My little monkey eyes me warily as I stand up from the couch. We make eye contact, neither of us daring to move as his world (our living room) continues to swirl around us (meaning, our cat licks his butt and my wife hums as she reads). We both know what’s coming, and it’s time for us both to cowboy up– daddy has to pee, and baby has to interfere.
I dash to the bathroom, quickly undoing my pants as my son waddles and toddles after me, always surprising me with his swiftness, poofy-blonde hair bouncing to and fro as he runs. I get my stream going just as he appears in the threshold, keening in frustration as he sees that I’m already on my way. And so the struggle begins…
He starts with the most obvious tactic- going around my left leg. I give him a quick butt cheek to the shoulder that knocks him off course, while in the meantime I maintain steady accuracy to the center of the toilet bowl. So far so good.
His next move his is just as predictable– he drops on all fours and tries to squeeze his massive noggin through my legs, reaching his little hand for the oh-so delightful streamlet of yellow. But it’s a no-go… I squeeze my legs shut, forbidding his passage. He calls out in anger- daddy has thwarted him once again.
I begin to cackle as he makes his retreat, feeling superior as he turns his back and plods for the exit. Game, set, match, kiddo! Daddy wins again! Except…
It’s a feint! It’s a trap! Retreat! All hands on deck! Constant vigilance!
Successfully lulling me into a false sense of superiority, baby makes his move. He feints for the right side, leading to my sluggish shuffling to the right, only to have him grab the back of my left pant leg right behind the knee and pull. He puts all his weight, heart, and soul into that pull. I begin to lose my footing, screaming in terror as I lose my bearing, and consequently, my aim.
The pee stream teeters back and forth in the toilet bowl before finally breaking loose, hitting the rim of the toilet, floor, garbage can, wall, ceiling, and space station in quick succession. And, finally, his little heart’s desire is fulfilled… He gets his chubby little hand in my pee, roaring with satisfaction. He had defeated the daddy. The battle is won.
The deluge of my morning rehydration finally stops, leaving me devastated and shocked. I have lost, and the consequences are dire.
I quickly pull up my pants, realizing that they will need to be retired to the laundry hamper. I grab my little monster form beneath the armpits and tug him over to the sink to wash his pee-stained hands. He is still giggling in the pride-filled spoils of victory as I scrub off his hands. I carry him over to his mom, depositing him into her lap as I mumble to her what happened. She didn’t have to laugh THAT hard…
I grab the spray cleaner and the paper towels, trudging my way back to the bathroom to do some dirty work. Now, the keen mind is asking themselves two questions: first, how on earth are his pees THAT long? The answer- my family had a history of kidney stones. I don’t mess around with hydration, people, I filter my kidneys with the upmost care! Second question is more relevant: why on earth did you not just close the door?! The answer is simple, and I would not expect everyone to understand… It’s all just a part of the game.