His sad grey face is pressed against the bottom pane of the window. It is not quite a meow. More like a bark, croak, yowl.
He doesn’t know that peeing in my face was the last straw. But it was.
One of the boys’ favorite stories is from Oliver’s babyhood. Steve was changing his diaper, grabbed his legs together roasted chicken style and bent Oliver’s legs over his face. Steve was a fastidious diaper changer and he ignored the squalking squirming baby as he prepped the diaper just so. It turns out the the unusual protest was from Oliver peeing directly into his own face. Watching from the doorway I half laughed and half shrieked and we mopped him up together.
Leo has us tell this story over and over. Last year he decided to reenact it. And carefully covered his face with a wash cloth, lay down on the floor and peed in his own face.
This time it was Leo shrieking and laughing, the pure pleasure of doing something so wrong, combined with the fail of the washcloth as pee barrier. So the face pee story has a second chapter.
I sort of thought it would end there.
At least I didn’t think I would be part of the story due to maturity, anatomy, and having made it to the age of 39 relatively face pee free.
Then yesterday morning the pissing cat jumped on the bed. Something wasn’t quite right. My loving pat turned into a frenzied spin around. Are you peeing I asked? Then he showed me. He peed right in my face.
The kids loved it.