At what turned out to be the second-to-last house for trick or treating, I noticed that my son Danaan, age six at the time, was doing a light dance as he waited for the candy to be disbursed. Seeing the choreography was similar to steps he does in the middle of the night while trying to remember which room contains a toilet, I yelled at him to dance straight to the car. I knew time was short. And while I calculated the chance of making it home before his bladder exploded, he turned and walked straight through the valley of the shadow of tooth decay to the next door.
And yes this house proved to be his last chance for free candy. By now the dance at the door rivaled the rhythm of an early morning aerobics class. He could barely hold his bag open. He had the focus of a cat waiting for the mouse to peek out. The focus had been the anticipated candy–was it a real Snickers or the “fun” size? (And don’t we all agree that a real fun size would be a foot long?) But the focus changed. Now it was like the vulture eating in the middle of the road, who thinks to himself, “Can I take one more bite before the on-coming truck hits me?”
Or sure he could have said, “Excuse me Ma’am, thanks again for the Smarties, but I was wondering if I could use your bathroom before I pee my pants?” But of course, this doesn’t happen. And I would have bet a Big Hunk, on that one. I was six once. I peed my pants right there in the lunch room because I was afraid to ask someone where the little boy’s room was. And then I had to sit there all during lunch hoping it would dry before I had to go back to class. It didn’t.
I knew Danaan wouldn’t ask. I knew it really was the last door as he scampered down the steps and raced to the car. I also knew we were in trouble as his steps moved quickly from the high-energy, high-stepping stride of a bathroom seeker, to the slow, wide-walking waltz of a shower seeker. His face morphed from a candy thrill-seeker to the Pillsbury doughboy who just met a rolling pin.
The appropriate response to his state was unclear. There is just something funny about the walk of a kid who has just peed his pants, and as much I as wanted to bust out laughing, I had to restrain. He wasn’t sure how to respond either. This was the first time his bladder almost exploded on Candy Night.
His face was a menu of embarrassed laughter and suppressed tears. When he got to the car, I had to make a mature decision. Where do you seat a soiled kid? Do I have him waddle along the side of the car the remaining blocks home? Do I have him ride on the hood? Putting him in the trunk on Halloween was probably not a good idea. Do I go home and get the truck? Call a tow truck? And then I remember he has enough candy in his bag to keep us most saturated in calories until next October. “Hop in bud!” I say warmly. “Let me hold your bag for you.”
