Up the creek without...WATER? Or ELECTRICITY?

 My husband called.

During school hours.

This is a rare occurrence that causes my heart to quicken and my pulse to race. Not necessarily with love. There's trouble in them thar hills (My one and only tribute to Laurel and Hardy, by the way).

"The water pump is broken," he reported.

I paused to consider the implications of this.

"No water," he prompted.

Still I reflected...obviously my showering schedule was going to be interrupted but I was well-stocked up on baby wipes.

I could hear Brad sigh on his end of the phone. He does that a lot. "No toilet," he said.

I gasped and almost dropped the phone. My 4th graders looked at me fearfully."Don't worry, cherubs," I reassured them, "the Mosimans are just out of water."

"How will you make Kool-Aid," one well-meaning student asked with grave concern. Brad was done with this conversation. Obviously, I was of little-to-no-help in solving this problem (Obviously. I'm actually surprised he called me in the first place. I'm not even sure I could LOCATE the water pump).

While Brad set into motion the necessary procedures in fixing a broken water pump, I was busy staying as late as possible at work to maintain a close proximity to a flush-able receptacle. I intentionally began to dehydrate myself.

When I did finally arrive home, I suddenly realized that cooking a meal was futile. Darn it all. Brad offered to pick up a pizza. We Mosimans really know how to rough it.

Brad took advantage of Nature's Restroom but Sydney and I dreaded the dark and rain more than the idea of pouring a pail of water into our potty. But Brad Mosiman, Survivalist and self-appointed Latrine Officer, placed a moratorium on excessive bucket use to reflect his hoarding of two 5 gallon containers of treated "emergency water" that have sat, unused, in my basement for the last decade. It was their time to shine.

Like flipping on the light switch during a power failure, my muscle memory refused to allow me to forego the automatic flushing of the toilet so I taped the handle in place so as to thwart "2 am Amy."

Meanwhile, Brad lay sleepless, envisioning ingenious ways to collect workable water. Using the dehumidifier, he filled up the dog's dish, crooning to Chlo that the water quality rivaled that of Perrier. Using the reservoir of the Keurig, he brushed his teeth. My husband truly needs a television survival show dedicated to him. I simply slunk off to school to secretly brush my teeth there.

Brad called me after school.

I paused hopefully before answering.

"The power is out," he reported.

I'm NOT going home.