While lost in my daydream the kitchen sink has over flown—again. My pre-schooler, who refuses to potty train, is relieving himself in the front hall closet, and there has been another futile attempt to flush the cat down the toilet. Lucky cat. I left the lid up on the washing machine this morning to allow the clothes, caked in mud from my once planted front yard, to soak, and soak, and soak. My husband is on the phone reminding me for the umpteenth time that he needs a fresh white shirt for his meeting at the church tonight, and since he will be staying at the office late could I please, "Load up the tribe and bring it to him along with a few sandwiches". Quickly realizing that the washing machine will have to be de-mudded before I throw in his white dress shirts, I bolt to the laundry room to shock the iron beast into a rinse cycle. In the few minutes that I am  gone—physically, I am always gone mentally—another child, we’ll call her the antichrist, decides to decorate the kitchen cabinet fronts with a wide-tip permanent black marker—all of the kitchen cabinet fronts. I didn't even know that I owned a wide-tip permenant black marker! The door bell rings just as someone screams that the toilet is overflowing, probably another jammed McDonalds Happy Meal toy; they never flush. I screech, “Come in” as I race down the hall with an armload of dirty bath towels that I grabbed off of the laundry room floor. Sopping up bits of toilet paper and other unmentionables, I think of my three year old who refuses to use the toilet for himself, but considers it a hydro launching pad for anything he thinks might fit down the hole.  Darting to the front door I greet a couple of Sisters visiting from the church. I try to appear normal but in my mind I’m thinking, “You have got to be kidding me; was our appointment today?” They are perfectly dressed with hair neatly in place and make-up, of course. I, on the other hand, am in pajama pants, pony tail plastered to one side of my head, probably the wrong side, and I'm up to my elbows in toilet water. We exchange pleasantries. Shoving a load of laundry to one end of the couch and kicking a path through the toys I invite them to sit down. They begin to chit-chat and all I can think of is the mini action hero that still needs to be dislodged from the toilet. I wonder if a wire hanger will work. . . Do I own a wire hanger? “Come on gals move it!" No I don't say it, but that is what I am thinking. My countenance, however, betrays nothing. They want to leave a message about the importance of creating a haven in our homes, a "Heaven on earth" so to speak. My mind drifts to the black permanent ink that is slowly and indelibly penetrating the woodgrain of my cabinets. Apparently aware of my frazzled state, the Sisters, quoting scripture and sharing testimonies, attempt to inspire me.  The spiritual trance is broken as my three year old decides to pee behind the sofa. Perfect timing. All I can say is, "The toilet is broken".