Oh Christmas tree

It's a good thing we don't have black lights on our Christmas tree. Ishmael peed on it. Actually, he peed under it, on the tree skirt.

"Dry Clean Only" are three words I don't want to see when I'm looking at a small but expanding pool of cat urine. Since we don't have a dry cleaners in our basement, I pitched it into the washing machine, and I think it came out just fine. More or less.

Interestingly, this wasn't a you're-not-paying-attention-to-me-so-I'll-pee-on-your-briefcase kind of pee [trust me, I know that scenario all too well]. I think the poor thing had an accident.

Now that Jane is crawling, we have to keep the gate at the top of the basement stairs closed. Which naturally means that we forget to reopen it when Jane is safely off the floor (sleeping, eating in her high chair, etc). Poor Ishmael, needing to use the loo but woefully incapable of unlocking the gate, summoned the wisdom of his ancestors, located a tree(!), and commenced peeing.

I mean it makes sense. There is a tree in our living room.