Proof that I'm a Capable Adult Human Being

And also a hot mess

I harbor a deep fear that if a bus hit my husband tomorrow, I’d lack the skills to maintain our home.

How do I deal with the storm windows? Bleed the radiators? Troubleshoot the snowblower?

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Sometimes I tackle items traditionally on Josh’s to-do list to prove to myself that I am a Capable Adult Human Being. To show that I could live without him, even though I really really really don’t want to.

On Sunday morning, we bought a few plants for our raised beds, and flowers for our front porch pots. That afternoon, as Josh headed to Orlando for a work trip, the kids and I dirtied our hands in the garden. Or, I should say, I dirtied my hands and they dirtied their new gardening gloves for about six seconds before complaining that it’s too hot and I’m soooo bored.

I needed to water the new plants, and know few things can cure both “heat”(too hot? It's 77 and sunny! Come on, you little Minnesotan wimps!) and boredom like a garden hose. I turned the spigot. Nothing.

Might this be an occasion to test my homeowner mettle?

Of course, I didn’t even know where to turn on the spigot. So I text Josh, who gave me a general idea of where to look— basement ceiling just outside one of the creepy murder room on the south side of the basement. Using a cooler as my ladder, I pulled the lever perpendicular to the pipe.

I went back outside, turned on the hose. Nothing.

I text Josh again. He said the on position is parallel to the pipe, and that the spigot dial is a little tricky— press down when you turn it. I hopped back on the cooler, put the lever in the correct position, went back outside. This time, I really gave ‘er.

The water came out, first as a trickle. I fiddled with the lever on our sprayer, the water pressure improved, but wasn’t quite normal. Hmm, oh well. I filled up a big watering can, then gave the kids the hose to play with while I started watering.

It was like that for about 30 minutes— the kids running around the yard in wet clothes, me feeling like a grown-ass woman in charge of our urban homestead.

I went inside for a glass of water, prepared to wipe the dirt I’m certain I’d smeared across my forehead in a messy but charming way. And then I heard what sounded like someone showering in our basement.

Our basement does not have a shower.

I ran downstairs to see growing pool of water in our 120-year-old basement.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfhjdskalfhdsjklafshdjklfdhskjadf!!!!!!!!!!

I ran to my cooler ladder, and turned off the water. At least I knew how to do that now!

I stood from atop the Coleman, freeze mode fully activated. What do I do now? Call the landlord? I am the landlord!

My millennial brain went where millennial brains go: I made a video and sent it to Josh, who was probably now 35,000 feet above Kentucky, sipping on a ginger ale while watching Step Brothers on a six-inch screen.

As I carried the shop vac down from our attic, I ran through my mental Rolodex. I considered calling my dad, but sometimes your own parents can actually make things more stressful. I needed someone else’s dad, a person who wouldn’t accidentally, I dunno, breathe wrong and make my head explode.

In the end, I called my bestie Marge, who is technically a mom but with a Ron Swanson confidence.

I just needed someone to help me come up with a plan. She asked if I’d turned off the water (check!) and said she’d be over shortly with her husband, Keven, and kid in tow. Kids… where were my kids?!

Outside, complaining the that water stopped working, naturally.

I told them that the basement flooded, and mommy needed to deal with that right now. It’s an emergency! My son, 6, said, but I’m hungry! I threw a half-eaten bag of neon orange cheesy poofs at him and said DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING WITH YOUR CHEESY ORANGE FINGERS, MMMKAY! I’LL GET YOU A REAL DINNER IN A BIT!

I schlepped wet cardboard boxes outside, patting myself on the back for storing most of our stuff in plastic bins or on elevated shelves. Then, I Googled “shop vac for flood” to make sure I wasn’t going to somehow electrocute myself with a shop vac, which would be a lame way to go… but just funny enough that I’d hope my family would include it in my obituary.

Before firing up the vacuum, I sent a calm message to our neighborhood text thread to see if anyone maybe had an extra box fan laying around because we had a wee bit of a water issue in the basement. Sure, there was water in the basement, but it wasn’t that bad, right?

This is after a lot of shop vac-ing

When Marge and Keven arrived, they took it all in. This is… a lot of water, Marge said.

Crap.

We took turns removing wet stuff, and sucking up the water. Neighbors stopped over with fans. In less than an hour, we’d tackled the majority of the water and moved anything that had gotten wet but not overly damaged out in the sun to dry. I also filled a few giant black garbage bags with junk, which wasn’t how I’d have chosen to clean out the basement, but I’ll take the win.

Because Marge and Kev are the best, they brought chicken thighs and coarse-ground hotdogs over for grilling. We cut up some zucchini and grilled those, too. Paired with some well-deserved beers, I realized I felt more loved than stressed.

My basement flooded and I figured it out.

I didn’t do it on my own, but I believe asking for help is a skill. It’s a great one to hone, and if it doesn’t come naturally to you, guess what? It’s something you can actually practice. I always feel good after helping someone (unless I feel taken advantage of, which is why I am also working on boundaries). Why deny that to the people who care about you?

As I write, I can still hear the fans humming in the basement. I don’t love that the house flooded. I especially didn’t love that it happened while Josh was away for work.

But I love the reminder that I’m more capable than I give myself credit for.

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Do you have a household task that you feel totally out of your depth on? Share with the rest of us!