My bed-wetting dream I wrote about yesterday reminded me of Ass Burger Boy and his very brief adventure in bed-wetting. This taught me a lot about how his mind works.

He was about the same age, five, when I remarried. Soon after we moved into a new house, the nightly watering began.

After a week or two of this, I matter-of-factly explained to him that I was getting tired of washing bedding that smelled like pee every day, and that he would now be shown what would be expected of him each day he woke up with wet bedding.

The first thing I showed him was how to strip the bed, and carry the bedding to the laundry room. I then showed him the settings on the washing machine, how to load detergent and bedding, and how to know when the load was done.

When the load was done, I taught him how to hang the bedding out on the line. I informed him that this was the procedure for laundry, and that now it would be his procedure when his bedding was wet.

He never wet the bed again.

I was willing to help him each day with this process, but I was absolutely going to have his participation.

I think he decided it was much less work to actually get up and go to the bathroom.

From hindsight, I can see that the bedwetting was most likely a reaction to the new stepfather in the new house, but we’re talking practicalities here.

I did learn that he responded very well to natural consequences. You had better believe I used that lesson well.

A spill? No problem. Here’s the floor rag, we just clean it up like so. I never stepped in a surprise puddle of anything after that. He just quietly cleaned his spills up. Still does.

Now, if only I could get him to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher instead of the sink…

I realize that I am pushy and make you guys work, but I would be absolutely thrilled if you would subscribe to my RSS feed. It still isn’t at a number high enough to be displayed. With your help, it’s moving in that direction. Really, if you read a lot of blogs, it’s the best way to get your updates.

I pretty much have always felt that reincarnation was a viable option. I once did a past life regression which sewed that one up for me. It was very real, and not terribly glamourous. I was a man who treated his wife like a servant. A financially rich man, but spiritually bankrupt. I smelled the odors, I heard the trees rustle in the breeze, but I had enough of the past life visits thankyouverymuch. It did, however, explain my fascination with rural, 18th century Japan. One that my mom shared with me.

A series of recurring dreams at the age of five set this mindset in motion. In the dreams, I was not five, but eight years old, and had different coloured hair, but I knew it was me.

I was falling down a well. The well was lined with bricks. I could see the seepage from between the bricks. I could see moss. I could smell the earth and water. I died at the bottom, each and every time. And then I wet the bed.

I can remember the doctor’s visits about the bedwetting, the theories that I was too lazy to wake up. I can remember my mother being baffled because I was so smart and toilet trained so easily.

Nobody asked me if I had fallen down a well. Wouldn’t you have wet the bed if you had fallen down a well? Seemed perfectly logical to me.

The only explanation for this recurring dream where I was different yet still me is that I actually died that way in another lifetime. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

Pictured below: A well-falling bedwetter still puts an arm around a friend