Home > Fun Childhood, Holidays, My Mom, Nostalgia, Traumatic Childhood, Worry > The Time I Pissed Myself During Easter

The Time I Pissed Myself During Easter

January 30, 2012 Leave a comment Go to comments

Religion in my family growing up was always a confusing thing, though I didn’t fully realize it at the time. For many years during my youth, we blended Christian and Jewish holidays together, sometimes celebrating both concurrently, or else simply picking and choosing as we went along.

One thing we always did was an annual Easter Egg hunt. To begin the day, my mom would craft elaborate Easter baskets for my sister and I, and perhaps one for my brother as well, though he was probably too old at that point. The baskets were filled with that shiny Easter grass, then stuffed to the brim with jellybeans, chocolate eggs filled with everything imaginable, and even delicate sugar eggs that contained holiday scenes of piped sugar inside. I was often reluctant to eat the sugar eggs, and instead would keep mine for weeks before my sweet tooth finally got the better of me.

After that, colorful plastic eggs filled with candy would be hidden wherever we happened to be at the time. Sometimes at home, sometimes at a relative’s house, or even while on vacation. This particular year, I believe we were in Florida for Spring Break.

I was young, perhaps four or five, and I remember clearly having a lot of difficulty that morning putting on my blue velcro-tabbed shoes. Someone had picked out my outfit for the day, which was an amazingly loud Hawaiian shirt + shorts combination. With my long scraggly red hair, I was looking sharp.

When us children were finally launched to begin the hunt, I was beyond excited. For the first time, I felt like I could actually compete against my older sister and other cousins, and I sped along recklessly, tripping and falling in the grass until my knees turned green.

I was determined to win this year by collecting the most eggs, and I headed straight for the bushes, figuring them to be a bounty of eggs. I found a few, but the rustling all around me indicated that my pint-sized relatives had the same strategy. Soon the bushes were picked clean, and I ran off to scour the perimeter of the house. But the place looked like a battlefield, with plants and branches scattered everywhere and no signs of eggs.

I finally spotted an egg, perhaps one of the last ones by this point, and began to run towards it when I saw a blur pass to my right. Another girl was breezing past me, a look of determination on her face. She thought she could snatch victory (or at least second-to-last place) away from me, but I would not let it happen. I put on an extra burst of speed, and suddenly felt an alarming warmness begin to trickle down my legs.

Though I had been potty-trained for some time, my eagerness had apparently affected me like an over-excited puppy. Just when I was about to grab the egg, I had pissed myself. I stopped dead in my tracks, shame radiating from my body, and watched as the girl scooped up my egg. She turned back to look at me, triumphant, but her gloating words died on her lips. She saw the stain spreading across my colorful shorts, and began to holler the words I feared. “She’s peed herself! MOOOOM!”

I sat down in a sad, wet little heap and began to cry, my basket of eggs forgotten. No candy could console me at this point. My mom eventually came by to collect me, whispering soothing words in my ear. A change of clothes was procured, and I was soon as good as new, but I just couldn’t enjoy the hunt after that.

To this day, seeing happy children scramble for their eggs on Easter just makes me think of urine. A sad thing indeed.

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