It was a week before Christmas and the MOSY household had only a few weeks before been blessed with the birth of a son. Another one. To match the pair they already had, aged two and five. Life was…busy.
For some reason, Mother Me had offered to make the family Christmas cake. [1]
For some other reason (or possibly the same one), she had also decided to ice the cake. Despite the fact that it was usually left plain. Despite the fact that she had never iced a fruit cake in her life. [2]
So just before Christmas, on a hot summer day, when the baby had gone down for a nap and the other two boys were occupying themselves upstairs, she set out to tackle the challenge.
After a while, it occurred to her that the house was a little too quiet. Going upstairs she found the two boys in the bathroom, standing on a stool together, playing in the basin.
“At least they’re amusing themselves,” she thought. “So they might get a bit wet. It’s a hot day. What’s the worst that can happen?” So she left them to it. [3]
Some time later – a time that was filled with swearing, tears and cries of “why the hell did I decide to do this” – the cake was finished. It was hardly masterful – she’d tried to hide a patched corner with a sculptured bit of icing holly – but at least it was done.
She went into her bedroom to check on the baby. Hearing a faint noise, she leant on the bed to try and work out what it was and found it wet. Very wet.
Huh?
She ran upstairs. Even from the end of the hallway, she could see the large spreading dark stain in the carpet outside the bathroom door.
The boys were standing on their wooden island in a sea of water. They had made the scientific discovery that if you put the plug in and leave the tap running, eventually the water volume will exceed the capacity of the basin. They’d obviously decided to test the theory to extremes.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t as much water on the floor as there should have been. ‘Unfortunately’, because most of it had run down the heating vent in the floor. [4]
The nearest exit was the vent in the ceiling above the bed.
As she set the two miscreants to mopping up the mess with every towel she could find in the linen closet, she went downstairs to call the Maternal Parentals to come and collect said horrors so that they might live long enough to see Christmas. Or even dinner time.
Going back into the bedroom, she discovered not only was the bedding wet but the mattress, the mattress base and the floor. So, quite a bit of volume versus capacity testing, then.
She had, of course, just changed the sheets on their bed the day before, so she hauled the doona off – cover and all – and lugged it outside to the clothesline.
In the midst of gardening works, the rotary clothesline was not in its usual hole in the ground but leaning against a brick wall and tied to a couple of stakes where it had been functioning quite normally for a number of months.
She threw the sodden doona onto the clothesline.
It fell down. [5]
She started to laugh. She laughed and laughed until the tears flowed freely.
What else can a mother do?
* * * * * * * * * *
Postscript:
On Christmas Day, she proudly cut the Christmas cake that had caused so much havoc. It was raw in the middle. She’d doubled the recipe but forgotten to increase the cooking time and had not checked to see if it was cooked before taking it out of the oven.
She’s never made a Christmas cake since.
——————————-
1. Those who have read this blog are not surprised.
2. All together now, “Of course she did!”
3. I know, I know.
4. Honestly, who puts a heating vent in a bathroom floor??
5. Of course it did.
The morals of this story;
1 Never indulge in Christmas folly (holly)
2 Never have boys with taps as toys.
3 Don’t have a bathroom upstairs
4 Don’t make cakes. (buy them)
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1. I’m trying. Bah Humbug.
2. Have you ever had boys?? Easier said than done.
3. Lacking sufficient finance to either a) move house or b) renovate to remove upstairs bathroom, this is unavoidable.
4. Yeah, I learnt that one.
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I’m with the boys. I did that as a youngster when we lived in a topfloor apartment in New York. I don’t remember it but those that lived there have never forgotten ( and they didn’t have the luxury of outdoor clotheslines – even ones that collapse). Enjoyed your Christmas story.
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My boys don’t remember it either but I don’t intend to let them forget it. (And I want to hear your flooding story – sounds grand!)
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I had fallen off the kitchen table and cut my head so someone came in to babysit me whilst the family went out. Bored (even now you never let me get bored) I found the best thing to play with was the plug and all my floatie toys. The babysitter didn’t notice for quite some time as again bored I left the bathroom and was happily playing with her as the water merrily made it’s way downstairs via both the ceiling and running down the stairs. I think a neighbour alerted her. I believe I was not to popular and the Australians were labelled as trouble makers. I remember none of it although I have the scar to prove the fall, and I wonder how much was family embellishment.
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The obvious immediate question is “what were you doing on the kitchen table?” but I can probably guess. I bet that taught them not to leave you at home when they went out.
