One spring, my mom waited until the last minute to register for me for Junior Day Camp at the Wilmette Park District. By the time she got around to doing so, the program was full. The only camp that had space left was at Terminal Park in Skokie. Terminal Park had no trees. While there, I learned the delightful, 15 verse whine-song "Found a Peanut," which was probably her punishment for sending me to a camp with no shade. I also learned a song that had something to do with Terminal Camp counselors being murdered by a crazy man and if anyone found their bones in the woods, we were supposed to paint Terminal Camp Counselor on them in green paint, or something like that. (Obviously they weren't murdered at camp since there were no trees and there bones were in the woods.) My mom preferred "Found a Peanut" to that ditty.

One day after it rained, we were eating our lunches in the parking lot of the Soloman Schecter Jewish Day School near the park. I have no idea why. Maybe the treeless grass was too wet, so we sat on wet pavement instead. Whatever the case was, I had to pee. Either we were told that we couldn't use the school bathroom or I didn't want to ask, but for some reason, I tried to hold it for as long as I could.

Eventually the damn burst, however, and I found myself eating my peanut butter and jelly while sitting in the middle of an expanding pool of warm piss. I was pretty old to have an accident, so I was extremely embarrassed. I sat in my pee for a few minutes while I tired to come up with a plan. My eureka moment was when I decided I would walk up to my counselor and tell her that my shorts were wet because I fell in a puddle of rain water. Yes, brilliant, I thought. She was nice about it and called my mom, who was once again punished for not getting her act together in time for me to go to a good camp and had to bring a change of clothes.

In subsequent years, I realized the problem with my plan was that I probably smelled like piss. There is no way that the counselor believed that I sat in regular water. I am eternally grateful to her, though, for pretending to believe me and not humiliating me any more than I was. That is called compassion. Whoever she is, she probably has better karma than my mom.