Charlie has gotten into a bad habit when he pees. He drops his shorts to his ankles, places the pump in his shirt, wraps it upward like a baby sling and then skillfully holds it all in place with his chin. We would prefer for him to just clip the pump onto the neckline of his shirt.

He frees his hands not so that he may use them to guide his rocket-like stream of urine into the toilet bowl. Oh, no. His hands have a greater purpose. His hands are for placing on his hips. So that he can stand back like a proud Roman general and watch his unshackled penis terrorize the innocent porcelain.

Urinatius Everywhereus.

With the slightest distraction, his chin lifts up and the shirt unravels, sending the pump into the pool of pee. He's done this twice to my knowledge. I caught him once.

I peeked in the bathroom as I walked by and saw Charlie with his line out in the water as if he was fishing - the pump floating like a bobber.

"Charlie!" I yelled.

"It fell," he said in defense.

"Well, stop peeing on it!"

"I can't."

I reach in to retrieve the pump in mid-pee, taking some shrapnel on the wrist and forearm before getting it out safely. Then I tattle.

"He peed on the pump again!" I shout loud enough for Susanne to hear me downstairs in the kitchen.

The next day a co-worker and I talked about our sons.

"Grayson really surprised us the other day. He counted all the way to one hundred," he said.

"Whoa, impressive. Charlie peed on the pump."

He looked blankly, no doubt envisioning my son whipping his little Johnson out at the gas station and firing away.