I'm lying on my Mum's bed while Sunday uses the en suite bathroom. Suddenly I realise the sound I'm hearing is not the comforting tinkle of pee on porcelain. More a discomforting splashing on tiles.
Once again, she didn't quite make it.
Is it over-confidence? She's been potty trained for months. Is it stubbornness? She's an ace at that. Is she just distracted? Or is she actually doing this to make my life just that little bit harder?
Some days I'm guilty of thinking just that.
Once, in a fit of exasperation, when she was dancing and knuiping and looking panicky, all the while denying she needed to go, I resorted to: 'Sunday, I can see you need to wee. If you have an accident I'm actually going to be really cross and I might have to smack your bum.'
She looked me in the eye, crossed her arms (and her legs) and declared: 'Well, then you will get wee on your hand.'
After I'd done mopping up the bathroom my Mum reminded me, 'Now do you understand why I resorted to telling you that if you didn't wee when you needed to your bladder would burst?'
I do. A myth which haunted me for most of my childhood, one which I'd lambasted my mother about a number of times, now makes perfect sense.
One more accident and I swear, as much as I hate to, I'm repeating the lie.
I'm that pissed on, I mean off.