Childhood Vignette, Part 1

I am seven or eight years old.  

I wake up in the middle of the night regretting drinking that third glass of Kool-Aid.  Sleepily tossing the covers aside, I make my way in the dark to the upstairs bathroom. That bathroom is a little scary, but it beats going all the way downstairs.  I quietly open the door, tiptoe to the toilet, do my business, and put my hand on the handle to flush. 

Wait.  Flushing might not be a good idea.  Hmm.  

I slowly and gently begin to walk into my parents' bedroom.  They are both sleeping, and I head over to my dad's side with the stealth of a ninja. 

"Dad," I whisper.  No response.  

"Dad!" I say a tad more urgently. 
He awakes with a start, probably confused as to why his seven or eight year-old daughter is inexplicably standing over him while he sleeps.  
"What?" he says. 
"Can I flush the toilet?" I whisper.
"What?" he says, clearly still wondering what the hell is going on. 
"Can I flush the toilet?" I whisper forcefully.  
"Yes, why wouldn't you be able to flush the toilet?" 
"I didn't want to wake anybody up," I reply.