It's never good news when you're in the bathroom shouting "Aim! AIM!!"

we've recently convinced our son to start sleeping in his own room, rather than wedged in between me and Eric.

Tonight, he went down after 8, nearly without incident. A few minutes ago, I heard him crying quietly, and when he kept it up for a couple of minutes, I went upstairs to see what was wrong.

He was in one of those half-awake states, running in circles and crying, eyes open, slapping the front of his pajama bottoms. Ooops, I said to myself. I know what that means.

"You have to go, don'tcha, dude?" I ask, but he can't actually hear me. I take him my the arm and start to hustle him to the bathroom.

He decides he's already IN the bathroom and starts to remove his jammies.
I tug them back up and hustle with renewed focus.

When he has to go really bad, even when he's fully awake, he panics and forgets the procedure. I got him to stop hopping up and down, and got him positioned in front of the toilet. His aim, which is Olympic-marksman perfect under other circumstances, is a little off, and he sprays down the room before getting things under control. He's still crying softly.

After cleaning him up, I wipe up the floor and wall, and Ian starts to giggle. And I start to giggle. We sit on the moderately icky tile floor and laugh until we can't walk, can't stand up, can't breathe. He creeps into my lap and we cling to each other, trying to catch our breath.

He's asleep again before his head hits the pillow.