I realized another great thing about having a young boy in the house, aside from his infernal boob fixation.
My son's at that crucial stage in life: learning how to use the toilet. As with any young man just starting to come into awareness of the equipment he possesses, he...well...let's just say that he's not the most careful about where he aims. And by not careful I mean it's amazing there's not a yellow trail a foot and half off the floor across the bathroom walls. Right now he'll come out of the bathroom with some accidental spotting because he forgets the important rule: "Before you put it back your pants, you give two shakes and you dance", or the urinal's too tall so he steps back and leans back attempting an arching stream, which as any man can tell you, does not end well, but I digress.
Every few days when the women in my house get around to cleaning they'll yell "SOMEBODY MISSED THE TOILET AGAIN!" Well, if anyone looks at me, I point at my son and shrug my shoulders. I no longer have to admit to my wife that I was the phantom puddler because I was trying to hang out the bathroom door, leaning on one leg, shooting at a great distance while watching the Redskins on the TV instead of where I was aiming.
I just say "Well honey, you know that Owen's still learning to aim. You can't really blame him." It's a great great thing. Of course, the other day I had to pay the price for this because while letting him go whizz in a farmer's field on Sunday he let fly all over my shoes.
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