TRIGGERED

My Grandson Will Pee on You for Free

No doubt about it — Urine for a pretty good time!

Yup — My grandson D has to work on his shooting skills.

He’s taken aim at his Mom, his Dad, and at least one grandparent. He’s soaked the couch, two rugs, the comfy glider in his room and his bassinet, more than a few times.

Of course, no one is more surprised than D, especially when he hits himself. And no one lets off a sharper, more piercing wail of indignation when his accidental aim is so true he scores a triple: shooting (1)himself; (2)in the eye; but (3)wondering where all that came from.

Yes, the young lad is 8 weeks old today, and hasn’t yet gotten his equipment under control. And by equipment, I mean the junk down there that dispenses with his digestive duties.

I’m the mother of girls, and was raised in an all-female family — with the exception of my Daddy, of course. So didn’t see this coming, even though I was warned, more than once. Cover up his little peepee when you change him, they said. Try to get the job one and done, as quickly as you can, they said. Don’t let him hang out, literally au naturel, they said, enjoying the spring breeze.

Whatever could go wrong in the Leaky New Grandson Department soon did. And I can’t help it if I think it’s hysterical every time Lil D shoots himself with his tiny peter, directly in his baby peepers. The boy’s brought a whole new meaning to the term “potty humor” — in my joke book, anyway.

For years, some folks have exclaimed over the healing properties of human urine. Urine Therapy has even become some kind of crazy anti-vaxxer Covid antidote. Well, when they start charging Big Bucks for this stuff, maybe I’ll sign D up.

But I’m no novice to the Improbable Powers of Pee. When I was in 2nd grade, in fact, a little boy on the playground even offered to pee on me after a bee stung up a storm on my left leg.

I don’t know if I welcomed his advances or he was just really quick on the trigger, but my recess companion unzipped his pants, pulled out his pecker, and did the dirty deed, right there on my ankle.

Nothing, of course, was accomplished that day. Oh, other than the fact that my joint continued to swell to the size of Mount Olympus, didn’t stop its dull ache for hours, and smelled like Tommy Porter’s peepee the rest of the day. Yuck.

I’m pretty sure our cute D isn’t aiming to pee on anyone — on purpose, on the playground— anytime soon. But I’ve made it my mission to curb his enthusiasm in this regard. As part of what I call Mr. D’s Pee Pants Directive, I plan to serenade my grandson with this little ditty — especially if his aim remains constant, if not correct (with apologies to The Platters):

They asked me how I knew If your aim was true —

I can never lie, Your cuteness aside — Pee gets in your eyes.

Oh, and if I’m still around when D poses for Prom pictures in 16 years, I promise to bring up his early proclivity to let fly indiscriminately. And maybe sing the song. Repeatedly.

Thanks, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be here all week, and twice on Saturday. So will D.