The Wettening

Sometimes small events that happen during childhood can seem very traumatic. Almost every small thing that happened to me in my childhood seemed traumatic--mostly because I was a fantastic crybaby. One time I gouged my knee on a nail at a neighbor's house, and, like most normal children who get bad injuries, I began to cry. (It was probably more like screaming.) Blood was running down my leg, soaking into my D.I. Salt Lake Bees sweatpants and my rolled down socks. It was a pretty nasty cut that was worthy of stitches. My sister, used to my dramatic cry fests, protested my neighbor's concern.

Blood running down my leg. My sister: "She's fiiiine."

Pieces of bone showing through my skin. My sister: "Stop crying, it doesn't even hurt."

Getting a butterfly band-aid and kool-aid: "She doesn't need that, she's just faking. Oh brother, Sara, stop crying, you're fine."

We had a healthy relationship, me and my sister. She would steal my silky blanket, I would whine and cry, then complain to my Mom. She wouldn't let me play with her toy horses, I would whine and cry, then sneak into her room while she was at school and play with them. She would be slightly bratty while babysitting, I would whine and cry, then "tattle-tell" to my parents when they returned home. Being the youngest of 4 girls, it sometimes seemed as though I had 4 mothers instead of just 1. My poor brothers, however, got 5 mothers. Geeuug. 

There was a certain traumatic event, however, that occurred over and over again throughout the course of my childhood.

Some people have a condition that causes them to wet their pants very easily. I have no such condition. I just have a retarded bladder. 

Little children wet themselves; it happens. But when slightly older children wet themselves, it begs the question: Did this fool ever get potty trained? Do they even know what a toilet is??

One time I wet my pants when I was with a group of neighbor girls. It apparently made a big impact on me, because it's an event that I remember with certain clarity. It was after an Achievement Days activity, and the other girls invited me to go to someone's house and jump on the trampoline with them. I was thrilled, mostly because some of the girls were a few years older than me, automatically making them cool and sophisticated. 

To better understand the particulars of this story, I have come up with a little equation.

Chocolate desserts + dry mouth = water + excitement about hanging out with cool girls + laughing + uncontrolled jumping = WET. 

It's a known fact that when you jump on a trampoline, you loose control of almost every part of your body, inside and out. That's why professional trampolinists wear such tight uniforms.             It's a good idea.

I was jumping and laughing, and all of the sudden I realized that the trampoline seemed to be wet for no apparent reason. Horrified, I jumped off the trampoline and threw myself onto the ground in a kneeling position, because that's what discreet people do. The other girls noticed my strange behavior, and asked me what I was doing. I think I said something like, "Oh, I just feel like sitting on the ground right now." Right.

When they kept asking me what I was doing, I started crying, and blurted out that I had wet my pants. It was so mortifying, but thankfully, the girls were completely understanding--that, or they were really good at holding back their laughter. Probably the latter.

Fast forward a few years. Okay, now fast forward a little bit more. Sophomore year of high school. I was at my friend's house, and the decision was made to jump on the trampoline. You'd think I would learn that laughing and jumping on a tramp after drinking a lot of water only ends in humiliation. During the course of our trampoline adventure, I laughed so hard that I wet myself.....again. But this time, it was impossible to cover up, because my friend saw what was happening, and I was wearing green athletic shorts that showed EVERYTHING. What's ironic about this incident is that when my friend saw that I had wet myself a little, she started laughing, which caused her bladder to release the reigns of control as well.

This time, however, I was prepared with a solution. I didn't have anything to change into, and her clothes wouldn't fit me. I didn't want her family to guess what had happened, so I did the obvious thing: I asked her to spray me in the bum with the hose. We told everyone we had had a water fight, but as I was the only one who was wet, I think they may have been a little suspicious.

Another time, when I was a few years younger, I was sitting with my cousin on her bed. Once again, my laughter got the best of me, and my retarded bladder decided to let loose a little. I was scared that my aunt would find out, so I begged my cousin not to tell her mom what had happened. I went home, feeling confident that my aunt would never know my embarrassing secret. I found out only a few years ago that the instant I left, my cousin went and told her mom. Traitor! What, she didn't want to go to bed with spoiled sheets? Ridiculous.

Don't ask me why I shared these experiences. Blame it on a tired brain, a pillow pet named Eustace, 3 helpings of runny lasagna, a long day at work, a mosquito bite, oil paint that I can't get off of my elbow after almost a week,  late night texting, a burst blood vessel, and gorilla toes.