I was almost disappointed when we made it to school on time the other day and I didn’t get to write down ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ as our excuse for being late. Yes, a last minute trip to the toilet by my youngest child put our (so far) perfect punctuality record for 2010 in jeopardy for a few minutes there. And for the record, ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ a just like ‘Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion‘, except it’s brown instead of blue.
Anyway, it turned out I had another explosion to deal with – of the yellow variety. Having had to run through the school grounds to deliver assorted children to their classrooms on time, I arrived triumphantly at The Pixie’s classroom only to feel what can only be described as a ‘Tena Lady Moment’.
Of course, there had to be a large group of attractive, well-dressed mothers milling about just outside said classroom. And of course, I had to be wearing jeans at the time and we all know how blue denim showcases wet patches as beautifully as if I’d taken a photo of my sodden crotch and posted it on twitter.
“Running late is so stressful,” one of the mums said to me sympathetically, misreading the look of horror on my face.
It was so tempting to reply “So is pissing your own pants!” in front of everyone. Except I’ve learnt to hold my tongue a little better since the time one of the school dads told me to “have fun” with my (newly fixed) washing machine and I found myself exclaiming “What kind of a fun are you suggesting, exactly??” while crowds of fellow parents stood and stared.
So instead, I just smiled and nodded and, sensing my wet patch might be growing at a similar rate to the population of New Mexico, slunk off as quickly as possible out of the school grounds and back to the car. And it was then that I found I was still holding The Pixie’s school bag in my hand.
I was wondering what I should do when another mum came up to me and started chatting and, before either of us knew it, I suddenly blurted out: “We were late for school and I had to run and I kind of lost control of my bladder and now I have to walk all the way back to The Pixie’s classroom because I still have her bag in my hand and everyone’s still standing around in the playground and they will all see my piss pants!”
Had I known her a little better, I might have then been able to ask her to assess the damage. But the moment my confession was made, it was like an invisible line was drawn at shoulder level and neither my eyes nor hers were able to wander below it for even a second.
She quickly made her excuses and I headed back into the school to drop The Pixie’s bag off, adopting the awkward gait of someone who is trying to walk without their thighs separating.
Of course, the same group of mums were still standing around, still looking attractive and well-dressed.
“I forgot Pixie’s bag!” I called out cheerfully to them, explaining my reappearance, but perhaps not the strange way I was walking. Thankfully, they quickly returned to chatting amongst themselves and I, blushing from head to soon-to-be waterlogged toe, delivered the bag to the classroom and scurried back to the car.
Once I got home, I rushed straight to the toilet so I could finally inspect the full extent of my shame. And was surprised to discover that the seemingly ginormous wet patch was actually the size of a ten cent coin and would only have been visible to someone attempting to do the limbo under my crotch.
I mean, sheesh! No wonder they call it stress incontinence.