So meanwhile, even in the midst of great trials, life continues, and I have to deal with it somehow.
1977. Baby Jennifer toddles into the bathroom, drops in the shampoo bottle, and flushes, resulting in a $75 plumber's bill that my parents coughed up. Probably would be twice as much now. The story is often referenced in my growing up years and beyond.
Baby had toddled into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, dropped in the shampoo bottle, and pulled the lever. He looks up at me with big, innocent eyes, working the pacifier in his mouth anxiously.
My mom, naturally, is laughing on the phone in my ear while I am trying to firmly correct baby with, "No, no, no!" and fish out the bottle that thankfully hasn't quite made it down the hole yet.
The little mini-me, repeating history in identical fashion. Just like his mom. It seems he got the shampoo-flushing gene. I sigh.
It's okay. I'd rather be thinking about real toilets than the toilet-like thoughts, fears, loops, worries and junk I have dealt with for months. Those are what really need to go down the hole. And I really don't even mind saying it.
Viva la flushing! GLOOSH.