Drip. Splash. Squelch.

The bathroom door is locked. The three year old is nowhere to be found.

Knock-knock. “Zibbit? Are you in there?”

“IT’S OKAY!” You hear from behind the door. Splish-splosh. Ahem.

“Please come open the door Zibbit.” A very guilty face appears.

“It’s okay, Mommy!” She chirps unconvincingly.

“Where did all this water come from, honey?”

“It’s not water!” Uh-oh.

“Is it pee-pee? Did you have an accident?”

“No, it just comed out of the potty.” Oh shit.

Upon entering the bathroom, you find yourself faced with the entire Columbia river flowing across the beautiful hardwood floors. The brand new roll of toilet paper is now completely empty. The toilet is groaning and sputtering in the corner, begging for mercy. The three year old is absolutely soaked, and charmingly sheepish.

“I flushed it,” she says. “A lot of times I flushed it.”

You survey the situation, hands on your hips and a furrow in your brow. And then you do the only thing a reasonable woman can do. You turn off the light. Close the bathroom door. And pretend it never happened.