The Best Babysitter in Town Vol. 2 Ch. 20

I showered, had a small snack, drank some gatorade myself, and made another bottle to leave on Gordy’s nightstand before I went to bed. I couldn’t resist (it’s why I’m the best babysitter) and slid my hand under the covers to check his diaper; I could feel he was wet, but I thought he had plenty of room for more. The outer diaper wasn’t wet yet, but I expected to find a thoroughly squishy 20-year-old in the morning. I went to my room wondering, because I’m crazy now, if I could change his diaper without waking him; easy peazy with little diaper wearers; how hard would it be with Gordy when he’s, ya know, sober?

I don’t think anyone ever wakes up rested from even the deepest drunk sleep (which is probably because alcohol doesn’t really help people sleep, at least not deeply). I didn’t get a good night’s rest either, but for a different (Gordy-related) reason. No, I did some tossing and turning before falling asleep because I was trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with this 20-year-old I cared very much about but who was so utterly confused about being 20 years old and the gap between his age and his social maturity. His personal maturity, too, in some ways.

He’s so sweet and smart and kind and funny and empathetic. But he’s also clueless when it comes to relating to his peers, especially women. He actually thought I wouldn’t think he was cool for never having alcohol before? Like it’s the 2000s or something? And why did he drink so much? I think because he didn’t realize how much he was having, but why drink more than one if he was just trying to quote be cool unquote? Or maybe once he got downstairs he just felt some peer pressure to fit in with a bunch of college boys. So I guess if he doesn’t relate well to women his age or to boys his age, that leaves … Poor little guy.

All told, if he were any boy other than Gordy (and let’s just pretend that anybody who isn’t Gordy could possibly have his grab bag of emotional challenges), I wouldn’t still be interested in him. Too much work.

But Gordy isn’t just anybody, I was still interested, and I realized Holly was right. It wasn’t just my newfound kink for boys who need caring for and bossing around. It was a genuine desire to be there for Gordy. Help him. Fix him? If at all possible, but even if not, to help him by being his friend and because I am his friend, I wanted to help him.

All of that is so complicated. Who am I to decide Gordy needs fixing? Who am I to try to do it? It’s not like he asked me to. But what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t try to help him? I guess helping is different than fixing. I mean, I don’t think Gordy is broken. He’s just confused and unsure about, well, a lot. I’m not sure anybody can fix anyone else.

But I did want to help him and not like a babysitter. I care about the kids I sit for, and I get emotionally invested in seeing the kiddos who need a little extra help growing up and overcoming stuff, but if their parents decided to hire a different sitter, there’s only a few I’d really miss. If Gordy pushed me away, I’d more than miss him. He’d obviously already picked up the (not well concealed) fact I was trying to guide him a little, and he didn’t always appreciate it. But sometimes he did, and I couldn’t predict how he’d respond one time to the next. Too much too soon, and maybe he’d push me away for good.

#

I got up the next morning and let him sleep in while I made breakfast. We both needed it, and I made a little extra for him, maybe optimistic of me not knowing whether Gordy is the type who can’t hold his drink. I already assumed alcohol would upset his tummy; didn’t need him puking too.

It was late enough, so I called upstairs for him. “Gordy! Breakfast is ready!” In my house, that would wake everyone up, but when I didn’t hear anything at all from upstairs, I remembered how much bigger and better built Maison d’Rooney is. “Gordy,” I called ahead of me as I ascended the stairs. I did a knock-enter, which wasn’t very polite, but when you diaper a 20-year-old it’s easy to forget they deserve 20-year-old privacy.

“Gordy? You awake, bud?” I sat down in the bed next to him as he came to. “Good morning. How do you feel.”

“Urgh.” Except the noise he made was more expressive than my power of onomatopoeia.

“You’ll feel better when we get some protein in you,” I said and picked up the now-empty bottle I’d put on his nightstand. “Good job drinking this all down.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine. Breakfast is almost ready. C’mon.” I grabbed the corner of his covers and tossed them away, revealing a wet double diaper on an otherwise naked Gordy on a blessedly dry bed. I quickly assessed his diapers would last through breakfast. “No time to lose,” I said awfully cheerfully for some reason; I think I was trying to get him excited about powering through his hangover or something. I hopped off the bed and went to his dresser to find some pajama pants and a tee shirt for him while he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He had that stunned look on his face like more than anything he just couldn’t understand how it was that he was awake. “How do you feel,” I asked as I tossed him his shirt and pants.

