Story Time: The First Time I Shit My Pants

I'm probably 11 years old here.

"Tommy, Pat's on the phone."

A few seconds later, from upstairs.

"I got it, Ma." I wait for her to hang up. Never, ever let anyone in my family listen in on my conversations. She hangs up.

"Hi what's up."

"Nothing, you wanna come over and play some Nintendo?"

"Yeah I'll be right up."

I throw on some shorts and a t-shirt and head out the door."

"Where are you going," mi madre barks.

"To Pat's."

"Be back in time for dinner."

"Ok."

Little does she know that I'll be back way before dinner, just in time to ruin everyone else's appetite.

So I'm at Pat's, and we're playing Nintendo. Probably not a sports game, because I hate those. And at 11 years old, they give me serious anxiety. Pat's mom feeds up, probably PB&J or some other such nonsense. We digest and head outside.

Pat and his brother start playing street hockey. I get anxiety. Again, sports--real or simulated--freak me out. I can't articulate it at 11 years old, but the reason is that sports are paint thinner for my roughly applied veneer of heterosexuality and culturally defined masculinity.

I make up some lame excuse about why I can't play--sore knee, headache, malaria--and tell the boys I need to head home to rest. The skepticism in their stares pierces me. Nevertheless, I walk home. About four blocks. Down one hill and up another.

As I'm walking, I feel the rumble in my tummy. Perhaps it's the anxiety, perhaps it's the sandwich. Whatever it is, I need to get home fast. So I'm walking and walking and walking, and about two blocks from my house, my walk morphs into a waddle. I'm squeezing my cheeks together and praying for a toilet.

I make it to the top of my street when, plllllp, a dollop of poopie escapes from my bum. I start to cry, but I continue to waddle. And with each teeny step, more poop nestles into my undies. By the time I get to my house, I've got a full load in my pants and a few tell-tale streaks down my calves. I enter through the basement so that I can ditch my shorts next to the laundry room. I cover up enough to make it to the bathroom and clean up.

For some reason, I don't immediately return to the laundry room after I've fixed my mess. So by the time I make it down there, the shorts are gone, which means that my mom found them and knows that I am a pre-teen pants shitter. Humiliating, but thankfully, she never brings it up.