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Found out tonight the queen stood on a table to make a speech at Charles and Camilla’s wedding. If she could do it in her eighties I’m could probably managae it when I was two. Otherwise I’ll blame parental neglect.
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And this from the child who was always up the top of the nearest tree!
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I think it’s just a part of being a child. I recall taking the door handle of my father’s car apart to see how it worked — strangely, he didn’t seem thrilled by my investigative skills. It’s possible my being unable to work out how to put it together again might have had something to do with this …
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Yes, but why do they always pick the times of least tolerance? It’s like a gift. Oh look! Mum’s super busy and stressed out of her brain. Let’s make it worse!
I was a tinkerer, so I get that. I did once successfully fix a wobbly standard lamp. But I left my fair share of strewn un-put-back-together-ish pieces of various things at times.
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Oh my goodness this is terrifically funny. I am hopeful enough years have passed that i can say that without you wanting to hit me with a fruitcake.
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Even if I did, it wouldn’t hurt. It would just mush all over your hair.
But I’ve reached enough distance to laugh about it now and it has gone down in family history as The Great Flood of 2001. 🙂
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This is a masterpiece, H. Well done, even if the cake was… um… you know… not.
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I feel moderately redeemed. Thanks, Maggie. 😀
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LOL – I had to think about that for a moment – haven’t had my coffee yet. 😀
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You win my vote for the best story of a fruitcake gone wrong. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry … it sounds like the scars might not be completely healed 😉
The best line? … “she went downstairs to call the Maternal Parentals to come and collect said horrors so that they might live long enough to see Christmas. Or even dinner time”. Pity any mother of boys!
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And you know, I’m sure, that this story is but one of many. Such is life with boys, right?
It’s a day burned into my memory banks forever, let me tell you.
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I think it would be burned into mine as well!!
Your boys have managed to make it to near adulthood so you can pride yourself on that achievement 😉
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As xmas tales go, this one is … erhmm … miserable. However, at least you laughed. I should not have done so. So you see, you ARE a much better person than am I – was I !
{grin}
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Oh, M-R, I had to laugh. It was all so ridiculous. Like some terrible scene out of a slapstick movie. Cutting the cake Christmas Day only to discover I hadn’t cooked it properly was the last straw. Legend!!
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Which is, of course, what I done with my single instance of cooking twice the amount of my bread dough. Silly, it was: a teeny loaf is perfect for me. But I didn’t laugh. Sumpn wrong with me. 😦
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In my case, it may have been hysteria, of course.
But you do have to learn to laugh as a parent or you’d go mad.
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I’ve managed that anyway !
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Me thinks you have two pirates there, matey. Arrrrgh!
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😀 In eighteen years of mothering boys, I’ve done the pirate impersonation many, many, many times… Arrrrgh!! 😀
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No cake to worry about this year. The fruitcake snacker no longer needs it.
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Joanne took the words out of my mouth, especially the favorite bit, so I will have to come up with something else! Dash it! This I do know….whenever a perfect storm of chaos is happening in my life, part of me knows that this is going to make for a great story around the dinner table someday, once the pain diminishes a bit. LOVE this post, H. Fa la la!!!
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Thanks, Barbara. 🙂 Oh yes, it has gone down in family history and gets dragged out every Christmas so I’m definitely getting as much mileage out of it as possible. 😀
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As you very well should, my dear. I had such sympathy pains for you through the whole thing!
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Part of me can’t even believe it happened. It was all so ridiculous!
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Well, I guess this explains why you’re still on the hunt for that something yet you’ve mastered! 🙂 Best story ever!
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Fruitcake is definitely NOT IT. Well, actually, to be fair, I had, before then, successfully made the Christmas cake. Just not with icing. So it’s more a case of ICING a fruitcake is most definitely NOT something I have nor ever will have mastered.
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My youngest brother did this too. I was left babysitting, as I was probably twelve, and the youngest was two. Everything was rather quiet and when I discovered Angus he’d had the plug in, and the door shut. The water cascaded down the stairs when I opened the door, plus it leaked through the ceiling! Luckily he didn’t drown!! 🙂 Have a Happy Christmas, sounds lots of fun!
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Oh, goodness you made me laugh! Great story, Barbara!
If it makes you feel any better, my eldest sister, left to babysit, managed to split my head open on a door jamb. 🙂
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I don’t know whether I should ‘like’ this! Oh dear, accidents do happen, as they used to say!! Hope this Christmas is calmer!! 🙂
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Oh my, I knew there was a good reason to never make fruit cake! This is absolutely hysterical…you win!
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I’ve definitely never tried again.
See, disasters really do make the best stories. 😀
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