She's your best friend. You've known her since you were ten. She knows all your hopes, your dreams, your funny stories and, now, all your embarrassing secrets…
You're glad she was the one who called at your door this morning to find you sat in a highchair while your mother spooned mush into your mouth, and yet at the same time you really wish it had been literally anyone else.
This has been coming for a while now; your grades at uni have been dropping, the parties have been getting longer and finishing later, your student flat has been sinking steadily further into chaos, and you've been ignoring more and more of your mother's irate messages. It looks like you pushed it too far.
Now your worst childhood punishment is back and you don't think there's any way you can hide it from the rest of the world.
You squirm uncomfortably in your damp padding, remembering the look on your friend's face as she walked in — first the shock and then the disbelief and then the desperate, desperate attempt to look as if this was all perfectly normal.
But you have to be grateful to her because if she hadn't agreed to 'babysit' you today, your mother wasn't going to let you come to class. And you really, really can't afford to miss any more of the content this term.
You sneak a sideways look at her, head bowed over her notes, hair falling like a dark curtain over the page. She's paying attention to the lecture, the same as you should be — it's the point of you being here today, after all — and yet you're finding it hard to concentrate, for more reasons than one.
Being wet is every bit as uncomfortable as you remember, to begin with. Your nappy has grown cool and clammy, and you feel as though it has ballooned to an improbable size, swelling out the seat of your jeans until you're amazed that the fabric hasn't given way yet. Of more immediate concern, though, is the fact that lunch is coming up, and you can't tear your mind away from the packed lunch that you watched your mother put together that morning — the pot of mashed banana, the rubber spoon, the baby bottle. How will that look, you wonder, when your friend takes it out of her bag in the canteen and sets it before you?
You're about to find out. The lecture is wrapping up, people are packing away notes (you haven't made any), and she's turning towards you with the same smile she's been giving you all day; warm, and so sympathetic it makes you want to cry. "Ready to go?"
You nod, and you get up, and she takes your hand (which was one of the rules your mother gave you this morning), and you both file out of the lecture hall and into the bustling corridor. Though you won't admit it, you feel quite glad to have her warm hand to hold onto, something to keep you together, to stop you from being alone in the midst of all these hurrying people. In your current state of vulnerability, you think it might be enough to reduce you to tears.
It takes a while before you realise that you're not heading down to the canteen, and you glance down at her with a question in your eyes, which she catches and understands. She knows you so well. "I'm guessing from all the squirming that you need a change by now," she says, her voice soft, her words buried in the noise of the lunchtime rush — but for all that you blush and glance around you, sure that everyone must have heard.
"I'm fine," you try, weakly, unconvincingly, and she grins in the way that you know so well, in the way she smiles sometimes when you tell a bad joke.
"If I take you back with a rash, your mum isn't gonna let me take you anywhere any more, and I get the feeling that you're going to need me." Without giving you any chance to respond — which is good, because you're not sure what you would say — she opens a door and leads you into a storeroom that you've never even noticed before. At last, she lets go of your hand, which feels momentarily cold, and shifts a stack of empty boxes to one side, leaving a clear area of floor.
You go to lie down, and she shakes her head. "One sec." Opening her bag, she rummages beneath her textbooks until she produces a familiar object which she spreads on the floor.
Your changing mat. You thought you'd seen the last of that years ago.
But today is showing you you've been wrong about a lot of things.
As you stare down at the colourful plastic and its cheery, smiling characters, you're caught by surprise when her cool fingers brush against your skin, unfastening the straining button of your jeans. You squeak, and she laughs, in that way that girls do when they find something kind of cute.
"Come on, mate. Let's just get this over with, yeah?"
For a moment, you hesitate, and then you give the tiniest of nods, and she continues, tugging your jeans down over the bulk of your soggy nappy and bunching them at your ankles, where she pauses to ask, "Anything else you wanna put in there before we carry on?"
You don't think you've ever blushed before, but you feel your cheeks reddening as you shake your head, and she shrugs and gestures towards the mat. Awkwardly, you arrange yourself on it; it's too small now, of course, and you do your best to position your nappy over the protective surface. At last, and far too soon, you're in position, and she kneels between your legs, and your eyes meet, with her looking just about as uncomfortable as you feel.
"I want you to know," she says quietly, "this doesn't change anything, OK?"
You nod, and there's the world's longest pause, and then she unfastens the tapes on your nappy and lifts away the heavy, wet padding from your front.
To your mortification, you're excited and it shows, but she doesn't mention it, doesn't make eye contact. Just pulls a wipe from the pack and starts to work.
The wipes are cool against your skin, and you do your best not to squirm as they trail their icy way across your most private areas, between your legs, across your buttocks. She's thorough; too thorough for you, in this moment, and it seems to go on forever, but finally she's pulling a new nappy from her bag and stretching it in her hands, preparing to slide it underneath you. Though you really don't want to, you have to speak.
"Can I, um… Can I go? You know, go? Before you…"
She's confused for a moment, and then she gets it, and her eyes widen, and you can tell she's thinking ahead and, for both your sakes, she really wants to say yes. But she's sensible and she's responsible — far more so than you, which is how you've got yourselves into this situation in the first place — and so she shakes her head.
"Sorry, mate. I promised your mum. Lift up."
Awkwardly, you elevate your pelvis, and she slides the new nappy underneath you, closing it and taping it with a visible air of relief to have… everything… out of view. You can't blame her for that, because you feel the same.
"Thanks," you offer, quietly.
"OK, so… If you wanna go now, I can change you again. So you don't have to… y'know. Sit in it. Walk in it. Whatever."
You cringe at the thought. "It's OK. I can hold it until… until I get home."
She eyes you thoughtfully. "OK, well. Offer's there. To be honest with you, mate, I'd really rather not change it after you've sat in it, so…"
"I can hold it," you repeat defiantly, indignantly. "I'm not an actual baby, you know."
"I know. You showed me just now."
You blush again. "That was… It wasn't… I…"
She holds up a hand. "It's OK, it's OK. I know. Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up, I… That was mean of me. Still friends?"
You look down at your freshly padded crotch. "I guess we have to be. I don't wanna have my nappies changed by an enemy."
With a nod, she delves into her bag again. "Well, that's OK. And since we're here… I thought you might wanna have lunch somewhere away from everyone else." With a flourish, she produces your bottle.
You sigh. "Yeah. That would be good." And then, because while you might be irresponsible you're definitely not rude, you add "Thanks."
Chloe! What a beautiful way to end babysitter week!! Thank you for this adorable story!!!! It's wonderful!
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