Andy couldn’t have been more delighted if he had won a million dollars. He took the juggling
balls home and practiced, and practiced, and practiced some more. At times he dropped them. At
times they collided in midair. “That doesn’t matter,” he heard Ben’s dad’s voice assuring him in his
head. “Learn from what you do. Each slip-up just helps make you better next time you try, if you are
willing to persist.”
Andy would pick them up again and practice once more, getting better and better by the day.
Within a few weeks Ben’s dad started him juggling with real circus clubs instead of beginners’ balls.
Nonetheless, Andy couldn’t deny a growing feeling of uneasiness. He liked Ben and his dad but
was feeling pretty bad about not going to Ben’s sleepover. He hadn’t even offered a decent excuse. He
had to do it, he thought to himself. Tough as it may be, he would have to explain to Ben.
“I am really sorry I didn’t make it to your party,” Andy said when he and Ben were alone.
“That’s okay,” answered Ben. “I know why you didn’t come.”
Suddenly Andy wished the earth would open up and swallow him in a great big hole. His mom
must have told Ben’s mom, and she must have told Ben. Who had he told? His secret would be out.
“Don’t worry,” said Ben, reassuring him. “I won’t tell anyone. I used to wet the bed, too.” This
was a surprise to Andy, who had never even thought that some of his friends might have had the same
problem. “It’s a bit like learning to juggle,” continued Ben. “You can’t expect to get it right at first,
but the more you practice—step by step—the more you’re likely to succeed. You see, my dad told
me some things to do. He wet the bed when he was a boy, too.”
If Andy was surprised to learn his secret was out and then to find out that Ben had wet the bed,
the news about Ben’s dad floored him.
Ben kept talking. “Dad said he’d read where some professor dude at one stage had said that learn-
ing to control the bladder was so difficult that he was surprised lots more kids didn’t have a problem.
What you have to do, he told me, was to train your bladder in just the same ways that you train your
eyes and hands to juggle. You train it by not having anything to drink for a couple of hours before you
go to bed at night. You train it by making sure that you go to the toilet and work hard at emptying
your bladder. You train it by going straight to the toilet if you wake up through the night or early in
the morning rather than just thinking you want to have a pee and rolling over and going back to sleep.
“He also taught me a game that he used to play as a boy. He said that the game was to go for as
long as possible between having pees during the day. He said that rather than just going to the toilet
out of habit, he’d wait and wait almost until he could wait no longer. That way, he said, he was train-
ing his bladder to hold on. You know, if you can learn to juggle, you can learn to do other things, too.”
Andy committed himself to training his bladder as much as he’d committed himself to learning
to juggle. He practiced and practiced and practiced some more. He didn’t always get it right—at least
at the beginning. As Ben had said, it didn’t happen straight away. Like learning to juggle, you might
drop the clubs or make a mistake now and then. That’s okay. By learning from the mistakes Andy be-
gan to get better and better.
One Saturday, when Andy arrived at Ben’s house, Ben’s dad asked, “How has your week been,
Andy?”
“Perfect,” answered Andy. “I didn’t have a single mistake.”
“Ah,” said Ben’s dad wisely, “the more you practice your juggling, the better you become.”
Andy didn’t say it out loud, but he’d been talking about more than just his juggling.
“If you keep this up,” said Ben’s dad, “You’ll be good enough to get a job in a circus.”
94 Healing Stories, Teaching Stories