Part II--Rachel Peterson Peed her Pants
Before I tell this story, I should start by saying that I have had way too much caffeine just now and will probably be peeing my own pants whilst I am blogging. Also, in an attempt to counter-act the caffeine I am drinking a lot of beer so let's just see how it goes.
I was in second grade. The bus puke incident was far behind me, but apparently I had made little progress accepting that other people some times disgrace themselves publicly. Personally I do not remember ever EVER peeing my own pants or so much as wetting the bed, so this whole thing struck me as horribly degrading and shameful.
I went to Elmwood Street Elementary School, and we had a freaking awesome setup there for gym class and recess. There was a baseball diamond, basketball court, playground, and huge soccer field where we also had the annual "Field Day" with pony rides and face painting and all kinds of fun. Unfortunately, I despised gym class, recess, and Field Day. They all involved physical activity and/or social interaction, and I sucked and still suck at both of these. The ability to run up and down a field getting sweaty and high-fiving people is a skill set that I will never possess.
It was during a dreaded gym class that I was sitting on the grass in a line next to Rachel Peterson. The teacher was doing some sort of a long, drawn-out sit and reach assessment, meaning that you had to wait about 10 years for him to call your name, at which point you sat down in front of a wooden box and reached for about 15 seconds, then went back to sitting in the grass until everyone else was done. Since my last name was at the end of the alphabet, I sat there beside Rachel Peterson for about 17 hours.
This would not have been so bad if I were a deaf-mute. Rachel Peterson's parents were undoubtedly the type of people who drank beer out of cans and kept ashtrays next to the toilet, and as a result they had not taught their child the notion of personal dignity. When she first paused in her streak of blabbering to tell me she had to "take a pee", I was instantly stricken with anxiety and started waving my hand in the air.
"Mr. Sullivan! Rachel has to use the bathroom! I think it's an emergency!"
Mr. Sullivan's response was woefully inadequate. His mistake was asking her for more information. Clearly he should have asked me, because I was the only one who appreciated the urgency of the situation. She told him she could hold it, and the fact that he believed her makes me question the entire Massachusetts educational system. The first thing an elementary school teacher should learn in graduate school is "A child who even remotely indicates impending bodily function should be rushed to the restroom with the same urgency which you would summon if you were a fireman in a fire truck on the way to a fire." When I have kids, I am going to put them on the toilet every 20 minutes whether they have to go or not. It's just not worth the risk.
The most disturbing part of the whole even was what happened next. She squatted, she smiled, and she said "Oh my God I started to!" as if she were pregnant and her water had just broken. This is not a moment of pride and celebration! I was instantly nauseous and started silently freaking out.
She held the rest for a few moments, then let it go. I watched the pool around her shoes grow, and promptly had a panic attack. We finished our sit and reach. When he got to her, the gym teacher either didn't notice that her pants were soaking wet or he figured the English teacher could deal with it.
For the rest of the day, I was in a haze. All I could think about was that phrase "Oh my God I started to!" and the stupid look on her face when she committed what I considered as a crime against decency. I was traumatized.
A few hours later, I was stewing and watching my mom put her makeup on to go out. She knew something was up with me but chose not to get involved with what was undoubtedly going to be a repeat of the whole "Takara threw up on the bus today!" fiasco.
I could only hold it in so long. The next thing I remember was lying on my back, kicking my legs in the air, shouting with great melodrama "Rachel Peterson peed her pants!!!!" again and again. It seemed an appropriate reaction at the time.
Certainly there were many questions going through my mother's mind as she stared, slack-jawed and lipstick in hand, at her daughter on the floor, not the least of which being "Who is Rachel Peterson?" I answered none of these questions.
Rachel, if you're out there, thanks for confusing my mom. It made the trauma worth it.
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