Why You Should Never Write Your Kid's Name on Their Underwear.

Yes, it's another poop story, don’t worry I have more.

In 2010 I was diagnosed with diverticulitis. I eventually had a foot long section of my colon removed. I now have a semi colon. Which is worse than having a period, if we are ranking by punctuation.

Before the surgery, a nurse gave me a questionnaire about my colon health. Question 1 was: Have you ever unexpectedly defecated yourself?

There was only one line for me to write my answer, so I asked the nurse for some extra paper.

I am a dad who thinks that one of the goals of any parent should be to not repeat their parents' mistakes. I believe that one way you can do that is to not write your kids’ name on their underwear. Why do we do this? Is there an underwear bandit at school? Is this a problem that's sweeping the nation? Are kids going to school wearing underwear and coming home commando? Does your kid go to school with their underwear on but comes home wearing someone else's underwear? Only bad things can happen if you write your kid's name on their underwear. If the other kids know that your kid has their name on written their underwear, then you know something terrible has happened. This can scar you for life.

I learned this in the 3rd grade in The Bronx in 1978. My teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, pre hated me before she even knew me. That’s because in 2nd grade, my parents were in the midst of a bitter divorce battle and I reacted by throwing tantrums. I was an argumentative, sarcastic and angry 2nd grader. My 2nd grade teacher Mz. Rueben also happened to be Mrs. Schmidt’s best friend. My reputation preceded me.

I spent the summer after 2nd grade working on my behavior with my social worker, Mr. Levine. I returned to school determined to control my temper. I didn’t yet know that I was on the autism spectrum and that the combination of spectrum disorder and the divorce were a recipe for outbursts. Additionally, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and autism are sometimes a package deal with a bonus feature; I.B.S. I was the perfect shit storm.

In the first minute of the first day of 3rd grade, Mrs. Schmidt immediately undid all of my summer counseling. "Steven Perez, I know about you and your behavior, and I just want you to know that it is not going to fly here. Do you understand Mr. Perez?"

I said " OK"

She added “You will speak to me in complete sentences, young man."

I said, "Yes ma'am, I understand” but to myself I thought, “Challenge accepted!"

A few days later I had to go number two so badly that holding it in was giving me an asthma attack. I raised my hand and said “(huff huff) Bathroom?"

Mrs. Schmidt replied "Oh no you don't. I know your game Mr. Perez. You will not disrupt my class, but you WILL speak to me in complete sentences."

“I am sorry but I gotta go, BAD"

“No, you do not”

"Yes, I do!"

"You are disrupting the class. MR. PEREZ"

I said, and I don't know where I got the balls to say this, "You think I'm disrupting the class now? Wait til I crap myself."

The class was speechless. Mrs. Schmidt’s jaw dropped. She screamed "HALLWAY NOW". I replied, "YOU WILL SPEAK TO ME IN COMPLETE SENTENCES".

She grabbed me by my collar, dragged me into the hallway and left the door open. The class could hear us. As she dragged me into the hallway I thought to myself “oh no oh no oh no.” Then I dropped a bomb into my pants.

In the hallway she was staccato and stern "Young man, you are in BIG trouble. You cannot use that language and... wait, what is that smell?"

I said, "I told you I was gonna poop myself."

I'll never forget this, she said "So help me, God, that better be a fart"

I leaned into the classroom, and yelled "If I can't say ‘crap’, why can she say ‘fart’?"

The class burst into laughter.

She pulled me into the bathroom. At P.S. 182 the bathroom stalls had no doors. This is another way we can do better than our parents. Why did public schools think that kids like to go potty in plain view of their classmates? Install a damn door.

Schmidt brought me into a stall and said, "clean yourself up NOW". I have never seen anyone so pissed off that a kid shit himself. And I should know because I’ve shit myself many times. She was still standing there so I said, "I need privacy." She turned red. I was starting to get scared and was still holding back the other half of my deuce. I was crowning. I told her so and she left the room.

I pulled my pants down to inspect the scene of the crime and found my underwear were a mass of 7-year-old boy poop. I took them off and cleaned myself as well as I could. Where is the angel Gabriel when you need him? I put my pants back on, freeballing, which, indeed, turned out to be a huge problem in public schools. As parents feared, I went to school with underwear on but I was coming home commando.

I tried to throw my soiled ball of tighty semi-whities into the trash, but the trash barrel was full. I was holding a pile of dung in my hand and starting to panic as Mrs. Scmidt yelled “what’s taking so long!” through the door. That’s when I saw the radiator on the floor. It had this little door you could open to access the knob that controls the temperature. It was perpetually set to a steaming 99 degrees. I threw my underwear in there, pushed the stubborn lid closed and I got the hell out of there.

Mrs. Schmidt then took me to Principal Kayback’s office. She told him that I said the word "shit", as if that was the whole story. I told him, “I didn’t say ‘shit’, I said ‘crap’.” He did not find that reassuring or amusing.

While I waited for the principal to hand me my punishment, the fire alarm went off. I was saved by the bell. As we evacuated, I noticed that the halls had a subtle fog and an aggressively putrid smell. The odor was unusual but oddly familiar. Part burned rubber, part sulfur, all gag worthy. Students and teachers were coughing and covering their noses.

We waited outside as the fire department went into the school. Minutes later a fireman emerged, holding a plunger. He announced, "I think I found the problem!"

He hoisted the plunger in the air and on its business end was my crap filled pantaloncillos. Written on them in black magic marker: STEVEN PEREZ.

And that's why you don't write your kids’ name on their underwear.

I took the form and handed it to the nurse. She looked at it and said, "you could have just said ‘yes’".