I Learn About Wet Dreams

“Goodnight,” Miss10 said to me at bedtime. I popped a kiss on her cheek and expected her to race off, but she didn’t straight away. Instead, she grinned at me. “And, Dad,” she said, “don’t wet the bed.”

“What do you mean?” I wanted to know. Why would she be worried about me wetting the bed?

“You know,” she said. “Because you’re a boy.”

Last night I was laughing heartily at Master9’s response to the snippets of Sex Education Miss10 was bringing home from school. Tonight, after this conversation, I wanted to curl up in a fetal position and join him in a corner.

Tracey, of course, thought this was hilarious. She didn’t say as much at this point, but then she wasn’t in a state to be understood, what with all that chuckling. She’s got to watch that. With all the child-birthing she’s done over the years I’d be concerned there was a far greater chance of her wetting herself than me.

Not that I said this. My head was spinning in entirely different circles. And then it kind of spiraled down as the conversation continued.

“You know, girls mature much quicker than boys,” said Miss10 smugly. She nodded, knowingly. “Yeah. We do.”

At this point there was some high-fiving between Tracey and Miss10. Girl power and all that.

“I better buy some mattress protectors,” giggled my wife, finding her voice.

“So don’t wet the bed, Dad,” repeated Miss10 as she went off to her room. Then she threw one final verbal punch over her shoulder, and it landed with a physical thud right in the pit of my gut. “But just so you know, if you have a wet dream it’ll be a little bit thick and it won’t smell like pee.”

Oh, God.

I’m so sorry I laughed at you, Master9. Karma is such a bitch.

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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”