I have no title for this post, but its about pee (just wanted you to know).

A few nights ago, we took the chil'rens to the park. Because I have heard way too many horror/personal tragedy stories, I would continually scan my eyes around the empty park and adjacent baseball field for bums, gangsters, hoodlums, pedophiles and basically anyone who was looking particularly suspicious. After around 45 minutes or so or playtime, the park lights shut off.

I was like, "Wrap it up! Let's go! Time to get in the car!"

Me and Sol got a head start. I yelled out, "The last one to the van's gonna be a rotten egg!"

Since I had my running shoes on, I took off. Sol, amused and partly amazed that his mother was actually running, took off after me. But sadly, after a few paces, I discovered something.

My bladder was leaking.

And I say that nicely, with whatever dignity I have left.

Seriously, people, I was peeing.

And for the life of me, I could not make the stream stop, no matter how much I tried to stop it.

Dang those useless kegels!

When I stopped running, the peeing mercifully stopped. I was so relieved. I was praising those panty liners that I dutifully wear like nobody's business.

Praise be to Kotex!

Solomon skidded to a stop and was like, what happened, mom?!

I peed my pants, Sol!!

And he just looked at me like I was crazy. I went over to the bathroom (but not before I kicked open each stall with my foot, making sure there were no pervs, junkies and weirdos hiding in there) to assess the damage. Ok, not as bad as I thought.

It felt like a torrential downpour, but in reality it was just a scattered shower.

It just made me feel sad. Having these six babies have caused irreparable damage, yo. I've dealt with swollen feet, spider veins, stretchmarks, enlarged areolas (which never go back to their normal size, I don't care what What To Expect When You're Expecting told you), tig o' bitties that droop, episiotomy trauma, hemorrhoids, p.t.s.d from labor pains, and now a bladder that's busted.

For reals.

If I sneeze, I have to cross my legs. If I cough, I have to cross my legs. If I laugh too much, I have to cross my legs. Whimsically running over to my parked car....well, you get the idea.

I once talked to my doctor about it after I discovered, to my consternation, that my bladder wasn't as easily controlled as it used to be. She said that the woman's reproductive organs were situated in a hammock-like fashion. And every time a woman becomes pregnant and carries a baby in her womb, the weight of the uterus presses down on...ahem...a woman's junk in the hammock (putting undue stress on the bladder).

So, imagine what condition my hammock must be in at the present time.

It's prolly one of those stretched out, stained, busted hammocks that drag on the grass even though you've sewed it up, tightened the knot on either side of the trees...you know, you find it laying in the back yard somewhere by the dog's bowl, in the dirt.

I understand my womb went the extra distance. It served a mighty purpose, but now....now I just wanna be able to make it through middle age without having to find plus-size adult diapers.

Do they even make those? Will I have to find them at Lane Bryant? Or Torrid? The ones at Torrid probably have skulls on them, right?

I mean, these are the things that keep me up at night.

I just wanna be able to carelessly frolic in the wind without squirting on myself.

Is that too much to ask?
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