Childhood. A time of playing until the setting sun warmed my shoulders as a cool dusk cloaked them. An era of bedtime stories and sleeping with snuggly dolls and teddy bears. A time of an utterly humiliating shit incident that haunts me to this very day and still prompts me to reach for a phone to make an appointment with a psychotherapist straight out of a Woody Allen film.

I was six years old and in the first grade. For recess I had ventured to the far end of the enormous playground. This was a concrete court area with tetherball nets and foursquare and handball courts. There were a couple of baseball fields. And there was a great grassy expanse for random, unstructured play. This was the part of the playground that appealed to me.

The day was warm and sunny, and I wore a very short dress and socks with patent leather Mary Janes. I was doing whatever it is imaginative six-year-olds do when I had a rather uncomfortable urge. My stomach was all of a sudden in a lurch, and I could feel a rumble down under. Just like a mentally unstable world leader might, my colon had decided to shock and awe.

I took off. Unfortunately, I could not run very fast. And the building was quite a distance away. Still, I tried to clench my ass cheeks together as I ran/waddled as fast as I could on my six-year-old legs toward the building. I ran through the field, and then through the baseball diamonds. I made it to the concrete courts, and then to the building. I was sweating profusely. But wait! I needed a bathroom pass! NOOOOOOO!!!

I ran back and found one of the recess monitors. She wrote me a pass molasses-in-January style. I sprinted as best as I could to the bathroom, my pigtails likely flying in the wind. I finally reached the bathroom -- my salvation!

I pushed open the heavy door and went into the cool room. It was then, in that stone-and-tile chamber, that I realized it was too late. As I had arrived inside the door, a bomb had dropped in my pristine, lacy, little girl underpants. A wet, slimy, stinky bomb.

This room, thought to be a place of relief and deliverance, had suddenly turned into a dungeon (with deceptively cheery red-painted stalls and windowpanes). The sun shining through the window seemed to mock me in my despair. I ran into a stall, not sure what to do. I knew that the first thing was definitely ridding myself of the wretched ass-fruit. Reason dictated that I take off my underwear and transfer the brown lump into the toilet. Good idea, right?

So I tossed the turd into the toilet, creating just one minor issue: I missed.

The lump of crap landed on the floor with a cringe-inducing splatter, right at my feet, desecrating my lacy socks.

Oh, if only that were the drama in this story. If only, if only, if only…

As if in a dream sequence (it was certainly as surreal), Claire and Brenda, two of the snottiest, rudest girls in my class, walked in just in time to see the shit hit the floor and splatter. They began to screech.

"EEEEWWW!!!"

"That's POOP!! How GROSS!!"

The shit may as well have hit a fan.

And then, at that moment, yet another girl walked in -- this time, a nice girl. I have forgotten her name. She saw the mess, and she was actually concerned. She asked if I was okay, if I needed help.

At this point, my face was on fire. I knew that the two little bitches would stay there, and reason dictated that I couldn't very well stay in a stall for the rest of the day. I slowly opened the door, and said worriedly, "I pooped my pants."

Well, Claire and Brenda burst into howling laughter and ran out. Their high-pitched cackling provided the reverberating soundtrack to the phantasmagoria that followed. I remember the girl asking if she should get a teacher. I said no, but thanked her. I remember cleaning the shit off the floor with paper towels, and then going to the office. The secretary was very nice, giving me a pair of jeans that had been donated. I remember she said how nice they would look under my dress. I remember putting on the pants and going back to the courtyard to stand in line to go back to class.

I remember most of my thirty-one classmates snickering and pointing.

I remember going home and having to tell Mom where I got my new jeans. Mom's hugs are especially comforting after days like that.

I ended up keeping the pants and wearing them on many occasions. I never forgot the dark chapter of my life from whence they came. Neither of my parents even remembers this incident, though. However, that both laughed like nobody's business when I called and told them that I was posting this story.

PoopReport is cheaper that therapy. I'm glad that Dave has provided a lovely couch for us all, and that he doesn't charge by the hour.