Mary and Daphne #150

Every year, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday until it’s over, and then Christmas takes the top spot. Since we usually don’t travel for Christmas, our tradition is Christmas Eve at Mary’s brother’s house, Christmas morning just the two of us (and church, unless we went on Christmas Eve), and Christmas dinner at her parents’ house.

How to recreate some of our Christmas morning tradition since we did travel this year? For starters, we left most of our presents for each other at home. We’ll open them on New Year’s Day. Second, we woke up early on Christmas morning. My dad, sweetheart though he is, has never been a morning person, and he decreed some twenty-odd years ago that there will be no present-opening before nine. Interminable as a kid, though at least he waited until we were a little older before implementing that rule. And apparently, he still lives by that rule. To get some alone time, we stupidly decided to get up at an hour that, when factoring in the time change, was neither definitively night nor morning.

“Merry Christmas,” my wife said to me ever so sweetly while stroking my cheek. That was a lovely way to wake up, very considerate when one accounts for the size of the bed and that all she’d have to do to wake me is sit up (and by doing so, knock my butt to the floor).

“Snoofering early sleep gurnymartin and stuff,” is how I greeted the love of my life on Christmas morning, according to said love. I’ll take her word for it cuz I don’t remember.

“I usually have to work to make you spout gibberish. Daffodil,” she sang my name to me. “Daffodil. Wake up, sleepy head.” Which is a weird expression – if a person is sleepy, they should get more sleep, not be told to wake up. How cruel this world is even on Christmas.

“What time is it,” I managed to ask.

“Very early on Christmas morning.”

“Dad was right about the rule.” All those years I doubted him. The wisdom of our elders, I guess … or something.

“Roll over for me.”

“We should buy them a queen-sized bed as a housewarming present when they move,” I grumped as I tried to do a barrel roll. Ooo, Mary’s Christmas morning smile.“Hi.”

“Hi back. You look pretty as a picture this morning.”

“That’s a lie. Here in Wisconsin, we call those lies.” I mean, I could feel my hair sticking up. Maybe should’ve washed the product out of it before I got in bed, but it was late. Late to bed plus super early to rise equals all the ingredients to put me on track for one of those moods my Mary insists needs adjusting. And no, Christmas is not a cheat day with zero consequences. If anything, the smart mouth I married told me once, with the threat of Santa’s being on naughty list now an entire twelve months away, she needs to be even more strict to keep me on the straight and narrow (though true story: she has never kept me straight and hasn’t tried).

“You know what I think we should do,” she asked me cuz she values my opinion.

“Go back to sleep and forget about our valiant but misguided attempt to have predawn alone time?”

“I think we should take a shower.” And see, the thing about that sentence is it has a plural subject and a singular object: we … a shower.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since calling me pretty thirty seconds ago.”

“I’m going to have a talk with your mom to find out if not enough sleep has always made you so sarcastic or if it started with puberty.”

“Firstly, who was being sarcastic? Second, the average kid doesn’t understand sarcasm until age thirteen, but I think I started in kindergarten.” I got out of bed first and discovered, “O crap, it’s freezing!” Dad was so proud of his smart thermostat, he showed it to us the day we got there … for ten forever minutes. And turns out it’s smart enough to know that no one in the house is out from under their covers at that unholy hour. I dashed for my robe hanging on the back of the door, and when I turned around to toss Mary hers, there she was: sitting up in bed, leaning on one hand, her tank top askew, her hair a mess. Oof, so damn pretty.

“Hey, Mary,” I asked all suddenly awake and coquettish, “let’s use the shower downstairs.”

“Why all the way down there,” she asked as she put her robe on and hugged herself for warmth, a job I would soon be doing for her.

“I was thinking as last minute Christmas gifts for each other, I’d do that thing you like, and you could make that sound I like.”

Mary looked around like she was searching for something. “Did I miss something that made you go from sleepy grump to thirsty temptress?”

