I found a puddle and I fell in it.

I am in the first grade. 

A handheld bell tolls, announcing the end of recess. Kids disperse from freeze tag, drop from monkey bars and cease imaginary games of war and peace. I sit alone, dallying on my derriere. When the footsteps fade to quiet and the bell is held still, I relax the grip of my stomach and flood the seat of my pants. Warm urine cascades between the cracks to gray pebbles below. When my bladder is done draining, I stand and observe my dark, bum-shaped vandalism. I walk toward the school with my square plastic lunchbox strategically placed over my wet bobbing bottom.

Inside the nurse's office, I tell her that I've fallen into a puddle.

“Rachel, it's dry outside.” 

"I found a puddle and I fell in it." 

The nurse lets me sit on the red leather couch across from her desk. There on my cold and soggy bottom, I listen while she calls my mother, who saves the day with a clean pair of pants. They are not the same color as the wet purple pair, but even at the age of six, I understand that it's not her fault. 

“Rachey, once we drink the rest of these, we will start buying smaller juice boxes.” My mother says.

And I will stop falling in puddles.