So I got to put the boy down the other night. A lot of times I put the girl down.  For whatever reason I got Frank on this night.

Now for my northern relatives and followers, “putting her down,” means putting her to bed. It in no way means, “having her put down”, like a lame thoroughbred at the Kentucky Derby.

I roust Frank off the couch and carry him, piggyback style, up the stairs for teeth brushing. I feel like this is going to be a long event because I got the old, “I’m too tired to walk, you have to carry me.”

Delivery to the bathroom, our bathroom by the way, is complete. He has a perfectly good bathroom in the hall, inches from his room. But no, he has to use ours. He’ll actually run past the hall bathroom to ours just to pee. Must be the three doors that separates’ our toilet room from the rest of the house. I wrote about that here: Three Doors to Solitude.

Anyway he gets done brushing his teeth and the stall tactics start. He’s taking forever to rinse his brush. He’s taking forever and a day to dry his hands and wipe his face. Time stands still as he attempts and fails repeatedly to put the towel back on the holder. Won’t let me do it. No, no, no, that would be too quick.

He finally gets the towel on and I’m trying to get out in front of him mentally. That’s a longer trip than you might think. I got nothing. I see nothing that he could do to delay nighttime any longer.

Wrong again.

“I want to play the Water Catch Game.”

Artist rendering of the Water Catch Game.

“What?”

“Lets play water catch game.”

He fills the cup he was using when he brushed his teeth, and he hands me an empty one.

I’m not liking this arrangement at all.

I take the bait. “How do you play the Water Catch Game?”

“You have to throw the water in the air as high as you can and I have to catch it in my cup.”

“Really, who taught you this game?”

Hesitated not one second. “Mommy!”

“Oh really. Does Mommy play this with you a lot.”

“Yes. Every night.”

That explains the watermarks on the ceiling.

Ok, I’ve been invited.  The rules have been explained to me. Frank is clearly the commissioner of the Professional Water Catch League, or PWCL.  So I’m playing.

He goes first and all of his water hits the ceiling and comes nowhere near me and I have no chance to catch it. “You have to catch it daddy!”

“Yeah, OK Frank.  But a good throw would be appreciated.”  Kinda went out on a limb there. He’s the commissioner, that little outburst could have cost me a two-match suspension. That could kill my chances of making the post season in my rookie campaign.

OK, my turn. Like a dope I give him a throw that would have allowed him to catch all the water. He gets none of it. He’s just looking at me, disgusted. Never even put his cup up.

“You have to throw it high up!”

“Why?”

“Cause that’s the rules.”

Mangling of the queen’s English aside, he was quite right.  That’s the rules.

Rule 12.5.6a of the PWCL manual says ‘after verbal abuse by the commissioner, opposing WCL player will repeat his/her turn, by throwing the water, until satisfaction of the commissioner is achieved or said commissioner pees on your foot. Whichever comes first.’

When I wind up to throw I notice Frank’s eyes are closed.  So I did what any self-respecting dad would do when he’s tired of being bossed around by his kid.  I threw the water right in his face.

Apparently this was a good throw because he declared me the victor. I know this because he was laughing so hard he tooted for about 3 minutes. Either way I won my rookie start in the Water Catch League. I marched around the bedroom in a small victory formation of one.

Big match against Mrs. Frank’s Place tomorrow night.

Vegas odds have Mommy at -3.  But the bathroom is her home court, so….