Super Soaker

Today was an interesting day. It was my birthday, about which I do not give a shit, but that did not deter me from insisting that it was my day and I got to decide whatever we did. I have the kids all weekend, as their dad is off buying pointy shoes in Vegas. Actually, that's not true. He's getting facials, massages, and manicures. This is true real information; he texted me this morning. I'm not judging but it seems like some people may want to consider that they are not just in the closet to examine the Versace jeans, if you know what I'm saying. Though that type of narrow minded gender pigeonholing could effectively place me in said closet as well, if you consider fighting sports, a well stocked tool box (that I made myself in metal shop), and slightly indelicate language an indicator for The Gay. Which I do not. There are just too many ways to be a girl for any of them to indicate anything, and it's a little obnoxious to assign the less-typically-girly ones to one end of the spectrum. I don't care personally, like what people assume about me, but overall the concept is interesting. So have your facials, Ex, and expect no more teasing from me! For at least one week!

Total unintended digression but reflection upon society is always useful, is it not? My real intentions for today were to chronicle an occurance which, had I not experienced it firsthand, I would not have thought possible.

My younger son, excited about his new squirt gun (or water weapon, as it is more badassedly known), brought it to jiu jitsu to assault the world with while I rolled. There is an outdoor area and parking lot where he could execute slick moves. He is reliable, not assailing people without their consent. I felt all was well.

Alas it was not. My elder son, with the zeal of the righteous, came and informed me mid-roll that the younger had peed into his squirt gun. You know, so that it would be shooting pee. It took me a moment to assimilate this information because as a girl, actually as a human being versed in the general mores of our society, I would never have thought of filling a squirt gun with anything other than water. And if I had, it would not have been pee. Is that because of the limitations of the female urinary apparatus or because I am uncreative? That I do not know. I do know this, however--I cracked the fuck up. I then called for my piss-wielding heathen of a son, straining mightily to maintain a firm, unwavering stinkeye. I asked him to confirm that he had peed into the squirt gun. Yes, he had, he confessed. Sometimes as a parent I try to ascertain the reasons behind an action before I deal with it. In this case, reason was clearly not present and I did not seek it. Also I was having a hard time not laughing. I said that that was unacceptable and the gun would have to be disposed of, probably in a level 4 biohazard facility not just because of the pee but because of the tearing of the fabric of society, the fabric woven of not peeing into things that then shoot pee.

He felt the sadness of the loss of the gun, and also possibly the bewilderment from the lack of kudos toward his innovative spirit. I could tell that inside he was charmed by his own brilliance and success in taking the pee gun from concept to reality. There were tears and I think they were shed more for the crushing of his enthusiasm than my evil glare, because you know he was out there shooting pee into the parking lot thinking, "This is awesome. Other boys will admire this concept. I am the first to have peed into my gun. I am a soldier of pee."

In the end I hugged him and told him that we've all had ideas that seemed pretty great in our heads, but might not come out so well in the real world, and since he's just a kid he's still learning about that. And I do admit, there was a part of me, a small, grossed out, slightly horrified part, that was proud of his avant garde approach to backyard toys.