“I have a headache … My whole face hurts.”

“I have some tylenol and caffeine for you downstairs. C’mon; I make really good French toast.” Tylenol, eggs, sausage, French toast, orange juice, and caffeine. Short of the hair of the dog, a pretty solid hangover breakfast.

“Can I help,” he asked in the kitchen.

“You can take that tylenol and drink that coke.” I wet a paper towel for him. “Here.” While he pressed the towel to his face, I plated up a hearty breakfast. “No nibbling. I want to see you clean your plate for once.” My goodness but I’m a (patronizing) bossy pants without even trying sometimes.

We tucked in, and though I was pretty sure of the answer (he wasn’t blackout drunk), I asked him anyway, “How much do you remember from last night?”

“All of it. Sorry for putting you through that.”

“You don’t remember apologizing to me three times already? Cuz you don’t need to keep apologizing. How’s your tummy feeling?”

“Not great, but I don’t think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Well, I hope you learned your lesson at least,” I said and in a decidedly not judgmental or peeved way. More of a factual way. A hangover is exactly the type of natural consequence that teaches better than any unnatural consequence ever could.

So imagine my surprise when Gordy replied, “Yeah, but I understand why you still have to spank me.”

I didn’t do a spit take or a double take or choke on my scrambled eggs, but I did pause with my fork in the limbo land between plate and lips, and I’m pretty sure my eyes flitted left and right as if checking to see whether anyone else in the otherwise empty room heard that. I had said he was going to get a spanking, but I was just trying to get him out of that chair and into the car at the party.

I hated threatening him, and had I taken longer than a moment to consider it before saying it, I think I would’ve deduced Gordy would take it literally. I wanted him to take me seriously, not literally. And in that stupid decision on my part, I broke a major babysitting rule (besides the one about threatening to spank, which is absolutely forbidden). No, the rule I broke was never issue an empty threat, of which a sub-rule is never threaten a punishment you don’t want to carry out, especially if it’s as much of a punishment for you as for them.

In the moment, when I said what I’d said, yes, a part of me would’ve loved to give Gordy a swat on his reset button, but only because I was frustrated. That’s never a reason for giving a consequence; the only reason for giving a consequence is to teach a lesson. And what lesson would I have taught? Sober Gordy knows better than to make a scene and – hoo boy is this just wrong but unfortunately true – to obey when someone in charge of him tells him to do something. More to the point, sober Gordy knows his behavior was unacceptable. And as I resumed eating and trying to think of what the hell to say, I knew that sober-but-hungover-and-hurting-all-over Gordy was right then learning a lesson about drinking too much. So pretending for a moment that I even wanted to spank Gordy, there was no lesson to teach.

Had I swatted his bottom the night before, it would’ve been to, at best, get his attention, not to teach a lesson. And now that it was the morning after, spanking him would’ve been retributive, not teaching a lesson. Because let’s remember: Gordy is 20 years old, and don’t-get-too-drunk-or-you’ll-get-spanked is not a lesson Gordy or anyone else needs to learn (I hope and pray). So retribution for what? Nothing, so far as I was concerned. I wasn’t mad at him.

Going back to babysitter rules, I’m not really Gordy’s babysitter. Or I am but not really, just like he’s my charge but not really. I wasn’t worried about losing my aura of authority by not following through on a punishment, the other reason not to issue empty threats. I don’t even need an aura of authority with Gordy cuz he’s my friend (and is used to getting bossed around by women anyway).

But most importantly, even though I get a little thrill from having Gordy over my knee, I have no desire to cause him pain. I have no desire to punish him. So I told him, “I was just saying that to get you moving.”

“O,” he replied. He sounded not as happy as you’d think someone would be to not get spanked.

“Did you really think I meant it?”

“Yeah. I mean, my stepmom left you in charge and … I know she said you could.” Yes, the stepmonster did give me spanking privileges. “So does that mean you’re gonna tell her what happened?” Because the stepmonster also said if I didn’t want to spank him, to just tattle on him and she would do it. The nervousness in his voice; damn that woman. Of course he’d rather get spanked by me than by her, but bigger picture, what’s it take to get a 20-year-old to realize the third option is to not get spanked at all and that he can take that option, I dunno, all the damn time!?!

