Every time I went in there, she said “Don’t fall in.”
Well, the other day, I actually contemplated what that could mean. Looking at the toilet I asked myself, “How could I possibly end up in there on accident?” I measured the opening with a length of toilet paper and held it up to my butt. “No,” I concluded, “there is no way that it could be an accident.” I then started to wonder, “Could it be that she is warning me against trying to climb in there on purpose, then?”
I took a seat on the toilet and looked up at the rays of sun coming in through the window, the rays looking almost solid as they illuminated the tiny drops of water left in the air from her shower only a few minutes before. Why would she try to keep me from trying to climb into the toilet? Why would I want to, unless there was something she knew that I didn’t. She always liked to act like she did, sure, but what if she actually DID?
I’m far from an expert on plumbing, but I was pretty sure that there was nothing out of the ordinary down there. Still, she seemed to know something. I got up and walked over to the towel rack, leaning one arm on it, standing only feet in front of the toilet. It seemed to glow in the playful dancing light from outside. “What could it be?” I asked. If she didn’t want me to go there, then it must be a place worth going, right? Perhaps it was even dangerous, full of adventure!
And that, mom, is how I broke the toilet.