I am amazed sometimes by what characteristics and traits can be passed down genetically. (I am also amazed that WordPress does not seem to have a fucking spell check, so any word with more than 3 letters now has to go into google. Damn it.)
The Boy has developed some strange habit of going to bed in my bed at night. I have no idea why, and he claims to have no idea why, and when we put him back into his own bed before we go to bed – he sleeps just fine. (sorry, lots of ‘beds’ in that ridiculously long sentence.)
The major problem with this is that The Boy – though quite normal looking during the daytime hours – transforms into a sweating, drooling, slobbery beast when the sun goes down. I don’t like the idea of having to sleep in a wet spot. Especially if I didn’t get to have sex.
So… last night…
I tell The boy as he goes upstairs “be sure you go to sleep in YOUR bed”. Yep, uh huh, no problem. Two hours later I’m in the bathroom getting ready for bed myself and I hear Poor Hub say “didn’t you tell The boy to go to his own bed?”
Damn it. Drool. Sweat puddles. I hope it was on Poor Hub’s side this time.
“Yes, wake him up. Have him walk into his own room.”
Suddenly I hear screaching from Poor Hub “WHAT are you doing? No! No! Go to the bathroom!”
The Boy wanders into the bathroom, pants down, penis in hand – with a very dazed look on his face. He comes and stand next to me by the sink and aims himself at the window. He then proceeds to pee all over the blinds and floor, very calm, with little indication that this may be – well, a bit odd to say the least.
“Boy! The toilet! The toilet!” I grab him by the shoulders and point him towards the toilet.
After a few more mishaps we finally got The Boy into bed. His bed, for the record.
I looked at Poor Hub as we came back into the bathroom to survey the damage.
“You’re cleaning that up” I told him.
“What? Why me?”
“Because he gets that from you. I have never in my life peed someplace other than a toilet – unless I was frogging it on purpose, which doesn’t count. Do you remember your little closet incident?”
“I was drunk. That doesn’t count.”
“Uh huh. Your genes. Your mess. You’re cleaning it up.”
As I drifted off to sleep, quite satisfied with myself for having found a way to finagle out of cleaning up urine, I remembered a similar incident with one of my brothers when he was about The Boy’s age. So, I guess, in all fairness, he may have actually gotten it from both sides. Ah well, dad genes trump uncle genes in the Clean Up Pee department I’m sure.
I wonder if Inappropriate Urination is a recessive or dominant gene?