"I wet my bed, Mister D." - Sam McKinney (Danny Cooksey), Diff'rent Strokes


The last time I wet my bed should have been in 1985.  I was about six-years-old, the pee fest likely having followed a frightening dream caused by all of the horror movies that my older brother (who is ten years my senior) injected into the VCR.  

My younger brother and I felt so grown-up whenever attentively watching those scary flicks.  Well, somewhat grown-up, at least.  I always buried my head into a nearby pillow throughout the most gory segments. 

One famous example is the Johnny Depp death scene finale on Wes Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street.  I don't know about you, but a criminal who has access to his victims in their sleep is the scariest of its kind, open-door murder policy and all.  Especially for me since I love to sleep.  And the thought of Freddy Krueger, a resurrected child-killer with heavily-emotional and mental challenges, sporting Wolverine glove and chasing after me in his sarcastically-humored manner doesn't make my dreams all that pleasant.  Not to mention fair.  What more could I say to him than a sleepy "Hey!" in response to his non-amorous chases and attacks?

Right.  I'd be Freddy's carcass and nothing more.

I remember having one final "accident" about two years later.  I was eight and desperate to keep this situation under wraps.  That meant to myself... and my mother because someone needed to wash the sheets after I'd loaded them into the machine. 

I'd begged my mother of a promise that she wouldn't utter a word if I could explain myself, truthfully.  And when she gave me her solemn "o.k.", I realized that this meant that I had to tell my mother the whole truth.  And then I thought that she may not believe me, or that she'd laugh at my explanation.  And then I visualized my father b*tching about what I did to the mattress when he arrived home from work. 

But, then again, our single-bedroom apartment happened to have four closets in which I could hide should the situation get out of hand at 7:00pm.  And I'd already mastered the act of hiding in any one of them, as well as a talent in breathing inaudibly while in my dark closet of choice.  All I'd have to do is wait for dad to give ma a kiss on the cheek, hang-up his jacket, put his tools away, sit at his desk to repair a piece of jewelry, curse a lot at a mistake, finish up, wash his hands, eagerly accept a delicious dinner from ma, walk into the livingroom with his plate, turn-on the television to watch Wheel of Fortune... and eat. 

And that's when I would approach dad, at his most peaceful, most centered time.  At his most quiet time, too, since he would be chewing.

"Ma," I'd begun, knowing that I was far too old to be peeing in my bed, "I had a weird dream.  I dreamed that I had to pee, and I looked and looked for a toilet, everywhere, and I couldn't find one!"

It was true.  In fact, I recalled being in Mexico in the dream.  And I was anti-outhouse which didn't help my dilemma.  And every toilet I came across was either clogged or in-use!  So I resulted in peeing on some dry, uninhabited land with few shrubs to disguise my little act. 

But I hadn't intended for that dry, uninhabited land with few shrubs to have, realistically, been my bed!

"Aha, that dream!" she said, laughing. 

She told me that I'd have more dreams like this as time went on, but that I'd learn to awaken myself from them. 

"Otherwise, you'll wind up doing this in someone else's bed!" she joked. 

Yeah, not gonna happen again, I thought.  Thanks.

At least I hoped that it wouldn't happen again.  Especially not twenty years, later!  But when I woke up, this morning, petting a meowing Milo, I felt a cold dampness along the back of my pajama bottoms.  And I sensed that it was lower-back/ass-sweat from having slept beneath a warm, thick blanket, all night.  So I had no problem in confirming this assumption with our light-blue sheets. 

Our light-blue sheets, 1/4-drowned by a puddle. 

Oh, sh*t.

I scurried upward towards our pillows, pulling our blanket away from further harm.  Oh, damn- damn!  How the hell would I explain this to Chris?  I mean, providing an explanation to my mother was one thing.  But this could be the end of our relationship as we knew it!  I mean, who wants a 28-year-old, cute and loving girlfriend... who still pees in the bed? 

Sigh. 

Crap.

I stood, straightening a (thankfully) dry blanket and preparing to fold it when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a shiny, cylindrical object. 

A glass!  There was a turned-over glass on the bed!  A glass with just a hint of water at the very bottom of it.  Holy cow.  I'd forgotten all about the cold glass of water that I brought to my night table before bed, last night.  And I must have, inadvertently, picked it up, this morning, spilling it all over my sheets!  

Phew.  It was news far better than the cold, hard truth of a real "accident". 

Halleluiah.