Death By Root Beer

So, I'm pretty sure we're going to kill our kids.

Not on purpose or anything...but it seems inevitable. ESPECIALLY after last night's incident. I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that we had the beverage-equivalent of hand grenades exploding in our fridge.

It seems we found the only flaw in attempting to make home-made root beer. And by we, of course, I'm referring to my husband, who has been dabbling in home brewing for the past two years or so.
The beer he makes?
Delicious.
The root beer?
Equally delicious, but also deadly, FYI.

I heard this giant CRASH in the kitchen yesterday, and came running in to find nothing wrong other than a bit of brown liquid oozing out of the bottom of the fridge.
And then I opened the door.
...which led to me being accosted by a TSUNAMI of home-grown bubbly as it frothed freely past my ankles and on to the kitchen floor.
...which would have been like something out of a fairy tale (who doesn't dream of floating down a lazy river of some type of carbonated beverage?), except for the shards of glass that were bobbing in the wake.

Yes.
Brian's home-made root beer turned out to be more like sweet, refreshing molotov cocktails of over-fermented yeast and hyperactive carbon. The explosion - and there had been only one at the time of my opening the refrigerator door - took out a shelf and the two crisper drawers. There was sticky brown resin and shattered glass everywhere.

I took one - LONG - look at the mess and promptly went out to inform my husband that HIS root beer had gone all rock-star-in-a-hotel-room in MY refrigerator, and that SOMEBODY *hint hint* needed to clean up the mess.

This was about the time we realized that the one exploding bottle was not a fluke, as I had originally assumed, but more like a prelude of what was to come. Needless to say, after the next bottle went whizzing past Brian's nose, a hurried evacuation of all things carbonated quickly occurred.

I tackled the fridge, while Brian was left trying to figure out how to deal with the remaining ticking time bombs. In the end, I'm not sure how he did it, but I'll tell you at one point I looked outside and I saw him wielding a brick and holding a trash can lid like a shield.

Sometimes it's better to just not ask questions.

So the fridge is now clean, albiet with significantly less shelving and drawers with which to crisp vegetables.

The exploding root beers have been "taken care of," which is pretty much all I want to know about the situation.

Needless to say, there will be no more root beer making in this house - unless the government wants to purchase our newly developed secret weapon.

And now we're left to ponder whether we're suited to raise not one but TWO children, or if this whole pregnancy attempt will end with a visit from Child Protective Services and a warrant.

Just your average Wednesday night in our household...