In the end, she’d decided she would just have to wait a bit longer to get whatever book she’d been saving her allowance up to buy, and dashed for the main bathroom. By then, however, it was too late.
She could remember desperately turning the doorknob on her bathroom over and over, as if, perhaps, on the tenth, or hundredth time, it would magically become unlocked, all the while hopping from foot to foot uncomfortably. She found herself playing along with the memory, pretending that the doorknob was stubbornly ignoring her childish pleas. She even re-made the mad dash for her bedroom door, freezing about halfway across her room with a cute little, “Uh-oh,” both hands clapping against the back of her diaper.