Mary and Daphne #152

We left the town I grew up in and drove about thirty minutes. I grew up in the suburbs, so all that means is we took the highway part-way around the city. Not my first time to that part of town but a place I rarely went to growing up. In other words, where I probably wouldn’t know anybody. I hadn’t lived in my hometown for longer than a summer break in twelve years, so it’s not like I knew everyone back forty minutes the other way, but I might know some of them. Can’t go anywhere with Mom but she runs into two different people she knows, but she’s lived there her whole life.

Anyway, Sara took me somewhere no one would know me, is the main point. It made me a little anxious cuz there’s a reason she would do that, and I didn’t know what it was. I had some guesses, and I tried very hard to suppress my anxiety and remember that Sara wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me … or do any bad things to me. But she could also not do bad things to me or let them happen to me around people I know without any problems either. It’s very easy, actually. Happens all the time. Really.

“We’re here,” Sara announced.

“A skating rink,” I asked for some weird reason cuz it was obviously a skating rink. That’s me now, person-who-announces-the-obvious, apparently. Maybe I need to read more challenging books or something and claw my way back to being a worldly conversationalist.

“Yep! Sit tight.” I did, and she came around to let me out of the car even though I now knew I could just as easily have gotten out on the driver side cuz that’s what she did after her Very-Sincere-But-Also-Pushing-My-Buttons talk.

And here’s the thing: I don’t ice skate.

Nor do I roller skate, roller blade, skateboard, ski, or snowboard. Surprising because I grew up in a state where almost everyone can skate, but not surprising when one remembers I have all the coordination of a newborn gazelle (which are actually much more coordinated than me after being alive for twenty short minutes). Now put that newborn gazelle on something slippery. You think that’s just self-deprecating exaggeration, and it is …but not by as much I wish it were.

“I can’t skate,” I said to Sara. And she knows that because while we don’t live together (eyeroll), we have lived next to each other for my whole life, and I know for a fact she’s seen me sitting on the bench when the neighborhood pond freezes over playing a wicked game of Solo Sad Girl while everyone else skates. She even comes over and says hi to me, so what exactly was she getting at with taking me to a skating rink?

“And today is the last day you’ll be able to say you can’t skate.” Ah, got it now. Good thing one of us had faith in my skills (her, specifically; not me) And here I am being me, a supremely confident person who is actually among the best at most of the best things … but not skating.

“No, but I really can’t.” Not that I don’t trust Sara. I, for example, trusted she would ride in the ambulance with me on the way to the emergency room after I smacked my head on the ice.

“When’s the last time you tried,” she asked me.

“A long time, but …”

“And how old were you then? Try to guess.”

“Um … Nine?”

“And have you gotten better at other things since you were nine?”

“Yeah,” I answered, seeing her point and still not wanting to try it. Does she not know what happens when you fall on ice? It’s like concrete! And ya know what’s under the ice at skating rinks? CONCRETE! I think.

And you don’t bounce back as easily when you’re not a little kid, which I’m physiologically not no matter how everyone treats me. I had visions of me being Girl—Everyone-Is-Staring-At-Cuz-She’s-Too-Old-To-Be-Crying-That-Hard-No-Matter-How-Hard-She-Fell while everyone skates around me and then the manager would slide me on my butt to the nearest exit with a push broom like I’m a curling stone. Not that they actually do that, but it makes some sense from an efficiency standpoint.

But back to Sara, my cheerleader, which was nice and all, but also … meh. “Of course you’ve gotten better at lots of things,” she said as she held my hand through the parking lot. “And you have a lesson scheduled.”

“I do?”

“You do! A late Christmas present!” She is so irritatingly positive! Which is so irritatingly endearing! Dammit.

Now, just because I couldn’t skate doesn’t mean I didn’t spend a lot of time at skating rinks growing up. There was this awkward period after age nine when I had given up on skating entirely and was the lonely, bored girl at friends’ birthday skating parties. Then came the awkward time when my friends wanted to hang out at the rink to flirt with boys. Then the less-awkward-but-by-no-means-not-awkward period when I knew I liked girls and tried to feign interest in the flirting but was really watching the figure skaters skating and being hot and wearing leotards and those spinny skirts. Maybe that’s when I acquired my leotard fetish? Yeah, definitely. And I didn’t want to fall on my butt in front of the all the hot women in leotards. Insult, meet injury, ya know?

