Toilet Plunger Amnesty

I don't know where it is, I don't know what you were playing, I don't know why on earth you thought you needed it, but WHERE IS THE TOILET PLUNGER?

I wanted to say that.  And I would have gotten more frustrated with each question.  And both of the children would have wailed the minute I told them what I needed.  If I ever found it, I would have listened to sniffles while I manipulated a half-roll of toilet paper down the toilet.  Not because this is what I wanted to do with my evening, but because gleefully throwing it in was what my daughter wanted to do with her afternoon.

No, I could not yell my way to the toilet plunger.  I could not even be frustrated: my friend Jackie had twin boys who discovered that if you just put the end of the roll in the toilet and flush, it makes a thwap-thwap-thwap sound as the whole roll goes down!  My kids have not teamed up in this endeavor, and it was only half a roll that had been carefully peeled, placed, and punctuated by giggles as she went to peel off another piece.

Instead, I found both children in the living room.  I knelt down in front of them and I said "Hey guys?"


Sebastian: "Yeah?"  (Audrey: "Ya?")
"Do you know where the toilet plunger is?"
"The what?"  ("Wat?" as she pushes hair out of her face with both hands)
"You know that thing in the bathroom with the long wood stick and the brown thing on the bottom?"
"The WHAT?"  ("WAT?"  She turns her head to the side, pushes hair away again.)
"You know, it's always right next to the potty.  It looks like a sword with a circle?"
"And if you put it on the floor it gets stuck?" ("Dock?" Turns head to the other side.  Gosh this child needs a ponytail holder.)
"Yes!  Yes, yes, that's the thing!   That's called the toilet plunger.  Do you know where you left it?"
"No..."  ("No...?" Looks at him, questioning.  He looks back.  She understands.  This is a trap.)
"Listen, I need that thing.  Can you go find it?"
They both know this is a trap.  I took a deep breath and summed up every ounce of humility I had.

"Guys," I said sweetly, "I am offering you complete and total Toilet Plunger Amnesty.  Wherever it is, whatever you were playing, whyever you needed it, I need it now.  I will not yell, I will not get mad.  I will not put you in timeout.  I just need it.  Right now.  For my potty.  Can you please go find it?"

They shrugged in unison.  Then they walked away.  I like to think the reincarnated Feudal Lords in them were satisfied that their minion had completely prostrated herself to their will.  And still, they did not care.  They would not bend.  The toilet plunger was theirs, the spoils of a never-ending generational war and I was nowhere near entitled to its location, much less the plunger itself.  I knelt there for a moment, considering my situation.  I had no toilet, I had no plunger, and I had just promised away all my leverage because there would be no consequences.  This was a low point.  This was the low point of the week.

The kids went back to playing.  I went back to my bathroom, where the toilet flushed just fine.  My husband found the plunger a few minutes later in a box.  I washed dishes with pursed lips.  I should have yelled.  Now, I would just stew.

About five minutes after that, Audrey was following Sebastian around the house, in and out of every room, opening drawers, pulling blankets off beds.  He came to me in distress: "Mom, I can't find that thing with the big stick that gets stuck on everything!"  Audrey pushed the hair out of her big, concerned eyes.

I don't know what to make of all this.  I think I learned a lesson about yelling versus talking reasonably to my little overlords, or about asking my husband to find things instead of the kids, or hiding the plunger somewhere the kids cannot access it, or that my kids can enjoy my humiliation and then try desperately to make me happy ten minutes later.  It was all over in no time, though I've really got to figure out Audrey's toilet paper obsession and soon.

At the end of the day, I'll say that offering Toilet Plunger Amnesty definitely a low point.  I can only hope the humiliation of that moment will continue to overshadow the real low point here...

...which was realizing my son thinks his bed is a normal place to look for a toilet plunger.