And Yet, I Still Speak to my Mother

Way back when I was a wee little 6 year old, I wasn't this outgoing social joy than I am now.  Hard to believe, but true.

In fact, Share Day was filled with apprehension.  I wanted so badly to have an amazing "share", and I would scour my room for the perfect item.  It had to be unique, yet awesome.  Thought-provoking yet not too perplexing. Individual, but not too out-of-the-box.  You know, like a large collection of scratch 'n sniff stickers, or a toy kitten that had a corded remote.  Maybe the kitten would even mew every 5 steps.  Or something else equally epic.

This particular Share Day, I had struggled with my choice.  Nothing seemed good enough.  To top it off, I was running late-likely my mom was ruing the day she made me, while trying to brush the tangles out of my tender scalp.

So there I am, sitting in a line, waiting for my turn.  I have a strange ceramic frog with variegated paint.  Truly, I had dug to the bottom of the "Share" barrel for this one. I have no idea what I was thinking: this frog wasn't going to help my social status. I was on social thin ice as it was. Especially after that whole one-pair-of-left-handed-scissors-debacle.  :::deep sigh:::

This is why this next part is so truly heartbreaking-I was already facing a stunted social life between the fight for the scissors and my stupid ceramic frog.  I'm fairly certain I was intending on lying about the story behind the frog, as I have no idea how it came into my possession.  My spiel would likely include "it's very special to me", and "it's a ceramic frog from my Grandma", and "it's green.  And brown." Truly poetic gold.

Apparently, the age of 6 is rife with all kinds of social rules, most of them imaginary, and residing in only my head.  One of them is letting people know you have bodily functions.  Like, you know, using the bathroom. 

So there I am, holding my frog, sitting 4th in cue.  I'm sitting Indian Style Criss Cross Applesauce (sorry, that's what we called it in the 70's), waiting.  I have jammed my heel into my hoohaw, fighting the inevitable. I'm doing the potty dance while sitting, which is unbelievably difficult, but necessary.

Then, it's my turn.  I slide into the Teacher Chair.

Me: So, this is my frog. It's really special.  It's brown and green.  Umm, that's about....
Bratty little bitch:  Where did you get it?
Me: From my Aunt.  Or Grandma. So, ummmm...I guess that's it...
Some other little whorebag: Do you have any other frogs?
Me: No.
Shithead: Is it your favorite ceramic animal?
Me: Yes.
Fuckwit with a lisp: Is there anything written on the bottom?
Me: No.
Kid that smells like old cheese: What did you name it?
Me: WTF is your problem???
Me:  :::dribble, dribble, dribble:::  I unleashed my entire bladder.  In front of the whole class.  On the Teacher Chair. Slowly, because I'm still in denial that it's even happening.

The rest of the day is a blur, and I have psychologically blocked it.  However, the next morning? Clear as a fucking bell.

Me: I don't feel well.
Mom: You don't seem to have a fever...
Me: It's my stomach.
Mom: Oh.  Wait, I know what's going on here. Sweetie, no one is going to even remember yesterday, I promise.
Me: (imagine overly dramatic whiny high pitched complaining-I know it's a stretch)  Yes they will!!!  They will tease me, and it will ruin my life!!!!
Mom: Now, stop that right now, Missy.  You need to stop being so dramatic.  They will not even remember, and finish getting ready, you are going to be late.

Me:  :::scowl:::

...later that morning...

WHOLE CLASS: OH, LOOK!!! Here comes Potty Pants!!!  Potty Pants, Potty Pants, stinky dinky Potty Pants!!!!  Bahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

I still can't believe my mom lied to me with a straight face. And I still can't believe I believed her.