Just as I remembered, the non-rink part of the rink was so heccin hot! And loud and crowded. We waded through all the kids rushing around, and the parents who looked so over it all and ready for Christmas vacation to be over and them to be back in school, to the reception desk.

“Hi,” Sara said to the woman there. “We have a lesson scheduled.” Which is when I learned that it was not a solo lesson and that Sara, or whomever made these arrangements, had reserved a private changing room. Good for multiple reasons, one of which was not wanting to be in a crowded changing room and the other of which was suspecting Sara had things in store for me that I’d find unacceptably embarrassing (and that police might find misdemeanor-y) if they were to happen in the presence of others. We got our change room key and skates, and the woman said we had twenty minutes and told us where to go for the lesson.

“Are you going to take a lesson too,” I asked Sara.

“No. I already know how to skate.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I’ve just never been skating with you cuz you don’t know how.” How did I not know that about ‘Sara?’ “We need to a hurry a little if we don’t wanna be late.”

You hafta give ‘Sara’ credit for booking the time and working backward to get me out of bed, out of the house, and through the store with twenty minutes to spare, almost as if she anticipated all the ways I’d slow us down. Like she knows me really, really well or something. Hmmm. Though of course I didn’t slow us down at all; she did with her shenanigans and well-meaning but misplaced adherence to the alleged rules my imaginary mom made up.

“So where will you be during my lesson,” I asked for reasons other than being nervous. Cuz I wasn’t. Really. Ignore everything I said before. I gibber when I jabber and what comes out is pure nonsense. There goes Daphne, people say, she can’t skate, not that she’s nervous about trying, and btw she is so good at nonsense. Yep, that’s a thing people say about me. Really.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time. You nervous?”

“A little.” Who said that? Me? More nonsense. But also o my god, yes! Heck heccin yes!

“Maybe a lot a little? Hurry and get undressed.”

What should I have been more nervous about? Falling on hard ice or whatever knavery she had in mind for our day out? Yes/and. Good thing I’m not the nervous or anxious type. Sigh …

“All the way,” I asked.

“Down to your socks.”

“With you in the room?”

“Did I not change your diaper and spank your bare bottom for you this morning?” Fair point … Doesn’t mean she had to bring it up though … And can we please spend some time later debating who that was for (I’ll take the Not Daphne side). “Besides, we’re both girls. Need a little help?”

She was in a hurry, just guessing by how she didn’t wait for me to answer, and I woulda protested that it was totally inappropriate, but (1) I could tell that she wasn’t really asking, (B) she had a point about who’d seen (and touched) what, and (Purple) I think I have a crush on her or something? And how oddly familiar it felt to have Sara strip my clothes off me in a hurry, almost like she’d done it before. For serious.

Personally, I was in less of a hurry because I didn’t so much mind being late for an opportunity to embarrass myself. Of course, it would only be embarrassing for a second, and then everyone would stop laughing when they saw how badly injured I was … so I guess I had that going for me? I just hoped I wouldn’t take anyone down with me.

And hey, thought – did you know you don’t actually hafta get undressed to put a pair of ice skates on? True story I read once that I remembered only after I was naked below the waist. “Hey Sara,” I asked off handedly, because, ya know, reasons and suspicions and well-founded reasons for having suspicions, “how come I’m not wearing any pants? Asking for my friend.”

“We gotta get your pull-up on, sweetie, and remember what we talked about. You’re gonna be a good girl and cooperate.” She knelt down in front of me and held open one of her Goodnites, and I put a hand on her shoulder for balance as I stepped in. And can I pause and just point out that if I need to put my hand on her shoulder for balance to literally take a step, I shouldn’t be on ice!

“But, um, why do I hafta wear it?”

“The lesson is an hour long, and it’s just too much trouble to get you off the ice every time you hafta potty.”

Like I had to right then, which is a thing I realized as she was sliding it up my legs and seating it snugly against my … seat. I may not be ready to babysit, according to some people, but I do know that if a person has potty problems, which I do not (repeat: not!), then you give them a chance to use said potty before putting them in a new pull-up. I could’ve said something, but I had this weird feeling it wouldn’t have been taken seriously. Probably would’ve resulted in something along the lines of ‘O, you think so? That’s a good sign. Let’s tell your mommy when she gets home tonight,’ or something like that, but no trip to a toilet. Don’t know what ‘Sara’ could have ever done to me to make me feel that way. Sigh …

“Can you see it,” I asked when my leggings were pulled back up. And o, hey, how about Sara picking out leggings when she knew she’d but putting me in a pull-up later? If she’s not careful, she’s gonna give me complex about the unspoken intentions of beautiful women, and that could express itself in so many unexpected ways when I grow up and get married. Really.

