Incontinence.

My incontinence was never an issue. Until I turned 5. When I turned 5, peeing my pants was no longer ok. No longer socially acceptable. No longer parentally allowed. I don’t particularly remember peeing my pants. I don’t know how often it happened or what time of day seemed most probable for my bladder to lose control. But I do remember when it stopped being ok.

Because I started getting punished.

It wasn’t really the fact that I was getting punished that has been etched into my memory, but more so the way in which I was punished, that has fermented in the depths of my brain.

My parents chose a different sort of parenting book to read from when I was born. They chose to read the book of “My parents did it to me, so it’s ok if I do it to my kids.” I’m not sure if this book taught them that it was ok to punish your kid for peeing their pants, but in all other instances, they lived by this book.

Looking back, I’d say their punishment was the equivalent of grabbing my muzzle and rubbing my nose in the soiled Lion King underwear. Actually, come to think about it, it was worse than that.

I wasn’t even comparable to a dog in the eyes of my parents.

When I was 5, I lived in a mobile home at the end of a gravel driveway in the middle of a relatively busy residential avenue.

For most petty crimes that I committed as a child, my dad would punish me by sending me out to count the rocks in the driveway, or count the leaves on the bushes.

One particular instance I remember being told to stand in the corner. Four hours later, I mustered up enough courage to ask my dad if I was allowed to come out. He laughed out loud. He had completely forgotten about me. I was roughly 5 years old and I stood in the corner, staring at the point where the two walls met, for four hours.

I don’t remember being a particularly bad kid. I wasn’t a troublemaker at school. I did what I was told and I spoke only when spoken to.

But somehow someway, my parents found ways to punish me. So when I turned 5 and still couldn’t control my bladder, my dad had found a way to punish me.

His method of punishment was public humiliation. It wasn’t embarrassing enough that I was peeing my pants; I must be humiliated further in order to cure the ailment. This rationale could only come from the book, the book of “My parents did it to me, so it’s ok to do it to my kids.” Unless my parents were petty imbeciles that capitalized on my inadequate bladder in order to achieve their daily quota of amusement. I wouldn’t be surprised.

So my dad bought a package of Pampers.

Not only was I to wear Pampers under my pants. I was to wear them on my head.

Not only was I to wear Pampers under my pants and on my head, but I was to walk to the end of the gravel driveway in the middle of the day carrying a sign that said “I still pee my pants.”

I don’t particularly remember the look on my dads face as I did my walk of shame, but the memory of my long skinny body standing at the edge of the hot gravel, with a diaper on my head, and a sign in my hand, will be stamped in my memory until I either die, or develop a severe case of Alzheimer’s.

And I still pee my pants today, most often during bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

Perhaps I’ll put some Pampers on my head and pray that this time the punishment will work.