I was at work when the 911 call came and all I could understand was something about water. I rushed home to find Ashley sitting in the kitchen floor soaked to the bone and sobbing. She was surrounded by wet towels and every pan we had available. Apparently the toilet in the master bathroom had overflowed, continued to run and flooded our bedroom, ran through the ceiling in the kitchen, seeped through the hardwood floor down to the storage unit in the basement.
The first thing I did was tell Ashley to go upstairs and take a shower to which she replied "We have no clean towels". More sobbing ensued and I scavenged in the beach bag for a towel and sent her to calm down. After all she had a babysitting job for the evening and from the looks of things we were going to need all the extra cash we could get.
I phoned Steve to allow him to curse and be mad while he was in the car. It is always easier to break bad news to your husband over the phone and preferably by text. That way when he is ranting and raving about the problem you can drink diet coke and roll your eyes.
Then the dance begins..you know the one where your husband tries to assure you that he can "fix this" and there is no need to call the insurance company. Then you remind him that you and your son are severely allergic to mold and perhaps we should just inquire about how to handle this flood you know call home. Don 't know that dance? Well lucky you. I am the champion.
Now we are full fledged into the process of assessing the problem. That's insurance talk for we are going to rip your house to shreds so we can tell you how screwed you actually are.
As of now our kitchen and bedroom are completely packed up. I now have inventoried proof that I have way too much stuff, it's not just a theory. Tomorrow they will tear out drywall and carpet and tell us just how long we will be displaced into a few hundred less square feet than we are accustomed to living in.
Y'all prayer for us.