I baptized myself with Diet Coke at playdate. It was somewhere between a Presbyterian sprinkle and a Southern Baptist dunk in a river. Maybe a Pentecostal Church of God youth pastor with a bottle of Dasani on a nature hike? And I definitely looked like I had met with an unfortunate accident. And had some sort of medical emergency with urine that particular shade of brown. “Mama, you gotta not wait to pee. Even if yous are having fun wif fwiends.” Great advice. I think he learned it from this really beautiful and amazing mom I know. “Sweetie, it’s not pee. I spilled my drink.” Because it’s so hard to put a lid on a cup. A cup that was filled by a machine with a conveyor belt. The kid’s only job was to attach that lid. “The lid wasn’t on it correctly, so it spilled on Mama.” Whether you believe that my Diet Coke was an outward expression of an inward transformation or actually sealing me for eternity, we can all agree that this lid failed its only job. Keeping fluid in a container. “Sure, Mama. I do buh-lieve you. Just wemember to pee in da toilet.” Now I do need to pee. “Thank you for the reminder. Now go play and have fun.” Just let me get a photo first. Because five-year-olds are awesome. And you will be grown before I know it.
Grahamism: Potty Advice