“Morgan!”, my wife called down the hall, “Are you in the bed?” “Yes!” He answered. “Get up and go to the bathroom!” She ordered. This point needed to be emphasized because, for some unknown reason, my son had begun wetting the bed again. We heard him shuffle across the hall to the bathroom and the light flickered on. “Lift up the toilet seat!” I yelled. There was a slight pause before we heard the seat knock against the lid. The pause indicated that he was contemplating peeing all over the seat had I not interjected. We heard the tinkle of water in the toilet, which was a good sign because it meant his aim was true and he was not hitting the more obvious target, the floor. The light flicked off, more shuffling and we heard the bounce of the mattress. “Now go back, put the toilet seat down, flush the toilet and then wash your hands!” My wife directed. “Oh yeah.” We heard him say. Shuffle, light on, lid closes, toilet flushes, water runs, light off. “Why do we have to remind him to do that every time?” I asked. “Because that’s YOUR son.” My wife answered.

My son is six. We don’t make a big deal out of bed wetting because we figure it’s embarrassing enough for him and he will eventually outgrow it. We seriously doubt he will go away to college still wetting the bed. And if he does, I imagine he will figure some way to turn it to his advantage, like some great parlor trick. “Look what I can do!” Peeeeeeeee. On the occasions that it does happen, we just tell him to get in the shower and we change his sheets. No need to further traumatize him about it by harassing him, or writing about it for the whole…world…to…read…

We realized that part of the problem is his bladder just needed to grow in order to accommodate the liquids he was drinking which would allow him to sleep through the night. Having just gone through a tremendous growth spurt, we thought we were past all of this. There hadn’t been an accident in quite a long time so this recent spate was a bit surprising.

“Can I have some water?” Morgan asked. “No!” we both said simultaneously. “It’s eight o’clock and you’re going to bed soon.” “But I’m thirsty!” He pleaded. “Trust me son, you will be alright.” My wife answered “We don’t want you to wet the bed.” “OK” He agreed.

That was easy.

My wife was changing the sheets on his bed the next morning when she called my son, “Hey Mooorgan!” She said in a sing-song kind of voice. He appeared at the door and she pulled out a water bottle that had been hidden beneath the sheets. Apparently he had been secreting it away and drinking it surreptitiously throughout the night. Like Gunga-damn-Dinn.

“Busted.” He said through a crooked, toothy, grin.

“That is YOUR son.” My wife said glaring at me. ” What?! Why do I get blamed for everything?” “That’s what you get for passing on all of your ’stupid’ chromosomes.” She said, “My good chromosomes can only balance out so many of your dumb ones. If you would have just kept the ’stupid’ ones to yourself, we wouldn’t have these kinds of problems. ”

“Wow”, I said. “I didn’t even know I had that option.”