When our kids were younger and they had friends sleep over, I would hear noises in the basement room where the HVAC, water heater, etc. were located. I told my wife that I thought the kids were peeing in the sump pump. She thought I was crazy.
Years later, our grown-up kids finally admitted that they peed in the sump pump. My wife begrudgingly admitted I was right. Then gave me the “gloating shall not be permitted” look. I gloated silently.
This past weekend, my wife tried to interrogate them on who was the first to actually do it: one of them or one of their friends. She had found out from the other neighborhood moms that when the gang of boys stayed at their respective homes, the boys peed in Gatorade bottles. Apparently, it was too monumental of a task to walk up from the basement and pee in a toilet as civilized humans do.
When she learned this from the other moms, she knew I was right but wouldn’t acknowledge it until the boys came clean. Anyway, nobody is willing to admit who went first. It’s sort of our family’s version of the JFK assassination. Everyone knows a crime has been committed but everyone has a separate theory about what actually happened.
Even if we never find out, I can’t wait until they have kids of their own. And their own basements. And their own sump pumps.