“Arms up.”

“My friend would super really like to know why you’re taking my sweater off,” I said with maybe a tinge of irritation. A touch. A very small amount.

“To get your skating outfit on, silly goose.”

“I don’t …”

Which is when Mary, no Sara, I think maybe, produced from her backpack my Halloween costume, the one that back in October was a ballerina outfit complete with tights, skirt, and leotard but that, minus the tights was going to be pulling double duty as a skating outfit, apparently.

Wear that in vanilla space with a you-know underneath where people would definitely see me and might see it? The sight of the thing sent my parts in opposite directions. Some parts were wobbly. Some parts were tingly. Some parts just checked the heck out, for instance my brain, which musta needed to do a hard restart or something.

“Daffy,” Sara said, “Step in.”

“Huh?”

“Step in,” she repeated as she held the leotard open for me.

“How?”

“What?”

“I mean, how can I wear that with the and at the place when I’m, you know,” I very clearly asked as she got the straps over my shoulders. When did I even step into the thing? Also, Lycra is smooth and slippery, is a thought I had at the time (seriously, need to exercise the ol’ thinking organ with something that isn’t erotica and very soon).

“You’ll feel better when we’re in the rink. I think you’re getting overheated,” she chuckled. “Your face is bright red.”

Can you believe she chuckled at me? Like I’m a figure of comedy of something? I’m a very serious person to be taken very seriously. Really.

But in reference to the color I turned, “That’s a thing that happens … But I can’t wear this with a pull-up. Everyone will see.”

“Not with your skirt on.”

“But what if my skirt flies up,” I asked as she raised my skirt up around my hips. When did I even step into that thing?

“Daffy, trust me. No one will be able to tell what you’re wearing.”

“But … But I’ll get cold.”

“You’ll probably be too hot once you get going.”

“Do I really hafta wear this?”

“Yes, you really get to wear this. Still dry,” Miss Sara I-Have-An-Answer-For-Everything asked me and didn’t wait for an answer before putting her hand under my skirt and giving me several firm pats … on the front part.

Gah! “You’re g-gonna …”

“I’m just checking …”

“Stop … words.”

“Are you alright? Daffy?”

“I need outta this room.” Before she touches another spot, pushes another button, or says another word and makes me number three in my pants which is how she puts it and I hate it but also love it and turn the doorknob and light and air! Precious air!

Thank god no one was on the opposite side of that door cuz I couldn’t have opened it any harder if I had a battering ram. And on the other side of the door was a room full of people that smelled like sweaty cocoa. Well, that certainly put the ice in my … bucket. You’re usually better at metaphors … but not so much when she’s pushing the buttons.

“Someone is suddenly so eager,” Sara said looking very satisfied with herself.

“I’m kinda lightheaded.” And I might’ve pulled a tummy muscle stopping … something from happening.

“Trying to goldbrick? You’re not getting out of your lesson.”

Gotta stay on your feet; fainting will only attract attention which will only make you faint again. Damn, but I’m complicated, even to the point that I still don’t know why wearing a skating outfit at a skating rink should push my humiliation kink buttons so much. Not like anyone knew why I was wearing it or how I was feeling or even what I was wearing under it. “It’s too hot in here,” I told Sara. Yep, the room’s fault, not mine or Sara’s … well, not mine, anyway.

“Let’s go then.” Sara locked the door behind us, and we speed-walked to the rink. Cold air has never felt so good. Sara sat us down on the bleachers right next to where the lady at the desk said to go for the lesson.

“Are you okay,” she asked me with a very serious look on her face like it was just now occurring to her that people in my condition – by which I mean how I apparently just am at all the times now and not only like right then when I was recovering from an acute attack of being me – should maybe not be put on ice.

“Yeah. No, yeah, I’m fine. Just needed some cold air.” A cold shower and a little forbearance on Sara’s part not being available.

