In which we methodically destroy our home

So......about last week when I falsely accused L of flushing her diaper down the toilet? After I posted that I caught her trying to flush a purple ball down the toilet; and separately, a Playmobil police officer. I mentioned this to the husband, who said "hmmm," in a nonchalant 'isn't that interesting' kind of way, and it turns out that that he had dug a yellow ball out from the precipice of flush-induced extinction. So we revised our theory to incorporate the belief that L had flushed toys, not diapers, as if that distinction really matters when you spend the weekend snaking and pouring chemicals and snaking some more until the weekend ends, you still can't use your bathroom and you sadly swallow the conclusion that your lavatory is in need of professional help.
But as it turns out, once we finally did call for help we learned that we were right:

And if there's any satisfaction in being right it belongs to the plumber, for whom it took less time to skewer and retrieve a yellow ball than it did to finish writing out the invoice:



Ouch.

That night when I brought the girls home from school and presented them with the re-unlocked bathroom door, I kneeled down in front of L for a Serious Talk. I was calm but emphatic about what would be considered appropriate and inappropriate uses of the potty and I concluded with, "and so we don't ever, ever flush toys, right? No flushing toys."

Noooo, she said deliberately. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head slowly from side to side. Her expression was filled with understanding and agreement and mama-pleasing.

But I flush balls.