Waxing prophetic

 A mysterious puddle had formed on the floor in the bathroom in the general vicinity of the toilet.

I know what you're thinking. I thought it too. Boys live in my house. And boys, we squintingly surmise through the thick lens of stereotypical thinking, are inattentive and sloppy with it comes to nature's call.

Of course, neither of my boys are youngsters: One graduated from middle school nearly three years ago and the other has graduated to middle age. 

Still, I did what any mother (with a strong constitution and a weak gag reflex) would do. I dipped my finger into the water to test its temperature and try to assess any odiferous qualities.

The liquid seemed to be icy cold and filter clear.

Which seemed, somehow, worse.

I did not relish relaying the news.

This appeared to be a plumbing issue.

Well, that's how it seemed to me, at least, having spent the better part of seven minutes studying at the Google School of Home Mystery Leaks.

My husband, however, would not be so quick to diagnose the problem.

He saw no evidence the dank little reflecting pool had come from the commode, so he ignored my initial assessment that perhaps the wax seal, after fourteen years of silent service had gotten dry, or broken, or cracked, and was channeling a stream of au de toilette toward the lowest spot in the powder room.

In its place he swapped a multi-pronged theory that included the potential that someone had improperly closed the shower curtain ... or that the cat had spilled the water bowl or the dog had been drinking from the toilet because the cat's water was gone.

Or that operator error or a remote-control switcheroo between the bidet's “jets” and “jet dry” features caused an unsanctioned waterfall to go spectacularly unnoticed.

Now I know he's creative, but a part of me couldn't believe he was able to spin this fabulist tale out of the dehumidified air.

But he persisted. Disconnecting the seat sprayer, turning off the water, and planting a mote of toilet tissue around the bathroom perimeter, making sure to cover the shower, the cat water, and the base of the thunder mug, hoping to pinpoint the source of the leak wherever it may emanate.

“Now we wait.”

“You know … the internet said that often wax seals don't leak in a reliable way. It may take a while.”

“I really don't think it's coming from the toilet.”

Denial is not a river in Egypt. But it might be at least a little related to a nebulous body of water in your upstairs loo.

I managed to keep my face just as straight as he circled the drain in search of a solution that didn't involve tools larger than a basin wrench or a project that would take him all weekend and eventually require the skills of a certified plumber.

My husband, not unlike the two bags of clothing donations in the trunk of my car, must drive this thought around in his head for weeks before he admits it might be time to replace the beeswax gasket.