So, you are a parent of a cute little diaper clad boy. He’s relatively easy to clean and aside from the occasional blowout, everything exiting your little bundle of joy stays contained between changings. Well things are going to change more quickly than you know. Soon, you’ll be dealing with something you probably never thought about when it comes to bringing up your son. Undoubtedly you’ve considered the hurdles of toilet training and have researched loads of tips and tricks to effect a smooth transition from diaper to plumbing. But what you haven’t considered, until now, are the following years of complete and utter disregard for aim, cleanup or other people who might utilize your personal restrooms.
No matter how many times I suggest to “please aim correctly before letting loose” or “if you miss, just tell me so we can clean it”, nothing seems to change. It’s as if my son goes into the bathroom blindfolded, turns off the lights, spins 47 times and then just lets loose in whatever direction he’s facing before walking away from the disaster of discharge he’s left behind. I don’t know if I should stand aghast at the utter repulsiveness of it all or or be wholly impressed by the creative distribution of urine into nooks and alcoves of the bathroom that I never knew existed. It’s like he’s creating a Jackson Pollock of pure urine across the walls, toilet and floor. True artistry and dedication to his craft.
There’s just no way I was like this when I was seven. As far as I can remember, my aim was spot on, dead center bullseye with every drop. You’re welcome mom. Despite my urinary perfection, I don’t even mind that my son has the aim of a drunken Storm Trooper peeing on a tiny ship in hurricane tossed waters. I just wish to God he would let me know when he’s played fireman to imaginary blazes surrounding the loo. If my daughter isn’t discovering his mess by sitting in it, or I’m not suddenly finding my feet wet as I line up, it sits there and dries. The perfect crime, right??? Not so fast. Thanks to this, my bathrooms routinely smell like a dimly lit subway station patronized exclusively by drunken college students and mentally ill transients. A station that is woefully bereft of toilet facilities on a 95 degree Saint Patrick’s Day that was somehow held on Bourbon Street during Mardis Gras. If you’re not familiar with the NYC subways, imagine it’s as bad as it sounds, and then imagine it’s worse. That’s almost it.
I hope that soon I’ll stop finding these putrid ponds of piss inside my house. At least until he IS one of those drunken college students. At least then he’ll have some excuse. For now though, it’s actually keeping my bathrooms more thoroughly clean than most of the other rooms in my house due to the frequency of cleanups required. Silver lining, right? Or should this one be a Golden lining? Whichever.