Tonight, after dinner, Thing One used the potty (which he has been excellent about lately, and I think diapers are a thing of the past) and then went to get in his bath. As is his wont, he got in, then realized that what would be really fun would be to urinate in the tub, perhaps catching a stream of pee in one of the little plastic Easter eggs that are his favorite bath toys. He stood up, penis in hand, and said, “I’m gonna pee in the bath!” — but of course the pee wouldn’t come, having been recently voided into his Fisher Price musical potty chair. And this is how cool a mom I am: despite having spent ALL DAY thwarting attempts of his to fling toys through the windows and crush his sister under the weight of various large, heavy objects, and despite wanting nothing more than to take up smoking again (it’s been three years) and get drunk enough to perhaps wake up in a pool of my own vomit, in bed with some aspiring foreign rock star, rather than waking up sober, at five-thirty a.m., to the chanted, “Mama, come! I’m ready to get up!”, I said to him considerately,

“Would you like me to get you some water so you can drink it and make more pee?”

And he was delighted. Because we had a moment of perfect, copacetic understanding just then, a moment during which I really demonstrated empathy for my offspring, a moment when our hopes and dreams were united. It reminded me of the story a friend told me a few years ago, that she saw a family of three admiring a large crane at a construction site downtown, and just as she walked past them, the boy exclaimed admiringly, “You could PEE off that!”

Far be it from me to stand between a boy and his pee.