“Of course I’m not gonna tell her.”

“But she said to …”

“I don’t care what she said. I’m 20-years-old; I don’t have to do anything just because someone else says, and neither do you.” Except for when I tell you to do something but only when you’re drunk and I’m trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself further, I didn’t add.

“So … you really wouldn’t have … done it right there, like you said?” Holy heccin helicopters, is he that … The question mad me sad and outraged, and I went with outraged.

“Does she do that to you in public?!? Fucking cunt!”

“No,” he rushed to say, “I mean, not, not in, like, years, but if she’d … If I did what I did last night, at least on the way to the car … And she’d … like you did.”

“What did I do?” That I do anything like that woman does is just … I hate her. I hate that I hate her because I’m not the kind of person who hates people, but she … She screwed up Gordy so incredibly … Cunt!

“You told me while we were out that I was gonna get a spanking when we got home. She does that … I mean, she did it … Not so others can hear, but …”

Sometimes talking with Gordy is like going trauma spelunking. Ooo, what’s that deeper in the trauma cave? What did his ancestors leave behind for me to discover? “When was the last time that happened,” I asked because I’m really trying to just understand Gordy.

“Last May. We were out and got to talking about taking classes over the summer, and I raised my voice at her, and she just said, that’s it – when we get home you’re getting a spanking, and, yeah … She did.”

“What class did she want you to take?”

“None. She didn’t want me taking summer classes. She wanted me to work at this summer camp for kids with disabilities. She thought it would be good for me.”

Huh. Not what I expected of the wicked witch. I also hate that she can’t just be straightforwardly evil. “Why didn’t you want to go work at camp?” Sounds fun to me, but then I have chosen babysitter as my profession.

“I didn’t like going when I was a kid.”

“You went as a kid?”

“Yeah. To a different camp, but yeah. I just didn’t like it.”

“Did you get made fun of cuz of your condition?”

“No, a lot of kids there were incontinent. It was more just … I’m not good at making friends. I’m better at school, so I’d rather take classes all summer than get a job where I have to, ya know.”

“How did she think it would be good for you?”

“She didn’t say this, but I think she meant it would be good for me to get better at making friends and being with people my own age more.”

In that case, the stepmonster had a very good point. Other than me and one other person he went to elementary school with, Gordy doesn’t seem to have any friends our age. He does okay socializing, like he did at the party, but he’s also glad to be done. Though on the other hand, apparently if you put him in a basement with hard liquor and other boys he makes a mess by trying way too hard to fit in based on a ridiculous notion of what fitting in means, so … I guess he does mostly okay socializing with people he already knows. I mean, put him in a classroom and he’s totally comfortable, but more so when he’s interacting with the professor or TA than the other students. It’s not that he’s a snob or trying to be all intellectually superior (he’s smart, not a genius). He’s definitely introverted, which isn’t a problem to fix, but I think it’s more than that. I think he’s a little scared of his peers, or at least feels more comfortable talking to people a little older and in a position of some authority. I could see his stepmom’s point; a summer away spent with his peers (and of course campers) would’ve done him a lot of good.

Another thing, though, that he desperately needs and some of my clients tell me all about when they’re guiltily explaining why they won’t need my services during the summer, is camp helps campers develop independence. And holy shit does Gordy need to develop some friggin independence. Working at a camp would be great for that, but Gordy’s independence level is so low it would do wonders for him to just move out for the summer and live on his own, make his own choices, take care of himself without any supervision. He could that and take classes, and I wonder if that ever occurred to either Gordy or his stepmom.

That the stepmonster understands Gordy needs to develop social skills and independence is great. That she ended an argument about it by giving him a spanking and therefore undermined exactly the traits he needs to develop is at least evidence she’s misguided (my polite way of saying stupid af) rather than evil. Congratulations, stepmonster, you’re just powerfully stupid! But I didn’t want to get into all that … But I will say they’re not mutually exclusive so who’s to say she’s not stupid and evil. Cutting that tangent off now before I really down that rabbit hole …

And btw, while this conversation was going on, it became apparent to me that one of us (not me!) had awful gas or a relatively inoffensive poopy diaper. You babysit long enough, and not only do you get used to the scent and to changing poopy diapers, but you get so used to it that you start thinking of some as better or worse than others, which is just weird but a professional hazard.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave and cursed myself for forgetting Gordy’s morning routine. He gets up, he has breakfast, he sits on the potty (toilet – dammit!) until he passes something, and then he showers and goes about his day. I let him sleep in, the alcohol obviously did no favors, and we were taking our sweet time with breakfast, so … Though despite being his pseudo-babysitter I probably didn’t need to fault myself given, ya know, that he’s 20 years old and can manage his own routine … unless he was waiting to be dismissed because he thought he was getting a spanking. Poor, messed up little guy.