In a dazzling display of dexterity that made me think of all the things Sara could probably do with those fingers and the hands they’re attached to, she had my skates laced in no time flat. I don’t even like walkingin skates. Feel like I’m always on the verge on snapping my ankle, the avoidance of which was a helpful distraction from what I was wearing in a room full of regular people.

“Who’s here for a lesson,” some guy probably named Chad asked as he looked from his clipboard to the various people milling about. You actually have to do this, a voice in my head reminded me. This is a thing that’s happening, and you can’t stop it.

Nothing like a good ol’ dose of fear to pull my attention away from so many other emotions. Not that I was scared; I don’t get scared. I was gonna join the X-Men, but they said it’s important for their members to retain at least a small sense of fear as a tool for self-preservation, so I couldn’t join. … If only ice skating was part of their entrance exam, but their loss. Really.

It was a small group lesson, by which I mean there were only two others taking lessons and that they were very small, like under seven years of age. Not sure if that was on purpose but Sara did a good job looking surprised (she did a less good job looking sorry).

And here’s a thing Chad gave me that no one ever thought to give me when I tried to learn to skate the last (six) time(s): a helmet. What a friggin’ breakthrough! That would be such a big help in making sure my concussion was merely moderate and not critical! Chad (I missed his real name, if he ever said it, cuz I was too busy catastrophizing in my head), even helped me sort through the bin to find the only adult-sized one while the parents helped their littles ones get theirs on. I put my own helmet on, and what a shot of confidence. Way ahead of my classmates already! Dammit.

“Everyone ready,” Chad asked and stepped onto the ice, making this gesture like it was time for the rest of of us to do the same. Which, seriously?

“Shouldn’t we watch a safety film first?” Why’s everyone laughing? I’m being serious, very very serious.

I waited my turn (while the parents literally picked their kids up under the arms and lifted them over the threshold of the door in the boards before setting them down very gently on the ice, keeping their hands on their shoulders to help the little kiddos balance). Yeah, no, great Christmas gift, not potentially lethal and definitely not mortifyingly embarrassing at all. Like, not only am I not six years old, but these are my permanent teeth we’re putting at risk here!

“C’mon,” Mary said and held out her hand for me as she stepped onto the ice like she wasn’t right then doing some superhero shit and I should just be able to do the same thing. But hey, good on me for keeping my whole-body shaking so well controlled it wasn’t visible to anyone else.

“Mary,” I said because I just couldn’t stay in character, “if I take out one of these kindergartners, I will never forgive myself.”

It’s a known fact that I’m bad at whispering, but I think it was more the remarkable abilities of almost brand-new ears that made it possible for one of my tiny classmates to respond, “I’m in first grade.”

Wow. I feel so much better now, and did anyone else just see those parents move their kids further away from me? I closed my eyes for a second to regather my patience only to find that I really needed all my senses to stay balanced even with Mary holding my arm. “Maybe we should’ve put some thicker padding on your butt,” Mary whispered successfully cuz she’s better at that than me too.

“Not funny.”

“You’re gonna be able to skate by the time we go home, and my name is Sara, sweetie. Sa-ra.” Ugh.

I guess the good news is I only fell once and it was on my butt, which has had a lot of practice with impacts against hard surfaces (other way around, actually, but a physicist will tell you it’s the same difference). I didn’t fall the rest of the time so much as I would just keep going until I ran out of momentum and either bumped into the wall (and grabbed it before my butt could hit the ice again) or just came to a slow stop and sat down. More of a falling sit, but we’re not going to count the fall part.

“They are so adorable,” Sara said about the little tykes not-literally-but-damn-near skating rings around me. Hot damn I’m feeling good about myself right now! Really!

“They’re too young to know about traumatic brain injuries,” I reminded Sara. Anyone can move their body with free-spirited abandon when they don’t know about traumatic brain injuries! Really. “O god, he’s coming over again.”

“He’s here to help,” Sara reminded me as Chad joined us again. Not that I disliked Chad, but I would have preferred to just fail all by lonesome (with Sara by my side).

And what’s that he’s got? O geez, not the chair! “A lot of adult learners find it a little easier to get their feet under them if they use the chair to steady themselves. Like this,” he said as he put his hands on the back of the chair and pushed it in front of him as he skated. Like I didn’t already know about the chair. Not my first ice skating lesson. I know all about the damn chair. At least he called you an adult; first person to do that all day.

