The phone rang the other night at 11:30, yanking Hubby and me out of a deep, dream-filled slumber. We jolted awake, fearing the worst. Nobody calls this late to ask us to lunch, so it had to be something bad.

On the other end of the line, Younger Son announced, “We have a situation.”

Um, excuse me? What’s this WE business? Hubby and I had no situation other than being rudely jolted out of our REM sleep.
Without waiting for us to ask, he continued, “I accidentally flushed my car keys down the toilet.”

I slapped a hand to my forehead. How does a person accidentally flush . . . Did I even want to know? After a brief internal debate, I decided no, I did not.

“What do you want us to do about it?” Hubby asked, subtly reminding Younger Son that we are a solid eight hours away and don’t run an emergency plumbing and locksmith service. A follow-up, dreaded thought occurred to me.

“Where are you?” I asked with fear and trepidation, bracing for the worst. Please don’t say you’re in some obscure location in some backwater gas station in Eastern Tennessee with no shoes and a possum for company. I had visions of hopping in the car and driving through the night to rescue Private First-Class Younger Son, whose brain fairy has yet to make an appearance.

“I’m on post,” he replied.

Yay! Thank the Good Lord for small mercies.

Hubby, braver than I, asked the question I dared not broach. “How did you manage to flush your car keys down the toilet?”
“My gym shorts don’t have pockets,” Younger Son replied defensively, as if we were dense.

Of course. That answer clearly explained why Younger Son was dangling his car keys over the toilet at the exact moment he flushed. I mean, DUH! Doesn’t everybody? Because nothing says “responsible adult” like juggling valuables near working plumbing.

This is the same child who, as a toddler, once put a lit flashlight in the toilet. Fortunately, he didn’t flush it. I walked into the bathroom, wondering why there was a heavenly glow emanating from the toilet. For a second, I thought the Rapture had started in my guest bathroom.

Hubby, ever the Boy Scout, was prepared. Knowing that Younger Son couldn’t be trusted with two sets of keys, he had insisted Younger Son leave his spare keys with us the last time he was home. The next morning, Hubby overnighted the spare keys to Younger Son, but not before making a copy—because we know our son.

So, rest easy, America. The defense of our nation is in the hands of a nineteen-year-old who flushes his car keys down the toilet.
SIGH. If he only had a brain. Or pockets. Or common sense. But we can’t expect too much, now, can we?