Urine Trouble Now

Every little boy’s first toy is a squirt gun he didn’t buy.

My mom swore I walked before I was one and was potty-trained soon after. I like to think of that as “selectively potty-trained.” It’s true—I never wet my pants, buuuht, the way my dad handled it? He made it a game, which was great fun, at least for me. I was out there free-stylin’ as to where the bathroom actually was.

Let me set the scene. The house I grew up in had two bathrooms. Luxury, right? Except apparently, I was just too busy to walk to either of them. Luckily, we had a floor furnace in the hallway—the kind with a big metal grate that could brand waffle marks onto your bare feet in under three seconds.

See where this is going? Yeah. That grate became my personal urinal. All. Summer. Long.

Exhibit A: The hallway furnace, case file #001

But wouldn’t you know it—summer turned to winter, my folks cranked up the furnace, and the whole house smelled like my “summer project.” Imagine Thanksgiving dinner with a side of Eau de Toddler Piss. My parents were not amused. Hence the title—Urine trouble. And you better believe I was.

By the following spring, I had moved on. The furnace was out, the windows were open and, best of all, there were screen doors at both ends of the house. Did you know that if you’re a little boy and you pee through a mesh screen, it separates into about a hundred tiny streams? Cool, huh?

Apparently, I found this hilarious because by the end of summer both screen doors had big rust rings, with the back door (my favorite) already rusting through. The rust rings matched my height exactly. No CSI needed to ID the perpetrator. My parents didn’t say a word. Just one look, and I knew: urine trouble.

Exhibit B: Corrosion consistent with repeated offenses.

But listen—I blame my dad. He thought taking a leak outside was just part of being alive. I’d see him behind the garbage cans at the restaurant, saving himself the trip inside. Monkey see, monkey pee. He showed me the ropes—I just took it to another level. Nothing was safe. Fence posts, tree trunks, Mom’s hydrangeas—if it stood still, it was fair game. If it moved a little? Challenge accepted.

And I wasn’t alone. I had a partner in crime: Willie Dog. Don’t ask me how he got the nickname, but Willie and I made a hell of a team. Forget sticks and toy guns—our weapon of choice was urine. Two little fire hoses against the world. And listen, at that age: great range, terrible aim.

Every guy reading this knows what I’m talking about. To this day, grown men will stand at a urinal and try to write their name in the foam. Spoiler: you can’t. And if you can? Congratulations, Picasso.

If you’re a parent, you already know the rules of engagement. If you’ve raised a little boy, you’ve been hit. Changing a diaper? Boom—face, chest, hair, wherever. You weren’t quick enough. You learn fast, though—by the third ambush you’re flipping diapers like a short-order cook at the griddle, reflexes at the ready for a quick bob and weave.

Bottom line? From baby sneak attacks to toddlers christening screen doors to grown men still aiming at the little blue urinal cake like it’s the Super Bowl—no matter how old us guys get, there’s still a twelve-year-old boy in there somewhere. That’s The Condition—more often than not, we’re in trouble. Urine trouble.

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