After Chad had given me some more pointers, I got behind the chair cuz at that point, why not? “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to show up to a skating lesson in a skating outfit like a huge nerd who bought the outfit but can’t actually skate and then be the only adult in the whole place wearing a helmet and pushing a chair,” I hissed at Sara.

“Pretty darn embarrassing, judging by all the shades of red you’ve turned today.”

“Meanest. Sitter. Ever.”

“Not even close, cupcake. Bend your knees a little.”

But if I do that then I can’t be stiff as board, and my anxiety is telling me I should be stiff as a board right now. “I’d rather not.” Wow, how calmly and politely I said that.

“Just try it. It’ll help.”

“Fine, but anything I hurt you’re rubbing later.” That’s called making a good deal.

And then the lesson over and not a moment too soon. I asked, “Can we leave now, please?”

“Nope.”

“What!?! Why not,” I didn’t whine even though The Anti-Whining Society of Wisconsin would’ve agree it was justified if I had … which I didn’t. Really.

“Because you’re not done skating,” Sara said once more like she was delivering the best news since ever.

“I so am!” I. Was. So. Done.

“Have you had fun yet,” she asked.

“No.” True story.

“Then you’re not done skating.”

“Saraaaa!”

“Nope. Grab your helmet.”

“The lesson is over. What if someone else needs it?”

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue.” I mean, almost certainly not, but how rude to say so. Amiright? I mean, honestly, the nerve.

“Well, what if we go get some cocoa first?”

“I know that trick. By the time we stand in line, you get through pretending it’s too hot to drink, and sip it down a milliliter at a time, it’ll be time to go home.” Whoa, she really does know that trick.Not that that was exactly what I was gonna do, but yes it was.

“But …”

“Daphne Ann Schmidt,” she said not as quietly as I would’ve liked, loud and crowded skating rink notwithstanding, “you can skate with a freshly spanked bottom, or not. Your choice. Three …” Definitely not as quietly as I would’ve liked.

“Not,” I sighed.

“Exactly what I would’ve chosen. Let’s go.”

If I were actually good at it, skating hand-in-hand with ‘Sara’ while wearing a leotard (in public!) would’ve been one the all-time great things I ever got to do. The only thing tighter than her hand was the leotard, and that’s exactly how I like both of those things. Not that we didn’t look a little weird, me dressed like a skating princess and Sara in jeans and a college sweatshirt looking decidedly less finicky about her appearance, which is when I muttered, “We look so gay right now,” and couldn’t help chuckling. Neither outfit reflects what we look like or who we are every day, but we definitely fit one of the many (so many) stereotypes of a lesbian couple.

Then something terrible happened. No, I didn’t get hurt (thank goodness!) or hurt anyone else (thank god!). Something almost as bad. I started to get a little good at skating, which in itself is great … but it proved Sara right. Worse, I started to have fun. Just terrible. I hate proving my people right when I’ve put so much work into insisting they’re wrong. Which is a thing that doesn’t make me a brat even a little bit. Really.

“Leggo,” I told Sara.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Heehee!” She let go of my hand, and in a moment I’ll never live down even if I live long enough to marry my babysitter, I actually said, “I’m doing it! I’m really doing it!” At least I didn’t go wheeee!And I loved-hated-loved how proud I felt when Sara clapped for me. Pretty sure I was starting to like her again. Why else care would I what she thought of me? (Cuz it’s not like I’m ever insecure or anything. Really).

A half hour later, “It’s almost time to go home.”

“Five more times,” I asked. Not pleaded, asked. Like a mature adult who needed permission from their babysitter. Not like I’m the only one, right? Right?

“Three,” she said and held up three fingers like I needed a visual aid which is a thing a person might reasonably conclude if they are the babysitter of a mature adult. Um, really. Not that I minded it or ever overanalyze anything while writing in my diary that no one else will ever read.

Back in our dressing room, our windburnt cheeks aglow and steam practically rising from Sara’s sweatshirt, I cowgirled up and said, “Thank you. That was fun after all.” How very magnanimous of me, I know.

“You’re very welcome. You can have all sorts of fun if you just listen to your caregivers.” She pulled off her sweatshirt, and underneath she was wearing this white tee that looked a little damp from exertion. Not that I was staring. “Now, let’s get my little skater ready for the drive home.”

