Let me apologize in advance for the blatant use of TMI to create this post. After last night’s meet-up with fellow mommy bloggers, I knew these words had to be written, that I had an obligation to mothers everywhere, and to share I must. Forgive me my incontinence.
A couple few weeks ago we were invited to a birthday party for a newly minted six year old super hero. This kid rules, as does his mom. It was held at a gymnastics center in rural Wisconsin and featured seven of the most amazing homemade cakes I have ever eaten: Ho Ho Cake, Oreo Cake, Snickers Cake. I am not joking – – it was snacktacular, as only can be done in rural Wisconsin.
The party had a superhero theme as the birthday boy, a cancer survivor (take that, bastard cancer), is as close to a superhero most of us will ever meet. Kids were provided with capes and masks upon entering and a cadre of game middle aged men dressed as heroes and villains ran around this gymnastic center for a couple of hours while a zillion kids ran after them. It was the best. Poor Mary Tyler Son was freaked out by the villains, though, so Mr. Mary Tyler Mom and I kind of kept to ourselves to give the poor kid some space.
That’s when I saw it: the twin built in trampolines. Who knew these things even existed. Not I. I strolled over, trying to wait patiently for the kids to have their turn and finally got my chance. I jumped on it – – literally and figuratively. I jumped and I learned. Trampolines are fun. Capital “F” Fun. Seriously fun. I jumped and I jumped and I jumped. I giggled and jumped some more. And then I jumped again.
And then it hit me. I felt a little damp. Down there. Yes, that down there. So what did I do? I jumped again. Jumping on a built-in trampoline is freaking Fun. I jumped and giggled and finally moved so the pushy two year old girl could take a turn. She didn’t even jump, she just kind of walked around on it. But while I waited for her to finish I wondered aloud to Mr. Mary Tyler Mom why I was the only adult jumping. His response? “Because they’re moms. They leak.”
What’s this? Why does he know this and I don’t know this? Yes, it was in fact leaking that had been happening down there. I tried to ignore it. In the end, despite the joy and freedom and weightlessness the trampoline provided, I thought it best to find a bathroom. Thank goodness for dark rinse skinny jeans. I had wet myself. Right down to my knees. That little old pad I had on was no match for the gallon of pee that must have escaped my over-taxed pelvic muscles. Worthless freaking muscles, those are.
Why don’t they teach us about incontinence? Why don’t we talk about this, moms? “Hi, my name is Mary Tyler Mom and I leak.” “Hi, Mary Tyler Mom.” I mean the first step is admitting there is a problem, right. My problem is that I leak on trampolines. I did the best I could, removed the offending pad, cleansed if you will, and made the best of it. Apparently rural Wisconsin does amazing cakes, but they don’t do sanitary pads. Couldn’t find one anywhere. Anywhere. Seriously, we left the party and had to drive to the Target about 20 minutes away.
So now you know that I leak. At least on trampolines. But you know what? I would so do it again. Trampolines rule. Next time, at the seventh birthday party, Imma come prepared with industrial strength pads. Imma jump on that trampoline again. And again. And again. Ladies, we gotta jump on those trampolines, cause life is too damn short. Are you with me?