Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

if we can't laugh at ourselves...

I was ten years old.

I remember standing in on the playground with the other ten year olds, laughing and playing. Too distracted by recess to worry about a full bladder.  Too engaged with jumping rope, chasing boys, and enjoying the sunshine to pay attention to a basic bodily function.

And yes…I wet my pants.

Horrified would sum up my feelings at the time. Embarrassed just wasn’t strong enough a word to cover the gross mortification I felt as I went back to class in the “emergency” pants from the nurses office, reserved for kids (like me) who couldn’t continue to wear the pants they showed up to school wearing, for whatever reason. There was no question in my case. Everyone had seen me pee my pants on the playground. 

Everyone.

And no one let me forget it…not for a very long time.

But in my defense, I was ten years old. I was a child. Kids have accidents. Children can be forgiven for such things…right?

So I’m trying to come up with a really good reason why it happened again.

I’m not ten anymore…but I’m also not eighty. I really have no good excuse for peeing my pants in public or otherwise. And yet…I’m here to tell you…it happened again!

For some unknown reason, my usual, camel-like ability to soldier on for hours on end without a bathroom break has come to a sudden, mysterious end.  So while wrapping presents this evening with my adult son, I suddenly had to go…for the third time in just as many hours.  I wasn’t in danger of not making it to the bathroom. I had time.

And then he opened his mouth…

“Geez…you’re going again??? What the hell Mom? Is your prostate acting up?”

And I lost it. I exploded in laughter and was unable to hold it a second longer. Of course, that made me laugh harder…and I don’t think I need to tell you what happens when you’re laughing and you have to pee really bad.

Yep…

I’ll spare you the gory details.  Suffice it to say; as I ran to the bathroom I was laughing so hard both my son and my husband thought I was hurt…and crying. I couldn’t speak to explain. They had to figure it out on their own. 

They followed me into the bathroom, checking me for missing limbs, or bullet holes until I shooed them away… still laughing hysterically.

And I didn’t stop laughing…not for at least ten minutes. I can’t remember the last time I had such a good laugh.  It even brought the dog running.

So why am I telling you this?

I tell you everything.  And why not? If we can’t laugh at ourselves, who can we laugh at? Life is far too short to cry over wet pants.

I mean…it’s not like I’m ten.

Until the next time…I’ll be doing laundry!

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