“This is so cool,” I said.

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“I know how to skate. Finally … Can we have my next birthday at a skating rink?” I was the only girl in my whole class who never had a birthday party at a skating rink! I have lost time to make up for!

“I don’t see why not, and there are plenty of places closer to home you can skate at too.”

“Can I wear the outfit,” I said maybe a little flirtatiously.

“Of course you can,” she chuckled as she started taking said outfit off me. “Ya know, you’re becoming quite the shapely young woman. At this rate, you might even have B-cups one day.” That stung a little, but just then I liked her, so I didn’t call her on it.

First the skirt came off, then she started taking the leotard off me. “Sara, is it normal for me to feel … tingly when I wear this outfit?” Trying to start something? Who, me? Never.

“Daphne, I understand that at your age you’re having lots of feelings you don’t understand, but that’s more a question for your mom than your babysitter.”

“I’m gonna ask my friend Mary tonight. She knows lots of stuff.” Not that I was derpily excited because of my accomplishment, but (squeee!!!!) I was and was looking forward to telling Mary all about it. And my mom and dad. They’d be so proud of me too (awww!). And maybe they’d be a little flustered cuz it’s not like they didn’t try to teach me for nearly nine years. Perhaps it was so difficult for them to teach me because I was something of a willful child; hard to imagine, I know.

“Let’s see if my awesome skater managed to keep her pull-up … Nope, but that’s okay. Did you know you’re wet, honey?”

“Yeah,” I said ever so much less excited, absorbent undergarments I don’t need always having that effect on me, as Sara took my leggings off.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed a potty break?”

“Are you mad?” As in angry, not crazy. Clearly, she’s crazy. Clearly.

“Of course not, sweetheart. Did you know you needed a potty break?”

“I thought I was supposed to use them.”

“You’re supposed to use your diapers, honey, but when you’re in pull-ups …”

“You called them diapers!”

Sara’s I-done-been-called-out face. Ha! “I did, didn’t I?” She tore the sides and pulled it from between my thighs.

“Yes, which makes it all your fault, but I forgive you cuz I had a fun day anyway.”

“Well thank you; that’s very big of you for such a little girl. And I think maybe having your pull-ups on probably helped you learn to skate today. You woulda lost a lot of practice time if you had to make so many trips to the potty.”

“It wouldn’t have been that many trips.” I may – who’s to say? – have poked my tongue out at her.

“Really,” she said and hefted the pull-up in her hand before tossing it up a few inches like a softball. “Cuz it feels like at least three trips to me.”

“Um … I’m not blushing, you are!”

“Well, you’re the best skater and potty pants I know.” I let that go cuz just then I was liking her. And normally I’d be embarrassed to leave one of those in a public trashcan, but I’d be much more embarrassed to leave it in my parents’ trashcan, as we’d already done a couple times. My parents must think we have some weird hang up about taking out the trash every day (or more).

“Put this on while I get your things ready,” she said and handed me a dry tee.

When my head popped out, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why do I hafta wear a diaper?” Cuz o look, she got out a diaper. What a predictable and predicted surprise.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t argue about your diapers anymore today.”

“I’m not arguing, but couldn’t I wear one of the pull-ups instead?” No point negotiating for panties. Aim for the possible.

“Sorry, but anytime you might fall asleep, you need to be in diapers, and you know that rule so don’t even try me. I can still redden your bottom today.”

Eep! But nonetheless, “But I’m not gonna fall asleep.”

“Lay down,” she said, pointing to the diaper she had laid open on the bench. Having made a promise and not wanting to get my bare bottom spanked in the changing room (well, at least not right then), I did. “I know all about girls your age,” she said as she wiped me down and sprinkled powder on me. “They all think they’re grown-ups, but after an active day like today with all this fresh air and practically bouncing from excitement, you’ll be asleep in the backseat in twenty minutes.”

She finished taping me into the diaper (one of the bunny ones) and reached into what was starting to seem like a bottomless bag for a pair of sweatpants for me. Better than leggings considering, but not as good as jeans.

“Shoot,” she said as she dug through the bag.

“What?”

“I forgot to bring a clean outfit for myself.”

“That’s okay. You don’t stink too bad.” Me? A brat? Where do these rumors get started?

