my kid the drunk

Isaac seems to be suffering from blackouts. He wakes from naps with his bed soaking wet and claims not to know how it happened. “Me not sure how my pants get wet! Hmm. Dat kinda funny, huh, Mama?”

Hilarious.

Yesterday, Mike went in to find him on the floor of his room, his pants around his ankles, asleep in a puddle. In that magical space between the dream and waking worlds, the pile of pajamas next to his dresser looks so much like a toilet. You can understand.

Other times, it's even wackier.

“Isaac, how exactly is it that your underwear is perfectly dry and your pants are sopping wet?”

“Me donno.”

“And why does monkey smell like pee?”

“Ew, montey 'mell wike pee-pee!”

Truly, I can often not begin to piece together the series of events that lead to these kinds of findings. Bed wet, kid dry. Kid wet, rug soaked, underwear no where to be found. Underwear dry, pants wet, bed dry, kid peeing in toilet. The distinct smell of urine, no physical evidence. Etc.

In the past, I have posted entries about coming upon what feels like a crime scene, me the detective, and about something I referred to at the time as “QP.” Lately, I'm starting to think my kid is just a drunk.

Why can't the child employ these mysterious methods of relieving himself in the middle of the night? Once in a damn while, at around 3 am, I could use him to just take a whiz in his closet and fall peacefully back to sleep in whatever state of undress and poor hygiene he'd like. But noooooo.

(2:41 am)

“Mama! MAMA!”

“Wha?”

(the bathroom door – directly opposite my bedroom - swings open slamming BAAM into the wall)

“MAMA! Me haffa go pee pee!”

“Wha? ... Oh, uh-huh. ... Who? ... Okay, I'm awake now.”

“Me not need help.”

“Great, Isaac. Thanks for letting me know.”