I Don't Want to Pee My Pants

“Where did dad go? Can you see him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to stand up to look for him, I might get shot.”

“Yeah, don’t stand up. It’s too dangerous.”

“Maybe we could crawl somewhere and find a place to pee.”

“But dad told us not to move. If he comes back and we’re not here, he’s going to beat us.”

“I REALLY have to go.”

“Ryan crawled around the bush to pee.”

“He’s a boy though, it’s easier for him.”

“Maybe we just pee here?”

“I don’t want to pull down my pants in front of Ryan. I don’t want him to watch me pee.”

“I’m just going to pee my pants, I can’t hold it any longer.”

“I don’t want to pee my pants. We’ll get in trouble!”

“I’m doing it.”

“I don’t want to pee my pants!”

I was seven. My dad took me and my twin sister along while he and his friends went dove hunting. One of his friends brought his 6-year-old son, Ryan, along as well. The men left the three of us in a little ditch surrounded by scrub brush. We were told not to stand up or we’d be shot.

Dove hunting, at least the kind my dad did, involved sitting in the brush, waiting for birds to fly out, then shooting roughly in their direction hoping to hit one. There were multiple hunting parties in the same area. Shots were fired from all directions when birds flew by. Most of the adults had red or orange hats to make them visible to other groups. This helped cut down on being caught in the crossfire of two groups shooting at the same birds.

None of us kids had anything to alert others that we were sitting there - no vests, no hats, nothing. Many times, bird shot hit the bushes around us and went over our heads. Dirt, pebbles, and broken twigs were flung into our uncovered arms and faces stinging our skin and getting in our eyes. We sat alone in the ditch, seemingly forever. We arrived in the daylight, lunchtime I think; and the sun was now beginning to set as dusk approached. The men circled back around every now and then to check on us and drop off the birds they'd shot. Beyond that, we had no way of contacting them if something happened or we needed something. I assume we were given snacks and drinks, although I do not remember having anything.

What I do remember is the pain of my full bladder and the fear of being shot or spanked. I sat as long as I could, rocking back and forth trying to distract myself from the pain. My family was outdoors often. We hiked. We camped. I knew how to pee outside on my own. But I wasn’t safe and I wasn’t comfortable doing so now. I didn’t know what to do, and when the pain became too much, I consciously chose to pee my pants while I sat in the dirt.

I remember the huge rush of relief and the warm sensation all over. The relief was quickly replaced with the discomfort of wet pants and socks. I miscalculated. I assumed I’d pee straight through my pants into the ground below. I didn’t realize it would run down the inside of my pant legs as well soaking everything in it’s path. It did make a wet spot in the earth under me, but my entire seat and all down my legs to my socks were also soaked. I tried to scoot around in the dirt, hoping it would absorb as much liquid as possible and help my pants dry out. Instead I ended up with pee-muddy wet jeans, chilled in the evening breeze clinging uncomfortably to my little body.

It wasn’t long before my dad returned and decided it was time to go home. I stood up and angled myself away from him so he wouldn’t see I’d wet myself. I was terrified I’d get in trouble for “having an accident” even though there was nothing accidental about what had happened. I’d consciously chosen to urinate on myself when no options for safe elimination were available.

As we were about to get into our vehicle he noticed my wet muddy pants. “Are you wet? Did you pee your pants?” he boomed. I looked down and nodded, hoping that the less I said the less irritated he’d be. He then noticed my sister’s wet pants. Muttering under his breath, he pulled out something from the trunk for us to sit on and drove us home in angry silence.

I remember raised voices when we got home. Him interrogating my mother as to why we were not potty trained. Why had she failed to teach us how to use the bathroom and why had she hidden it from him?! His words seethed with disgust for her and us.

I was in second grade. I knew how to use the restroom. I woke up by myself every morning at 6:00am. I cleaned myself, dressed myself, did my own hair, and could easily use the stove and microwave to cook basic food. Most mornings, I also helped change and dress my baby sister and feed her a bottle or cereal.

I was a highly competent independent kid, and highly offended at the notion that I was not potty trained. I was not a baby. I was just a kid who did not know what to do -- with no safe place or safe adults to ask for help. I chose to urinate on myself rather than risk the wrath of my dad, getting lost, or being shot.

My father believed I, a 7-year-old in 2^nd grade, was not potty trained. Only a man who did not care for me could believe that. A man who did not provide daily care of me, or actually care about me as a person.

I didn't want to pee my pants. I did what I needed to do to survive, and no adults in my life were alarmed by it. I guess they were all surviving too. I didn't have a choice, though.