I had to go to the bathroom. But that woman was there, sitting with my mother at the kitchen table. The powder room was just beyond the kitchen, off the laundry room by the back door. This was the room where my mother had installed a sink to wash womens’ hair. You know, the kind of sink where you sit down in front of it and leaning back, ease your neck into the molded support. The women would come to the back door, where my mother took care of them. She washed, cut and set their hair. She had a regular beauty parlor dryer and even a large contraption for them to sit in while she “permed” their hair so that the tight curls she shaped their hair into would last an entire week.
Oh, but I had to go so very bad and the woman was in the kitchen and another was in the laundry room under the dryer. I stood there hoping, squirming, dying for my mother’s attention to get me to the bathroom before I had an accident. Holding my three year old pussy, I tap-danced frantically in the entryway to the kitchen.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked. I couldn’t tell her without the woman hearing.
“Linda, what is wrong with you?”
Oh God, Mom, please…I can’t, I can’t
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I hissed as loud as I could without being heard.
“What? You have to tinkle?”
Oh God oh God yeeessssssss.
“Linda, you do not have to ask. If you have to go, JUST GO!”
And I ran. I ran as fast as I could while holding on as tight as I could. I ran past the woman sitting at the kitchen table and I ran past the woman under the dryer and I ran into the powder room and I sat on the toilet without taking my panties off because that would have been too much too late, and I peed through my panties into the toilet bowl.
And then I had to figure out what to do. My panties were wet, soaked through and I couldn’t leave them on. I pulled on the toilet paper roll, wadded a long length of it up and tried to wipe. Still wet, dripping wet. I had to get them off. I inched my way to the rim of the seat, tucked my thumbs under the elastic waist and tugged and wriggled. Slipping off the seat, I pulled the wet panties down my legs, over my socks and shoes and off, onto the floor. My legs, socks and shoes were now steaked with urine and the panties were puddled on the floor.
I took my shoes off, peeled the little white, ruffled socks off, and stood there, transfixed in the middle of my wet mess. Trapped. I couldn’t leave the powder room without my shoes and socks and panties. The women. My mother. I pulled down more toilet paper and wiped my legs as dry as my three year old hands could manage. I squatted down by my puddle and with the very tips of my fingers, pulled everything tight together, trying to think, trying to figure out how to wrap it all into a small package and hold it tight to my middle. If I could do that, I could possibly shrink myself down and around it all and tip toe as quiet as nothing and skirt through, unseen, past the women, past my mother, then dash up to my room and hide my mess in the darkest corner of my closet.
“Linda!” my mother banged at the door, “What are you doing in there?”
Oh no, please no.
“Open the door, Linda, now, or I’m coming in.”
Please, don’t. Oh please, not now.
The door swung in as I crouched around my wet things. And my mother, loud with concern, assessed the situation and said, “Why didn’t you just go to the bathroom when you had to tinkle?”