I just stood there. In my own house. Holding my son. Covered in warm betrayal.
“Connor!” Lily shrieked from the stairs. “Is he—oh my GOD—he’s peeing on you?!”
I turned to her, dead inside.
“Your son just baptized me in urine.”
She clutched the bannister, snorting with laughter so hard she had to sit down on the step. “We are not calling it that!”
I just dropped to my knees right there on the living room floor, holding a grinning, pantsless toddler and staring into the abyss of parenthood.
“I’m done,” I muttered. “This is it. This is how I go. Death by tiny penis.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Lily wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just pee!”
“It’s not just pee, Lily,” I said, voice rising like a man on the brink. “It’s round three. This is the third time this week. He has aim. He
