Things That Make Me Feel Old: A Guest Post

Nov 22 2015

Things That Make Me Feel Old
{a guest post by Liv Stecker of Bendability}

I wet the bed.

I did.

The horror of it took several days to wear off, but when I finally admitted it to my sister, she reassured me everybody does it, so I came here to find affirmation that I’m not the only one. Tell me, please, even if you have to lie.

I’ve decided since the heinous event never to take Tylenol PM again, which I had tried in lieu of half a hydrocodone to keep the pain at bay long enough to fall asleep.

Turns out, Tylenol PM also keeps bladder urges at bay, and then you dream about your triumphant return to stage in a reprise of The Music Man, except this time playing the lead. Furthermore, you think you’re seated on the toilet in the tiny ladies restroom in The Woodland Theater — the one you painted periwinkle blue in 1993 — and, well, you wet the bed.

Yes, I will forgo the sleep aids in the future so I can lie awake, instead, in paranoia of my newly acquired bed-wetting skill.

In my own defense, I will tell you I was so completely shocked that I actually woke up mid-stream and caught myself.

The trick became hiding the evidence from my husband, who of course woke up to find me changing my clothes.

He wanted to cuddle.

Gross. Who cuddles with bed wetters? Seriously.

It seems like after being married for almost two years, a little bed wetting wouldn’t be a big deal. Kind of like the time you threw up on his shoes, or, hypothetically speaking, when you had a really unfortunate case of diarrhea after a trip to Mexico … just one of those things, right?

The problem is, I married Mr. Clean.

To my knowledge, in the two years I’ve known Josh, he has never taken a crap. On the toilet or otherwise. NOT ONCE.

God bless my Irritable Bowel Syndrome and Chronic Diarrhea, my pooping habits have become a mystery long solved. I blew any fantasies he had of a crapless wife right out of the (toilet) water. I feel bad about this but have to live with the shame.

Having a husband who doesn’t even break wind is a very far cry from the boyfriends of old who could win a county wide farting contest with a single bowl of chili. The last man I lived with taught my girls to compliment each other on the tone of their passing gas, and the push behind manly belches.

Fast forward to the immaculate Mr. Weston, and nary a toilet seat is left up. In fact, Josh puts the lid down, on every toilet in the house, compulsively. This has become a marital issue between us (interesting switch up on the toilet seat debate, no?) due to an incident when I was about 7 years old and in a Very Big Hurry to use the toilet and somebody had put the lid down. All I remember is my Great Grandmother on her hands and knees mopping it up. There is a good chance my Great Grandmother had actually passed away long before that, and all I can assume is that her ghost returned to shame me from the grave. So toilet lids remain UP in my house. Now and For All of Time. Considering he doesn’t even use toilets, I don’t know why he has to go around closing them all for the rest of us.

While I’m confessing past potty sins, I suppose I shouldn’t leave out the Culmination of All Embarrassments (at least  until two weeks ago), when our family was staying at a Pastor’s house and I got to sleep in the bedroom of the slightly older and reverently idolized daughter, only to wake up with a frantic need to pee in the wee hours and wet my pants all. over. the. floor. With my hand on the door knob of her room, standing parallel to her once slumbering head, I wet the floor. She moaned at me and rolled over. I’ve hated her ever since.

I hope the rest of you get the chance to wet the bed and feel as human as I did. And as old. And as ashamed. I spent the entire next morning texting friends about bladder incontinence and whether I should rush to the ER or buy stock in Depends first. I even checked into reserving a grave plot now that the inevitable is rushing up at me and I’d like to spare my kids that worry.

In the end, I invested $50 in cranberry juice and capsules so I could blame the incident on an imaginary bladder infection if anyone (Josh) found out about it, even though I washed my wet pants First Thing the next morning.

Tell me, please, am I the only one?



Liv Stecker is mom to four wild girls. She divides the rest of the time that she doesn’t have between fighting fires, waitressing, saving lives, teaching school, writing and watching Netflix in inappropriate amounts. She lives in the part of  Washington State that Nobody has ever heard of and travels a lot to make up for it. You can find her online at Bendability, which is the only place she stays put for more than a few minutes. 

P.S. I also asked Liv to send me a picture. Here’s what she said. “You said picture and I froze. Don’t you have a blog post about this? Like head shots and stuff… Anyway… all I have are selfies, none of which are serious. You can choose the least worst selfie. I prefer the one with beer, because beer. But also reindeer are nice. If I find a seriouser  (this non-word seems appropriate here) picture, I will send it. But usually I am in a Peter Pan costume or something along those lines. I would actually prefer to use a picture of my dog. Or even wine. It really sums up my life more accurately.”

P.P.S. I like Liv.