When G was potty trained, we lived on a couple acres of land at a camp, conference and retreat center. Because things were so private, we could do things like raise chickens, haul our Christmas trees into the woods. . . and pee outside -- well, the males could, anyway.
We moved from all that land and privacy to a community of townhomes a couple years later. We rented a corner townhome -- we literally could sit on our living room sofa with the window open and have a conversation with our corner neighbors when they came out their front door -- without raising our voices. Needless to say, privacy gone, G had to get used to *not* peeing outside.
Now we are on a decent amount of land again. Not quite as private as when G was potty trained. Not private enough for raising chickens, using a burn barrel, or hauling Christmas trees to the woods. . . but private enough for a young man to feel he can relieve himself out of doors.
So, imagine my. . . shock and horror. . . when, the other day, I came outside and was met with these words from my dear little outdoorsman:
"Hey mom, you've gotta see this." (pointing at a small square foot patch of grassless dirt by the deck) "This is where I pee and dig."
I tried to help him understand that this meant he was digging in his own pee.
"No, mom, I pee on this side and dig on that side."
Remind me not to garden *there* next year.