by KissyO

Created on: July 21, 2008

If boys can hold their body parts to write their names in the snow, why can't they hold their body parts to aim in a toilet. The hole in a toilet is a much larger target to aim for than trying to do cursive legibly enough to read, isn't it? My fourth grade grammar teacher who taught cursive would have stressed the need to make long even strokes for straight lines and smooth graceful curves for small letters which requires manual control. I'm sure these rules would apply to peeing in the snow as well.

It seems as if once boys realize they have a penis, they are continually drawn to touching themselves. And I do recall teaching my son to hold his penis to aim into the toilet to pee. Once he was potty trained, I saw no real need to continue to monitor his technique. I do remember once or twice being drawn to the bathroom out of curiosity about the humming my young son would do sometimes while he peed. I would cautiously glance around the corner of the door frame so as not to appear to be a peeping tom and scar his mental memories of Mom as such to see what activities would prompt such serene sounds. There my sweet baby would be standing posed in front of the toilet, not a care in the world, starring at the walls and ceiling, as his penis would bob and spray pee where ever his attention seemed to be drawn. Not that he was peeing on the walls or ceiling intentionally, but that his penis seemed to follow the dance of his eyes. No longer did I wonder how yellow stains would appear on the porcelain fixture and as high up as the ceiling.

You'd think I would have figured that fact out while living with five brothers at home growing up. But most of the things about my brothers I chose to leave to my imagination. They seemed to delight in torturing sisters who became too curious about boy body parts. Never mind the fact that they seemed to need to be in the bathroom right away when ever myself or one of my three sisters had the door locked for our own private uses. Turn about should have been fair play.

Now at the age of 49, I realize that old toilet habits never die. They are just passed down from grandfather to father to son, keeping the penis aiming techniques alive for generations to come. As I put my makeup on in the bathroom, keeping the door ajar because peeing for males is always a need-to-be-done-now type of thing, I watch curiously out of the corner of the mirror as my husband pees. And of course, he's humming as he stands with his hands pressed against the walls of the toilet cubby, while he stares innocently at the ceiling, penis whipping its masterpiece of nature. Surely God must be male and have one hell of a sense of humor.

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