Last year I got a call from my daughter’s school secretary.  The woman’s voice was sweet and soft and full of concern.  “You need to bring your daughter some fresh pants and panties,” the woman told me.  Oh.  My.  God.  She started.  Poor baby, I thought, to have started when her mommy wasn’t around.  I thought of it like she had died in an empty room.  I rushed around the house getting my daughter’s stuff together mentally chastising myself for not having the house more organized for a situation like this.  The phone was jammed between my cheek and shoulder as I gathered the things.  “Please remind my daughter that we have her just-in-case bag in her backpack,” I told the secretary.  The secretary was quick to correct my thinking.  “Oh no, no, no, she didn’t start her period, she was having a little too much fun in math class and wet herself.”  Oh.

 I remember the first time my daughter drenched her britches in a fit of laughter.  I’m the one that was making her laugh so hard.  Since the situation was both funny and embarrassing to her, we decided to say that she “inked” herself, which brought on a new fit of giggles for the both of us causing me to clench my legs together and bolt for the bathroom.  We were just being silly since it was just to two of us at home.  We were sitting in my husband’s chair together and making our hands appear to be yodeling.  It might sound lame, but in reality it was hilarious.  In reality, she didn’t wet her pants.  She wet her little white leotard, which is what she chose to wear to bed that night.  The entire scene was ridiculous but made a lasting memory for us both.

 So far this school year, my husband and I have had to rescue my daughter three times for leaking at the most inopportune time.  The first time it happened my daughter called my husband since I was at work and asked him to bring her some pants because she peed.  Since he was only asked to bring pants, that’s all he did.  He neglected to bring underwear so my daughter went commando that day.  He called me on his way home from my daughter’s school to tell me the unfortunate events of her day.  It was only then when I asked him about underwear that it had crossed his mind at all.

 The second time my husband was summoned to my daughter’s school for the same reason, he brought her a pair of shorts, checked her out of school, went to Wal-Mart and bought her a new pack of underwear, and then brought her back to school.  He was trying to be thorough.  He was covering all of his bases, just not in the exact order I would have chosen.  The third time I was the one my daughter called and brought the appropriate supplies so she would be fresh and (hopefully) dry for the rest of the day.

 The other night I was making chicken and dumplings for supper.  I hate deboning chicken and asked my daughter to help so the tedious task wouldn’t take as long.  Reluctantly, she agreed.  I could tell she was bored of the task as well so I suggested to her that we pretend that we had our own cooking show that was just about deboning chicken.  She looked at me with her eyes that were in mid-roll so I started in on the opening dialogue.

 “Welcome to the Deboning Chicken Show!” I hollered out into the mostly empty kitchen.  “Today we will show you how to debone chicken.  Again!  If you will notice my method of taking the meat off the chicken, it is called the ‘fork off method’ and here to my left Ann is using the ‘fork you method’.  We together are deboning chicken!” I smiled brightly into the kitchen.  My daughter was giggling and was starting to get into her job.

 After the chicken was finished and put back in the stock, we started throwing the dough that would form the dumplings into the pot.  Schdunk.  Schdunk.  Schdunk.  Soon our rhythm was in complete unison.  I told her it sounded like we were throwing marshmallows in a lake.  Suddenly, she stopped laughing and her eyes got really big.

 “You shall speak of this to NO ONE!” she commanded me.

 I was confused.  Then I looked down.  I just mopped the floor that day so of course she would take the opportunity to pee on it.

 “You shall speak of this to NO ONE!” she commanded me again.  Her voice almost sounded demonic.  Then it softened to the voice I knew to be my little girl’s.  “Um, could you please bring me a pair of pants?  I think I have some sweats in the dryer.”

 Obligingly, I brought her some pants and left the kitchen so she could strip and clean up after herself.  Once the floor was clean and dry, I finished supper solo.

 The fact that my daughter has such little bladder control bothers me so yesterday I sat her down and had “The Talk” with her.

 “So, um, yeah,” I started out embarrassed and not knowing how to pull the talk off.  “You know when you’re peeing, um, yeah, ahem, can you stop the urine from coming by pulling up on some of your muscles?”

 “Sure, Mom,” she said looking at me out of the side of her face.

 “Well, um, honey, can you do that right now even though you’re not using the bathroom?”

 “Uh, yeah.”

 “Oh, great!” I said probably too enthusiastically.  “That’s called a Kegel exercise and it’s so useful for women.  Women are encouraged to do a bunch of those every day to strengthen their bladder muscles but it’s useful for a lot of different things.”

 “Like what?”

 I wasn’t about to tell her it would make sex better for her since she’s only twelve so I pushed on in a different direction.  “Well, like after women have babies they need to do a bunch of Kegels because the baby stretches out some muscles and that’s a good way to get them back in shape.  Right after I had you, for instance, I went on a trampoline for the very first time and thought it was a blast until the third jump when I realized that each time I landed I was peeing a little.”

 “Really?  Gross.”

 “Yeah, well no grosser than peeing on a freshly mopped floor.  But I thought that maybe if you did those exercises, your bladder would get stronger so you wouldn’t leak when you laugh.”

 She raised her eyebrows at me like I had given her some glimmer of wisdom she hasn’t had before.  All I’m hoping for is less laundry and a clean floor.  Oh, and it will save her the embarrassment of wearing a sweatshirt tied around her waist until I can rescue her too, I suppose.