Cute May Story.

 

When my niece, May, was 4-years-old, she came to Wisconsin to Aunt Jen-Jen's Summer Camp. I made Toby sleep on the couch and fixed up a cozy bed-nest on his bedroom floor so May wouldn't have to climb up to his loft-bed.

I took down anything that might be scary--masks, swords, and pictures of alien creatures--and introduced her to Frodo, our dog whom I temporarily dubbed Sir Trusty Monster Eater.

May recently moved to Iowa from downtown Chicago where she and her family lived in a high-rise apartment on the 32nd floor, directly across the street from the Lincoln Park zoo. Just getting outside in Chicago was a chore: We had to pack the diaper bag, load up the stroller, wheel to the elevator, float down to the lobby and past the doorman. And then we had to brave four lanes of heavy traffic just to get to the grass. This visit to Wisconsin was the first time May was able to open a door and go outside.

Everything was new to her, including bugs. Toby and I live in a little blond-brick, ranch-style house tucked away in four and a half acres of woods and we have lots of bugs. May was fascinated and repelled by them. We spent hours tracking insects, watching them, and figuring out what they were doing and thinking and she freaked out at night when she thought they were in the bedroom.

Frodo slept at her feet. May talked to dogs she met on the streets and in the park in Chicago, but she had never spent any time with animals. She was entranced with Frodo and his special monster-killing powers, demanding bednight stories of the mighty Frodo saving little girls from all sorts of scary forest creatures. But Frodo would not kill bugs--they were much too small to warrant his attention. Aunt Jen-Jen did.

So every evening there was a series of good-nights: I got her water, snuggled her into her nest, told her stories, kissed her all over, then I'd leave the room. Five minutes later I'd hear her plaintive voice calling, "Aunt Den-Den? Aunt Den-Den?"

And I'd go into her room, address the bug or the shadow, or any other fear, snuggle her, story her, kiss her and leave.

The third night was particularly hard on both of us. We'd had many adventures that day: playing by a creek; peeing in the woods; interaction with a crazy juvenile pheasant (Frodo made his bones on that one--a story in itself); a tick scare, and we were both exhausted.

She'd called for me over and over again. I was irritated. Angry. I just wanted to curl up on my couch and read, to have a little down-time sans 4-year-olds. My patience was running thin—she was too young to be away from home this long and I was too old and selfish to be primary caregiver to a small child. The last time she called her voice was particularly disturbed, insistent, and with a pissy little snort I put down my book and hustled to her room.

Making my voice nice I peeked through the doorway. "Sweet May-May, what's wrong?"

"Aunt Den-Den, I just disgusted." Her voice was weary, jaded.

"You're disgusted?" This was a new one and it piqued my interest. I moved farther into the room.

Her head was turned away from me and her finger traced the outline of shadows on the wall behind her.

"Yes, Aunt Den-Den, I just disgusted!" She threw her hands up and shook her head.

"What are you disgusted about May-May?" What in the world does a 4-year-old have to be disgusted about? I gave Frodo a pat and kneeled down next to her.

She heaved a deep sigh and shook her head slowly, still not looking at me. The weight of the world was reflected in her small voice as she repeated, "Aunt Den-Den. I disgusted."

She turned her head and gazed intently into my eyes.

"Aunt Den-Den, I disgusted. I no 'member eeny-meeny-miney-moe!"

I couldn't help it, I burst into laughter.

Lying down next to her we recited, "Eeny-meeny-miney-moe, catch a monster by the toe, if he hollers let him go, eeny-meeny-miney-moe" until she fell asleep.

Happy 15^th birthday, May!

Social Mores Or Peeing My Pants

Mores:

1. the fixed morally binding customs of a particular group
   
2. moral attitudes
   
3. habits, manners

One morning I went work early to present a 7:00 AM seminar. I was coffeed-up and needed to pee, but the maintenance guy was cleaning the women's room so I used the men's. Like I said, it was early and there was little to no chance that a guy would walk in, but I was a titch nervous and was prepared to sing-out should the door open while I was in the stall. I'm not particularly rule-bound. I don't expend a lot of energy trying to“fit in,” nor do I care too much about what people think of me. So my unease at using the men's room got me thinking.

Last January I spent a week in Maui (there's a whole story there, but it doesn't pertain) and while there I took an early-morning snorkeling/whale-watching tour. There were 10 people on the tour and we cruised out on one of those low-slung motorboats with air-filled sides and a flip-down ladder in the back.

We did a little snorkeling in first part of the ride but most of it was spent looking for whales. During his spiel, the tour-guy said that if we had to pee, he'd stop the boat and flip down the ladder so we could hang on it, half in and half out of the water, to do our business. There were no takers.

I'd had a large cup of coffee and I did have to pee. I decided I would wait until the next snorkel-stop. The morning grew late, my bladder slowly filled and my discomfort became acute. I had to pee so badly that it was ruining my enjoyment. I couldn't chat with my fellow tour-ists, couldn't dig the feel of the boat soaring over the waves, couldn't savor the smell of the ocean or the feel of the sun on my face.

We were all still wet from our first snorkel and I decided to just pee my pants. I figured no one would notice; it was either that, or do the public urination thing.

No matter how hard I tried I couldn't do it. I couldn't pee my pants.

My bladder was as full as it could be,the pressure was amazingly painful and I'll be damned if those social mores weren't more powerful than my biological need. I was flabbergasted.

Finally I gave up the ghost, told the guy I had to pee, swung off the boat, hung onto the ladder and emptied my bladder into the ocean. As I dragged myself out of the water, relieved and slightly abashed, there were three other people, standing at the back of the boat, waiting their turn.

I wonder if they tried to pee their pants too.