A Lap, A Leak, and the Importance of Emergency Underwear

It was a sunny afternoon in preschool paradise. The room was buzzing with post-nap energy, puzzle pieces were being flung lovingly across tables, and everything was, for a brief moment, running like a well-oiled (and slightly glittery) machine.

Enter Lex. Sweet, recently-transitioned-from-the-toddler-room Lex. His parents had just started cutting back on his nap time—because, in their words, “he’s having a hard time falling asleep at night.” (In my words: let’s not blame the nap for bedtime chaos just yet, folks.)

Anyway, Lex had just woken up after a now-limited one-hour nap and was very much still living in his dreams. He wandered into the room looking like a toddler-sized zombie: dazed, silent, limbs floppier than usual. Nothing was sparking his interest. Not puzzles. Not coloring. Not even storytime. So I did what any emotionally available, slightly sweaty educator would do: I offered a cuddle.

Now, I can’t give one-on-one attention for too long when I’ve got a classroom of 35 other little darlings doing things like turning glue sticks into microphones. So I plopped down against the big post in the middle of the classroom—prime supervisory location—and invited Lex to sit on my lap. He melted into me like a warm nap burrito and stared blankly in the direction of dramatic play.

We sat like that for a solid 20 minutes—him silent, me doing my best “emotionally present while scanning for chaos” routine. Occasionally I whispered, “Do you want to draw?” or “Want to help me read a book?” but Lex wasn’t interested in breaking up this very cozy sit-and-snooze situation.

Eventually, I needed to move, and I gently asked him if he could go use the bathroom before joining the rest of the group. He stood up off my lap, I stood up after him—and that’s when I noticed it.

Why are my pants wet?

My first thought? Maybe sweat. It was warm. I had a child radiating post-nap heat pressed against me for twenty minutes. Totally plausible.

But something inside me said, just check.

So I checked Lex’s pants.

Yep. Wet. Soaked, actually.

The poor kid had clearly let it all go during our cuddle. And I don’t blame him—he was so comfortable. If someone wrapped me up like a human beanbag and told me I didn’t have to do puzzles or talk to anyone? I’d pee myself too.

Here’s the thing though: it wasn’t just my pants. It was my shirt. My underwear. My entire core. I had been thoroughly lap-marinated.

Thankfully, I’m not new here. I’ve seen things. Paint explosions. Mysterious bodily fluids. A very unfortunate glitter glue incident. So I keep a full change of clothes at school—from socks to spare underwear. That day, it saved me from walking around soggy and sad for the rest of the afternoon.

And Lex? He felt better. Dry pants, big hug, no shame. Because that’s what we do—we get peed on and still smile, because comfort and connection matter more than convenience.