Oh no, not again.
I hated the warm wet feeling creeping along my side. Why can’t I have my own bed? Why do I have to sleep with her? It was bad enough my sister tortured me during the day by acting big because she was two years older; I also had to put up with her peeing on me at night!
“It’s not fair,” I moaned.
I had three brothers and two sisters and two of the siblings were bed wetters. No one knew why some kids learned to hold it and some didn’t and no one figured out how to fix it either.
“Eventually they’ll get over it,” people said.
Yeah, well, until then they should sleep alone, I thought, grumpy at having to get up and change my pjs and make a nest on the floor.
Then I felt wet trickle spreading into a warm puddle under me creeping across the mattress toward my sleeping sister. Suddenly I realized that I’d been dreaming. Dreaming that my sister was peeing on me while I…PEED… THE BED!
OH NO! How could this happen? I thought. I’m not the bed wetter. I’m the… the not bed wetter. The good kid.
I was so scared I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. What if somehow my evil sister had sent her bed wetting cooties over to me and I’d be the one in the wet spot all the time? No, I promised myself. I wouldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t be a bed wetter. No way.
“You peed the bed again,” I told my sister in the morning as I stripped off the wet sheets.
“I did not! See, my nightie’s dry.”
“The bed’s wet,” I told her. “See the big spot in the middle of the mattress?”
“I didn’t do it,” she whined, looking scared and ashamed at the same time.
I pushed away the wave of guilt that washed over me. After all, I only did it once. She did it hundreds of times. She could take the blame for one more.
“Girls! What are you fighting about now?” Dad appeared in the doorway.
“The bed’s wet.” I told him.
“Oh Kit, not again.” He shook his head sadly.
“I didn’t do it!” she cried.
“Then who did?” he asked, his tone indicating he already knew the answer.
She did it,” Kit huffed through her tears.
“I did not!” I insisted, almost believing my own lie.
“Don’t make it worse by lying,” Dad warned my sister.
“But I didn’t do it. Not this time,” she whispered, pleading at me with her eyes to tell the truth.
“Just tell him you did it,” I said, determined to get out of this somehow.
“It wasn’t me!” she insisted through her tears. There was something in the way she said it that made me understand that it wasn’t important to her that all those other times she did wet the bed. What mattered now was that Daddy believe her. He had to know that this time, maybe only this time. She didn’t do it.
“It was me,” I whispered softly, trying the words on for size before I let them be heard.
“What?” Daddy asked.
“It was me,” I repeated loud enough for the whole world to hear. “It was me. I did it and I lied and I’m sorry. I’m a lying bed wetter and she’s innocent.” My sister and I both burst into tears.
“All right you two, everything’s going to be OK. Just put the sheets in the hamper and let the mattress dry out,” Daddy said, leaving us crying in our room. “And no more water at bedtime for either of you.”
“I’m sorry,” I sniffled to my sister.
”That’s OK,” she said, making a face at me. “You’re not really a lying bed wetter. You just had an accident and got scared. Thanks for telling the truth.”
“I had to,” I said, making a worse face back at her. “Telling a lie feels worse than getting peed on.”
“I’ll remember that,” she warned a mischievous grin on her face.