It wasn't my wee and I didn't notice until I saw the dribble on the seat where I did not go and felt the damp of where it went on me. I had a shower. Still, at least that's something unusual I can go with the next time someone asks what I've been up to.
We were watching a movie where the Hulk pounded the Asgard out of Thor. theboy thought Thor dead and cried. I didn't leave the room but I did sit there on the cusp of fight flight because the sound of distress is a trigger when you have PTSD. He stopped crying—Thor is just sore—but that's what it is to live with a psychological injury; even your child's distress can distress you.
One of the techniques I use to battle the sads is with battle music; anthems that give both joy and a feeling of "to the barricades!" After recent unpleasantness I needed some epic basting to counter the dark menace of looming anxiety so I queued up song after song of epic power as a I reminder that I did that and that I survived it. The "to the barricades!" mix:
Showbags are an Ozzer institution—I still remember my fucking awesome Batman™ showbag from the Royal Easter Show circa '80; and that's the Adam West version of BM and, like Roger Moore as Bond, the best actor to have done that gig. theboy wants to get an Assassins Creed™ showbag ... then use the weapons from that to assassinate characters from other showbags and loot their stuff. I have to admit, that was pretty funny.