As a mother of three, you might think this tale involves a comedic disaster featuring my kids—perhaps a classic scenario of retrieving little ones’ messes from the bathtub after an overzealous attempt to push too hard. But trust me, that’s merely child’s play compared to what I’m about to recount. And no, my little ones weren’t responsible for this particular poop incident. Buckle up, this is quite the story.
Picture this: a warm August evening a few years back. To celebrate my 35th birthday, my two closest friends—Megan and Tara—and I attended a Luke Bryan concert. We indulged in overpriced beers, got caught in a downpour (because, let’s be real, we needed to save cash for those drinks), and danced like nobody was watching, interspersed with enthusiastic shouts of, “Luke, I want to have your baby!” typical of any fun-loving mothers. It was a night just for us, devoid of kids or partners.
Post-concert, Megan dropped Tara and me off at Tara’s house, where her kids were enjoying a sleepover at their grandparents’ and her husband was out of town. We seized the opportunity to enjoy greasy snacks, laugh uncontrollably, and recount our wild night while attempting to sober up.
Around 1 AM, I made my way to the guest room while Tara headed towards her bedroom. Just as I settled in, my stomach began to churn—likely the result of the relentless snacking on Doritos, buffalo chicken dip, and other delights. So, I ventured across the hall to the kids’ bathroom to take care of business. After a successful trip, I made my first mistake: I flushed the toilet.
To my horror, the toilet refused to cooperate. In my slightly inebriated state, I didn’t notice that a massive clump of toilet paper was stubbornly blocking the drain. In a moment of poor judgment, I hit the flush again (the second and ultimately fatal mistake). Water began to rise like a scene from a horror movie, and before I knew it, the toilet overflowed, flooding the bathroom floor. I bolted out of the room, probably yelling for Tara, who dashed down the hallway with a look of panic.
Me: “I’m so sorry! The toilet overflowed!”
Tara: “Oh no! I forgot to tell you the kids have a habit of jamming too much toilet paper in there. We can clean it up.”
Suddenly, we heard an ominous rushing sound. Tara sprinted downstairs and shouted, “Oh no! Water’s coming through the kitchen ceiling! It must be from the bathroom!” I rushed down only to find water dripping from the light fixture above their beautiful blue kitchen island. Tara was in a frenzy, clearing everything off the island. “This is gross! It’s pee water … but I think we can fix this!”
My face must have reflected horror, because Tara gasped and yelled, “OH MY GOD KIM, PLEASE TELL ME THIS ISN’T POOP WATER!”
As if on cue, the plumbing unleashed a torrent of sewage, transforming the trickle into a full-blown deluge of murky water cascading from the kitchen light fixture—the same kitchen where Tara’s family shares meals and memories.
Tara’s eyes widened, and as we dashed back upstairs to the bathroom of shame, she tossed me a bucket, barking, “START BAILING!” I hastily laid towels on the soaked floor and began scooping the foul water into the bathtub. Miraculously, after what felt like an eternity, Tara shouted from the kitchen, “It stopped! Thank goodness!”
In our tipsy state, we weren’t quite sure what to do next. We tried calling Megan multiple times (she didn’t pick up!) and my dad several times to express our panic about the sewage waterfall. After waking him in the middle of the night, he finally advised us to turn off the breaker and just get some sleep. I think he figured we were having a bizarre nightmare.
We descended to the basement to find the right switch, all while discussing the potential fallout from this mess. After scrubbing the kitchen and taking a shower, I crawled back into bed, while Tara wandered down the hall in disbelief.
Sleep eluded us (likely due to our worry that the house might actually catch fire during the night). Miraculously, we woke up intact, though our headaches were fierce, and we couldn’t stop laughing recounting the previous night’s events.
Morning light revealed the damage: water stains glaring down from the kitchen ceiling, and we both knew Tara’s husband would notice when he returned later that day. Megan FaceTimed us, confused about our frantic calls, and we struggled to explain the calamity through fits of laughter.
Next, Tara called her stepdad, who had experience with plumbing disasters (or was just a really nice guy). He arrived with an industrial dehumidifier and tools to fix the ceiling. He didn’t say much, but I could only imagine the four-letter words he must have been muttering internally. He unclogged the toilet and disinfected the bathroom, and I jokingly suggested he deserved a medal, though my humor fell flat.
Tara, ever the optimist, remarked, “You know, I always wanted new lighting fixtures for the kitchen. This gives us the perfect excuse!” As if we were chatting about redecorating rather than mopping up a sewage flood. They eventually repaired the ceiling and upgraded to stylish track lighting. Thankfully, our friendship remained intact despite the incident.
In summary, this wild night involving a flood of sewage in my best friend’s home will forever haunt me, but it also reaffirmed the strength of our friendship. As we navigated the chaos together, we found laughter and support in the messiest of circumstances.
Keyphrase: flooding my best friend’s house
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