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. (READ MORE)