“Said Little Miss Potty Pants,” she retorted and playfully smacked my butt. I let that go too. And isn’t it just like Sara to take such good care of me that she totally forgets to take care of herself? I so have a crush on my babysitter!

We stopped for pizza on the way home, and when we got home, I dashed upstairs to put on jeans, leaving Sara holding the pizza and my mom chuckling, “She’s always had a tiny bladder. All the stops on trips, remember, honey,” she asked my dad, who responded with a dad noise that I think means yes.

Or that’s just a thing Sara made up to make me squirm. She found me in my bedroom and wanted to debrief on the day. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes, really. Thanks for taking me and making me try it.”

“You’re welcome. And did anyone make fun of you for what you were wearing?”

“Not that I know of,” if we’re not counting Sara. But pretty sure someone out of that crowd had to have remarked on the woman in the figure skater outfit taking lessons with little kids, not that the skater outfit was the part of my ensemble she was asking about.

“I didn’t think so. You were cute as a diaper pin today.”

“Sarrrraaa.”

“Just teasing. I had a really good time with you today. A little rough start, but you were a good girl all afternoon.” O my god! My babysitter thinks I was a good girl! Squeee!

“Does that mean you won’t tell Mom and Dad that you needed to …”

“Spank your bare bottom?” I nodded. “No need to be embarrassed. Sometimes girls like you need their bare bottoms spanked. Needing some firm guidance is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, some girls never grow out of needing it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“O good, cuz I was worried about that,” I couldn’t help but joke. I giggled, and Sara tickled me on my side for just a second, and I tried hard and didn’t even squeal. Really.

“How’s your diaper? Wet?”

“I don’t need changed.”

“That’s very good, but that’s not what I asked you.”

“Pizza first. Please?” Cuz we didn’t stop for lunch, and I expended some serious calories just being anxious and I didn’t have any protein (understanding now why that’s a thing my wife insists on), and I needed to eat something before tummy-hurting-and-could-maybe-throw-up-hungry turned into dizzy—and-gonna-definitely-throw-up-hungry. Only reason. It’s a hazard of being smol. Really.

“Look at me,” Sara said, and I think she meant look up cuz I was already looking at her. She must not have liked something about my color or my eyes cuz instead of making a smart remark, she said, “You need to eat something.”

“I just said that,” is a thing I said.

“But before we go downstairs, I want you to know I really mean it – I had a great time with you today. One of our best days ever?”

“One of our best days ever.” We exchanged a very good hug, and I got a kiss on my forehead, which I always like.

“Put this on,” Sara said when she got a long cardigan out for me to wear. The kind that goes past my butt. “Go on down and start without me. I need to change.”

“Does that mean you’re not coming downstairs?”

“Nope. I’m going straight home.”

“O. Do you think after I go home, you could come visit me sometimes?”

“Ha. I’d like that very much.”

“Thanks for making my day so special.”

“Thank you, Daffodil, for making my day so special. Run along and tell your Mom and Dad what a good skater you are.” She sent me on my way with a swat on my butt, which I saw coming but didn’t try to dodge because reasons.

As I was descending the stairs, straining to hear if I was crinkling (pretty sure I wasn’t?), it struck me: Why the #!$@$% do I feel like I just said goodbye to Mary @#$@$% Poppins!?! Get a grip! Geez!

“Daffy, there you are,” my Mary said to me when she came downstairs.

“Mary!” And you better believe I koala’ed her like a tree. Why the #!$@$% do I feel like Mary just got home from a business trip!?! Doesn’t matter. I like her and stuff.

“Is everything okay,” Dad asked, “Looks like you haven’t seen each other all day.”

“We’re fine,” Mary said as she rubbed my back while I blushed and only partly let go of Mary.

“Is it … Is it a lesbian thing,” he asked quietly.

“Daddyyy! You’ve been making that same joke for twenty years.” I saw it coming the moment he did that thing with his eyes where he pretends he’s looking to make sure we’re alone, and I just had to stand there and let it happen.

“Because it still makes you laugh.”

“Yeah, but … So?”

“I don’t know how you handle her, Mary, but thank you for taking such good care of her for me.”

“My very happy pleasure.” Ooo, she’s smiling at me.

“Besides,” I said, “I take care of her.”

“That’s true,” Mary replied. Hey, who’s squeezing my butt and where is that barely audible crinkling coming from?