My Poop Don't Stink

Sunday night at the bottom of the stairs in the toy room, there was a little puddle of water on the carpet. Next to the puddle of water lay a sippy cup. Naturally I did not walk down the stairs to remove the sippy cup or try to sop up the puddle. I simply went to bed. When I woke in the morning, the puddle had magically tripled in size. Strange I thought, since the sippy cup could in no way have produced that much water. I walked down the stairs, picked up the sippy, which was completely full, and realized that the carpet was completely soaked. Like gallons of water had been spilled on it. So, sweet handsome hubster goes downstairs to have a looksy. He concludes, due to the large puddle of water under the washing machine in the laundry room (next to the toy room), that the washer is leaking. I tell him I think this curious since the washing machine has not been recently ran. He then concludes, well it must be the dishwasher. I am satisfied with this answer since yes, the dishwasher had been running when we first noticed the small puddle the night before. Allen goes to work, I put some towels on the puddle, and move on with life, believing that this puddle will dry by the end of the day. Except, tragically, this is not true. The puddle continues to grow exponentially throughout the day. I add more and more towels, only to notice more and more water. Since it was a gorgeously warm day yesterday (almost 60 degrees), I decide to ignore this bafflement and take the kids outside to play. A couple hours later with the kids completely covered in mud (shameful I did not snap a photo), I brought them into the house, bathed them, then took them to dinner to celebrate the sunshine. We then picked up Allen from the train, grabbed some books at the library, then headed home. At this point, I remember to inform the sweet handsome hubster, that in fact, the water cannot be coming from the dishwasher because it had continued to gush all over my carpet throughout the day. This is disconcerting news to him. I put the kids to bed while he furthers his investigation. And then I hear this question echoed up the stairs: "Erica, what is that brown stuff in the sink in the laundry room?" Brown stuff I think? I recall seeing that brown stuff earlier, but simply thought it was mud from something that Allen had cleaned off after some sort of outside chore, and naturally, just left the sink looking nasty. I then verbalize these thoughts. Silence. Then I hear, "Erica, we need to call RotoRooter." The sweet handsome hubster that he is makes me come down to show me why. He gets a flashlight, moves the washer, and proceeds to show me pile of terd on the ground. Did I need to see this to believe that we needed to call RotoRooter? Certainly not. Neverthelesss, I was blessed with that. Nothing is sweeter than knowing that you have your own poop sitting on the floor in your laundry room (to his credit, Allen did get up early this morning and completely cleaned and mopped the laundry room floor while I slept, so as to keep his wife from further having the dry heaves. such a good man). Ryder is scheduled for his morning poop in about 5 minutes (he is incredibly regular). There is to be no toilet flushing until Rotorooter has fixed our little clog. Rotorooter will come sometime in the next 5 minutes to 2 hours. Isn't that special.