Piddle Puddles (Otherwise Known As How It Came To Be That I Peed My Pants in Public Last Week)

When I was in first grade I would join the second grade class next door each day after recess for their reading instruction time. Legend tells it that my own first grade teacher was named Mrs. Thornton because of all the thorns in her paddle. My own brother, who received his share of corporal punishment from her four years earlier, attested to this truth. While she may sound like the one to be afraid of, I was terrified of disobeying the second grade teacher’s bathroom rules. And so it happened that I piddled a puddle in my plastic chair. I would like to say that is the last time I peed my pants.

It was true for a while; until I became pregnant with our daughter…and then again with our son….and, if you can believe it, again with this baby. While the first two were within the privacy of our own home, this time I didn’t get so lucky.

Last Monday I pulled into the Trader Joe’s parking lot with my two kiddos in the back seat, feeling woozy, but trying to just breathe through it. Breathe. Close eyes. Rocky Mountain peaks. Glacial crisp air. None of that visualization worked and I ended up yacking in between cars while others looked on wide eyed. If only this could be the end of the story.

It was the perfect amalgamation of blinding, intense vomiting with a preggo woman’s downstairs issues that left me crossing my legs. Why is that the go-to reaction? Crossing your legs has never stopped anything from flowing and never will. There, at the age of 29, a piddle puddle pooled in my flip-flop.

But you moms out there know that some days getting to the grocery store with a carload of little children feels like a miracle of Old Testament proportions. Therefore, my first response was not to drive away. You better believe I assessed the damage of my jeans to see if I could just go ahead and go in business-as-usual. Turns out it was a little too obvious so we pulled tail, headed home to regroup, and returned at the end of the day.

Morals of the story? 

1. Being pregnant is hard for us sick-proned preggos. And humiliating sometimes. But OH, SO WORTH IT! I will pee my pants in public for each of my children.

2. Don’t run out of Zofran. But if you do, wear black yoga pants to the grocery.

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