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I would like to take this opportunity to let everyone in on a well-kept, prenatal secret. For every mom-to-be who has yet to experience pregnancy, are in the very early stages, only just tossing around the idea over cocktails with your partner, or simply know with confidence that somewhere down the road you plan on carrying a baby around for nine months: here is a small detail that has managed to escape the attention of every baby book, manual and conversation about pregnancy I have read or had, to date. Are you sitting down? At some point during your pregnancy, you will pee your pants. Now to me, this is incredibly vital information that warrants some attention! It should be on the news! Women should be warning other women about this! At the very least, I feel that there should be an entire chapter devoted to it in What to Expect When You’re Expecting. They could even title it: Peeing Your Pants—What You Should Know. I know, I know, some of you are saying—“But, Sarah, I think I heard something about potential “urinary incontinence” somewhere in my reading.” No. No. No. We’ve all had that “I just drank a Big Gulp then had an untimely sneeze (or giggle) and whoops, now I have to high tail it to the ladies room” feeling. I’m talking: “Oh my God, should I unwrap one of those diapers in my gift pack because I may need one right about now.” Perhaps if said chapter existed, it would have saved me an awkward and premature visit to Labor and Delivery this past month.

So at twenty-seven weeks I was feeling pretty good going into the homestretch. A trace of the waddle could definitely be detected in my normally steady gait, but I could still get around pretty effortlessly. And I had a ways to go before it was crunch time. Then, unloading some groceries one afternoon, it happened.

I bolt upright, dropping the peanut butter to the floor. “Did my water just break?” I say out loud. But my three dogs only look at me with mild disinterest and yawn, not hearing any of the three catch words they recognize: treat, walk and more treats. Something has definitely happened. Something not normal. Something very wet. I run upstairs and immediately call my mom.

“What happens when your water breaks?” I pant breathlessly into the phone.

“It’s like a big gush of water.”

Check. After I perform a dance of mild hysteria on the phone with my mom, followed by one with the doctor, where we determine that a.) I have no idea how much water came out, b.) I don’t know if I’m having contractions, c.) I can’t tell how I feel or if I simply made the whole thing up, the doc determines it’s a good idea for me to head to Labor and Delivery.

After I call Jeff and give him a calm rundown of the situation (“You have to come home right now! We are having a baby and I have to get to the hospital—HURRY!”), I race around my house looking for things to put in an overnight bag. Now, I don’t actually know what goes into these bags. I’ve only seen them in the movies where the woman goes into labor, huff and puffs out to the car, then yells back “Honey don’t forget my bag!” and he rushes back to grab a small flowered suitcase sitting by the door.

Our suitcase is in the basement collecting dust under a pile of crap because it has a broken zipper. I grab Jeff’s gym bag and run from room to room shoving anything I come across into it. When he bursts through the front door, wild-eyed and frantic, we set out for the hospital with my toothbrush, his football cleats, a pair of pants that are too small for me, a lacrosse ball and some pens.

By the time we pull into the hospital parking lot, I am beginning to suspect that maybe I am not going into labor… that I may have, ahem, possibly peed my pants. But it’s too late to turn around. Before I know it, I am being whisked into a room full of nurses and doctors, dressed in a gown, and strapped to all kinds of monitors with my feet up in that all too familiar position. Where we wait.

As I lay there for two hours while tests are being done, swabs taken, parts measured and monitored, I have plenty of time to think about things. I look over at Jeff curled up in the chair beside me with worry creasing his face, and I realize: This is just the beginning. I am confident that this will not be the last time our kid makes us pee our pants….uh, metaphorically speaking. There will be scraped knees, broken bones, missed curfews, bad grades and a plethora of other challenges over the coming years that will surely make me drop the peanut butter and go flying around the house in a panic. And I wonder, are we ready for all this?

After the doctor diagnoses my… momentary loss of control, and sends us sheepishly on our way, we get back in the car to head home—able to laugh about my faux pas now that the weight of possible bad news has been lifted. Laughing with him and breathing a sigh of relief, I realize, Yeah, we can do this.

“You peed your pants,” Jeff laughs.

I smile and sit back in my seat. You just wait, mister. You just wait.

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