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Posts Tagged ‘stress incontinence’

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.

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The other day, I woke to the distant sound of bells. In my early-morning delirium, I thought “Hooray! Santa’s here!” and then “Maybe he’s bought the giant pitcher of pre-mixed Flirtini that I asked for…”. But then I came to, and realised that it was Genghis Cat doing something at the other end of the house and, from the sounds of it, it was something far more vigorous than his usual bells-a-jingling activity (see “Out of the Bag“). 

I was tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep but I heard little footsteps running down the hall and an equally little voice exclaim “Oooooh!”. I stumbled out of bed to find Tiddles McGee standing at the laundry door staring in wonder at a flurry of grey feathers floating gently to the ground. Part of me desperately wanted to believe Genghis Cat had just gone head-to-head with our winter quilt but then I saw it: a freshly-deaded bird. Whatsmore, a freshly-deaded bird that lay between the toilet and me, with my post-three-pregnancies-at-bursting-point-clear-the-way-it’s-gonna-blow bladder.

And then ol’ Genghis appears from the shadows and starts snaking around my ankles in the way he only does when he wants some food. Which just made me angry because here he was, hitting on me for food with a whole dead bird not a metre away and 3/4 of a sachet of cat food still in his bowl from the night before. And he looks up at me as if to say “Wha’?”

I had originally thought that one of the prime benefits of pet ownership was about finally (finally!) having someone in the household that ate whatever you put in front of them. But of course I found out way too late that this applies to all pets with the notable exception of cats, many of which are even fussier than The Pixie in full-preschool Diva mode (see “Not-so-easy Riders“). Genghis Cat won’t eat chicken. He won’t eat beef. He’ll eat some fish but nothing with sardines or pilchards in it. Even when I feed him the stuff he apparently does like, he’ll have a vague sniff at it and then come straight back to me with this look like “Is that all you got?”. I mean, this is the cat who I’ve caught nicking a whole slice of peanut butter toast from Tiddle’s plate. This is the cat that won’t drink the water I put out for him in any bowl but will happily jump into the bath tub to lick the stagnant water around the bath plug. And, despite the fact I’m the one who feeds him every day and every night, this is the cat who never gives me any lovin’ or comes and sits on my lap: he reserves that honour for my husband, who has never once sullied his lily-white hands with cat shit from the kitty litter or had to scrape caked-on cat food off the side of the feeding bowl with his fingernails. I’m soooo that cat’s bitch-slave. 

And so we come back to the dead bird, the disposal of which stood between my bladder and sweet relief. I’m not good with corpses – and birds give me the heebie-jeebies even when they are alive. So let’s just say, I had to be very brave and carry out my duties swiftly, while Tiddles watched and clapped his little hands, exclaiming “Birdy!”. Yes, Tiddles. See the birdy. See Mummy squirm. See the nice birdy go into the dustpan. See Mummy shudder and groan and dry-retch. See the birdy get tipped into the outside bin. And then see Mummy run. Run Mummy, run! As fast as her potato-pickin’ peasant legs will carry her, all the way to the toilet and hear her shout “Thank Christ!” and then hear her mutter menacingly about “that cat” for the rest of the morning.

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