Separately, there are a whole lot of apocryphal parenting stories that get passed around as truth.
At the intersection of these two is... peeing in bottles.
A few weeks ago, we're clipping along at Warp 8 in the middle of Cajunistan. Scooter's asleep, which is a moment above most others.
Now, Rule #457 says that there's no kinda way you stop the truck when The Ittybitty is asleep. No. Kinda. Way. She'll immediately wake up whenever you slow down or stop. (Which is how I rationalize driving like I do. Where was I?) So you crank up the Jerry Reed, you keep the hammer down and you watch out for Smokey, dude. Or Le Smokeey, as the Francophones say over yonder.
For some reason, I thought in my brain, "This would just be an IDEAL time for Jack to have to pee." Ideal meaning catastrophic.
30 seconds later, The Dude picks up on my telepathy and of course, asks to tee tee. Like, now.
But hey, it's better than the last announcement he made in the middle of a swamp. Y'know, the one that cost me 5 cents and my sanity.
I tell H.M. how this will go down. And she sort of looks at me with this I CANNOT BELIEVE I MARRIED YOU face.
So we pop him out of his buckles and such, half strip him down, and proceed with The Maneuver. It was executed flawlessly, I've gotta say, but I was worried about uh, capacity. We drift and weave, most everybody sans seatbelts, probably at 85mph, right by a State Trooper (Le Cinq-Zéro) that is apparently busy peeing in a bottle also.
Fast forward to last week. We're not far from home, but Jack announces that he's full up and that's it. Like, now. We need The Maneuver, and we need it fast.
I happen to have yet another full 20 oz bottle of agua by me (we're indescribably hydrated, people). Majesty wants to pour out the contents and drops her window.
"This'll be quicker," I say, and drain the bottle in seconds. And I get the I CANNOT BELIEVE I MARRIED YOU face. We're at a light, unhook Soul Brother #1 and help him drop trou. "This is gonna be no problem because we are total professionals," I think.
And I think that just as SOMEBODY pees all over my arm, hand, the empty waterbottle, my pride, some cupholders, his pants, a rear A/C control panel, my sense of self worth, and the carpeting.
All I can manage to (a hyperventilating) Majestad and a visibly relieved little boy is, "You people are disgusting."
The light changes, and Jack flies backward as I gun it.
Heard On the Street
H.M.: "Jack, tell Daddy what you had for lunch today at school."
The Dude: "Daddy! DO YOU KNOW what the pizza guy brought for lunch?!"
E.C.: "I dunno, but I've got a pretty good idea."