4 Life Lessons from Wetting my Pants in 1st Grade

Do you pipe up when you don’t understand something?

It’s no wonder I wet my pants one school day in the winter of 1965. You may have too if you had walked a mile in my pants.

Maybe we should take a few steps back to see how I ended up in the soaked hot seat of my first-grade desk.

If you grew up like me, your mom and dad asked you many times if you needed to use the bathroom before leaving home. And I’ll bet you have asked the same question of your kids and possibly grandkids.

“Okay kids. Before we leave the house, do any of you have to go to the bathroom?” Mom asked.

"Why do you always ask that," I asked back.

“Oh Judi, because I asked you that’s why,” Mom said exasperatedly as she ran about getting ready to load her eight children—yes eight—into the car.

“Okay, but why?”

“Because. Well Because! Because public restrooms are full of germs and I want you to use ours so that you don’t have to go to the restroom while we’re out,” Mom said hurriedly.

“Germs? What are germs? And why do you call it a restroom? Dad is the only one who spends enough time in there to rest,” I persisted in my questioning.

“Judi, that’s enough. If you don’t have to use the bathroom, then just get in the car,” Dad said as he and Mom partnered like a pair of prized border collies, skillfully herding us out the house door and into the car.

With those types of conversations, it’s no wonder that I recall using a public restroom only once before I hit puberty. I almost made it through the entire year without setting foot in our Nativity School first grade bathroom. Almost.

On our first morning in first grade, Sister Hildegard introduced us to our new surroundings by having us follow her as she walked around the classroom, showing us where the Dick and Jane books were shelved that we would learn to read (learn to read!), showing us where the paste and construction paper and other crafty materials were stored, and showing us where the water fountain was located, and how to use it.

As much as I felt free to speak and ask questions at home, I was painfully shy at school. I was grateful other kids took action to try new things and ask questions.

“No, no Brian,” Sister said. “Don’t suck the metal part of the water fountain! Don’t let your lips or tongue or teeth touch the metal—there are lots of germs on it. Just hold your mouth open and let the water shoot into your mouth. There you go.”

Oh oh. There was that germ thing again that Mom warned me about.

On the tour, Sister showed us how to hang our coats on the cloakroom hooks, and to place our caps, scarves, mittens, and lunches—box or sack—on the metal rack above the coat hooks. The rack was also where we put the red rubber kick balls to be used only outdoors during recess.

"Sister, what is a recess?” a girl asked.

“What is recess?" Sister repeated the girl's question. "Well, Cathy, it’s when we go outside and play for 20 minutes in the morning and afternoon.”

“Yes, Thomas. I’ll show you where we go outside when it’s time for recess,” Sister answered another kid's question.

“No David, you can’t bounce the ball in the classroom or hall. Only play with the ball outside at recess.”

“Okay enough questions,” said Sister, beginning to show signs of wearing down as she wiped down the water fountain and put the big red kickball back up on the rack.

“Okay and there’s the bathroom,” she said offhandedly as she made her way back to her desk. She pointed her long index finger toward an open door leading to a very dark room.

Each of the first and second grade classrooms in Nativity Grade School had bathrooms conveniently located next to the cloak room and water fountain. All other grades had to use separate girls’ and boys’ bathrooms near the center of the school. The extraordinary amenity afforded us was probably intended to make it easier when the nuns asked us if we needed to go the bathroom before we headed home at the end of the day.

But I wasn’t thinking about the reasoning of the little bathroom in the prairie classroom. I just gasped.

I was not only frightened by Sister’s extended, black-cloaked arm—suddenly she reminded me of the Ghost of Christmas Future in 1962’s “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol.” I was also scared because from where I stood in the crowd of six-year-olds, I could see nothing inside the small, unlit bathroom except for shiny metal pipes.

“Metal pipes! That doesn’t look like our bathroom at home!” I thought and shuddered. “Metal pipes in a bathroom? I don't know how that bathroom works!”

I gulped and silently swore to myself right there and then that I would never enter that scary room.

All was well for the first few months of my dehydrated school year. Following my ingenious plan, I used our bathroom before I left home in the morning and I skedaddled straight into it again as soon as I returned home in the afternoon. I also didn’t drink water out of the classroom water fountain no matter how thirsty I got from running around at recess kicking the big red kickball with David and the other kids.

But one afternoon, I squirmed in my desk as I felt my bladder stretching. Oh oh. Had I drank too much water or milk that day? Did I forget to go to the bathroom before going to school?

All I knew was that I was suddenly feeling very full. I looked up at the clock on the painted cinder block wall, above the chalkboard and Sister Hildegard. The big hand of the clock was between the 6 and 7, and the little hand was halfway between the 2 and 3.

I just had to hold it until the big hand was on the 11. Then I could go home. I hadn’t really thought it through however that once the big hand was on the 11, I still had to walk the long hallway, out of the school doors, and then five long blocks home.

“I can do it. I can do it,” I thought, holding my breath, crossing my legs tighter and gripping my desktop with both hands.

I no longer looked at Sister Hildegard or her chalkboard. I wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. I stared at my desk. I held my breath. I stared out the window, longing to be home.

“Oh I can do it. I can do it,” I thought, now truly in pain.

Grimacing, I looked up at the clock. The big hand had moved only to the 8.

“I’m going to make it. I’m going to make it.”

“I’m not.

Going to.

Make.

It

.

”

At 2:47 p.m. Central Time, the dam to my damn britches was breached.

That night, my parents comforted me as I again turned on the waterworks and poured out the sad story of how my school day had ended. Poor, poor, pitiful me. A first grade washout so to speak.

“It was just an accident that happens to a lot of kids. No one will remember it by tomorrow,” Dad said reassuringly.

“Your dad’s right but tell me, Judi. Why didn’t you just use the school bathroom?”

I looked at Mom.

“It’s your fault,” I sniffled. “You told me to always use our bathroom at home because public bathrooms are full of germs.”

“Oh my dear, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t use them when you need to. I just meant that you should always go at home when you can so that you can lessen the number of times you have to use to public restrooms,” Mom said, giving me a big hug.

“Well that’s not all,” I said with my head buried in Mom’s shoulder.

“What else is it?” she asked.

When I told my parents about my fear of the pipes surrounding the toilet and that it didn’t look anything like our bathroom and I didn’t know how to flush it, they stifled laughs and Dad said, “Just ask Sister Hildegard how to flush it.”

My floodgates again opened.

“I can’t! She already told us everything about the room. She’ll think I’m dumb,” I cried.

My parents allayed my worries when they made a quick telephone call to Grandma and arranged to have her go with me the next day before class to show me how to use the toilet.

When Grandma turned on the light to the restroom, it didn’t look as scary. Especially since she laughed and showed me where the flush handle was and explained that the toilet was the same as ours at home except this one had external pipes to transport water instead of a fill tank.

“Now before I leave, do you have to use the restroom?” Grandma asked.

I nodded affirmatively with a big smile.

When I came out of the bathroom, I washed my hands at the sink and watched Grandma and Sister Hildegard carry on like dear old friends. I dare say, all three of us felt better after that day.

My life lessons?

1. Dare to try new things like Bryan.

2. Speak up and ask questions like Cathy, Tom, and David.

3. If you need to, in times of building pressure, bring in trusted help like Grandma.

4. And before you wet your pants out of fright, try shining a light on whatever is scaring you. With closer inspection, you’ll be relieved to know most things are not as frightening as they seem in the dark recesses of your imagination.

Judi Stoa’s Donchyaknow Life Lessons to see and bring out the best in yourself and others

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