There’s no etiquette for what to say or do when your breakfast companion fills their diaper. If he were a potty training toddler, I would’ve rushed him to the nearest potty in the ridiculous hope at least some of the situation could be salvaged (and in the process probably made a bigger mess for myself to clean up). But he’s not potty training, and he’s not a toddler. I’ve had my share of teeny tots mush their tush when one or both of us was eating, and not that I made the mental comparison and decided to act thusly, but I did the same thing I did in those situations: nothing. I said nothing, and I did nothing.

Gordy did the same thing: he said nothing and did nothing. He acted naturally, which in an unfortunate way is an apt expression since what he was doing was natural for him. I don’t know if he was acting naturally in the hope I wouldn’t notice or if he thought it more polite to not draw attention to it or if he was literally just letting nature take its course and not making a big deal out of it because it just wasn’t. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal, but it was definitely not nothing. I mean, it’s normal for him if not routine, so maybe to him it’s not a deal of any size.

To me, though, it was not a big deal but it was a deal of … minor size, I decided. I’ve never had a conversation with another adult while they were pooping their pants, and those non-existent conversations did not continue while the other adult was just sitting in a loaded diaper as if nothing out of the social norm had happened. That made it a deal. What made it minor, I decided while Gordy was explaining to me why prefers summer school to summer camp (or, ya know, a job), was dirty diapers don’t always get changed right away. The delay isn’t long, but as any babysitter and especially the best in town knows, it’s best give it a couple minutes to make sure they’re done. And sometimes an immediate change just isn’t possible and making a big deal out of it accomplishes nothing. Even when a change is readily available, even the very best, most empathetic caregivers sometimes finish what they’re doing, like having a conversation but usually not with the person with the mushy tushy, before changing the tyke.

And whatever pill Gordy takes to make the odor of his diapers not as bad works okay. It’s not perfect, but it was at least tolerable as proven by the fact we both kept eating. I did wonder, though, if Gordy was even aware when he was doing it. His face, his tone, his body language – nothing changed. Maybe he’s nose blind to it; maybe he can’t always feel it (even though he told me he could, but then he also told me he’d had alcohol before; what weird logic that would be – tell your babysitter that though you can’t control when you soil yourself you at least know when it’s happening so she won’t think your not cool). Maybe it was very small or runny? Maybe he was totally nonplussed by it and thought I was too (great poker face, me) or would be if he were too. Or maybe he just didn’t know.

A lull in the conversation let me ask, “So how did you like your breakfast?” How’s that for ignoring the elephant in the room? Don’t you tell me that I can’t convincingly pretend everything is normal even with the best of them.

“It was good.”

“Feel any better?”

“Yeah, a little. Caffeine definitely helped. My stepmom never allows soda at breakfast.”

O my gawd does he have any opinions of his own or is he just her parrot?

“So listen,” he said and left a big, pregnant pause.

“Yeah?”

“Can I …” Ah – there’s the stressed-to-the-point-of-distressed speaking cadence I’ve come to know in Gordy so well. What was he going to ask? Would it be about the little chat we had after the in-diaper HJ he got the day before? Was he working up the courage to tell me he had a full diaper? Or – heavens! – was he going to ask me to change him? Tell me he didn’t need my help changing? Apologize yet again?

“This is … I wouldn’t say if it weren’t, ya know … I know it’s weird, I get that, but …”

“Honey, it’s okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” Preferably before he lost what was left of his power of speech. It’s not that I get frustrated by him but that sometimes I get frustrated for him, that it isn’t easier for him to tell me what he needs to tell me.

“I don’t feel … right about … I know you said it’s okay, but it isn’t. It’s not okay.”

“What isn’t?”

“Last night. I do deserve a spanking … for what I did.”

On the one hand, he technically did not ask me to give him a spanking. On the other hand, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckety fuckin fuckety fuck. Really. Just … really?