Forget about the "Don't Eat Yellow Snow," just don't piss in the bucket

So as I was cooking Rowdy's vegetable-free (per his request) Father's Day lunch, I noticed Ridge in the pantry room with his little pants and underwear down. With that oh shit, she caught me look on his face, I scampered quickly to pull them up.
Me: "Ridge, what are you doing?"
Ridge: "Ummmm, well, I peed in the bucket."
Me: "What bucket?"
Ridge, pointing to the big white tub that holds the ice cream maker in order to catch the stray cream and sugar as it flies out of the churning metal ice cream container, : "That bucket."
Yes, that's right, Ridge peed in the bucket. Now it never actually holds any of the ingredients and just serves as a kinda buffer for the container and I did instantly get out the damn bleach. We love the homemade ice cream, so naturally I'd want to salvage it. Of course after I scrubbed it, ruined my shirt from the showering bleach, ran it through the dishwasher by itself, Rowdy pointed out that it could easily be substituted with a round, store-bought Tupperware. Hell, a knock-off Tupperware would do the trick.
Ridge was punished and was then banished to his room. And, to him, that was even more devastating than normal since I was allowing Nascar to be viewed in our home in honor of Father's Day. That shit only happens on holidays that are specific and exclusive to Rowdy. We had the "Where are you suppose to pee pee talk" over and over and over, pounding it in his head like George Bush hard-selling that pre-invasion WMD story.
All you mothers of girls, I know this must be really shocking to you while all you mothers of boys are replaying similar stories through your mind. I know that Miranda never seems to have these little gems while Melissa and I do. Mollie, who is raising a clan of four, has them, but they only seem to flow from the penis-bearing children.
Look at this picture. Thank God he's cute.