toilet was overflowing and there was poo water all over the floor.

My brother-in-law had christened my bathroom with Holy Crap! Water.

No way was I going to go up there and have the memory of poop floating on the floor to live with.  So I went outside and got my husband, who shares DNA with the offender, and sent him upstairs with a bottle of Lysol, a towel that could be introduced to the trash can outside when it had done it's duty, and the instructions to slap the offender across the face and show him how to shut off the water when "danger" is imminent. (I'm sure that my brother-in-law really does know how to shut the water off, and simply froze in a moment of panic.)

When the disaster was cleaned up, Mr. Poop came down the stairs and informed me that we were going to have problems with that toilet because his poop was insignificant compared to what Andrew surely does.

Well, Brother-in-law...  You remain the only person to clog that toilet.

The downstairs bathroom is an entirely different story though.