“You’re giving off all this Christmas hot girl energy I couldn’t see when you were under the covers.” I’m not blushing. Just hot all of a sudden.

“Aren’t you so sweet when you want sex,” she said like I’m adorable and stuff, which I am but also sexy and cunning and humble and witty and benevolent. Kinda packing a lot of superlatives into a small frame. Really.

“I try my best for you.”

And a little while later when we were clean and well groomed, Mom found us on the couch, steaming mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, the two of us more than ready to open presents … as soon as we woke up again.

Then there was present-opening, breakfast, I snuck in a nap while my maidservant Mary (please don’t ever tell her I called her that please) helped Mom in the kitchen because they both agreed I looked like I needed more sleep (I need to do a better job not leaving the two of them alone together because reasons), dinner, general merriment, and bed around eleven. I coulda stayed up longer, but Mary, who didn’t take a nap and is not the boss of me whispered in my ear how much trouble I’d be in if I (A) woke her up when I came to bed or (2) was grumpy in the morning. But if Christmas Day didn’t provide a whole lot to relate, lemme tell you how the day after went.

(Insert harp music here)

“Wake up,” I was told by an awake person. “Time to get out of bed before you sleep the whole day away.” And at least it was a reasonable hour. Didn’t even feel early with the time change.

Which didn’t stop me from answering that directive with, “Whuh?”

The covers were whisked off me by this person who was a dead ringer for my Mary, and she was very business-like and wearing a University of Wisconsin sweatshirt that I know for a fact Mary doesn’t own because she didn’t go to the University of Wisconsin and neither did I. “Rise and shine! Your parents asked me to look after you for the day, and they’re not going to be happy if I let you sleep the day away.”

“Huh,” I said as I sat up. I had yet to recover my wit and mental agility. You might even say I was friggin disoriented waking up in a post-Christmas fog in a place that had not been my bedroom in a very long time and with this person who was sorta familiar but also not.

“Daphne,” the doppelgänger said as she snapped her fingers. “It’s time to get out of bed. We have big day and lots to do before your parents get home. If you’re good for me today, I’ll get you a treat, but we hafta get moving.”

“Okay, but what’s happening again?”

“Wow. Your mom wasn’t kidding when she said you need a little extra help for a girl your age.” O my god, my babysitter is such a bitch … And what the hell, Mom!

“I do not,” I retorted as this stranger in my bedroom sat down next to me.

“Daphne, it’s been a few years, but you have to remember me. Sara Hansen from next door?”

Okay, so I might have once upon a time told Mary – wherever she went – that growing up, Sara Hansen from next door sometimes watched me while my parents were out. It was during those preteen-to-early-teen years when I was technically old enough to be home alone but maybe not for a whole day and definitely not if they went on a trip and didn’t take us (which was very offensive in itself because I’m a blast to travel with and take up very little room compared to the average traveler).

I would say I didn’t need a babysitter, and Mom would say Sara wasn’t not a babysitter, just a friend coming over to keep an eye on things. Except that’s called a housesitter when no one is in the house, a petsitterwhen there’s just a pet to look after, and a babysitter when there’s a kid to look after.

So Sara Hansen was my babysitter, and I may have told Mary she was my first crush. Mom never failed to say something embarrassing to her with me right there in the room. Of course, given my age at the time, she could have said ‘have a good time’ and I would’ve found that absolutely mortifying … anyhoo.

“And where did my parents go,” I inquired, trying to catch up on the latest events.

“Aww, don’t be sad, sweetie. Your mommy and daddy will be home before bedtime. They just needed a day to themselves.”

“Sara was never condescending.” Just, ya know, pointing that out.

“Honey, please don’t refer me to in the third person. It’s very rude.”

Gulp. This version of Sara was apparently a stickler for decorum and none too shy about calling me out. “So Mom and Dad are gone for the day, and you’re my babysitter?”

“Of course not! I’m just a friend home from college for winter break here to hang out with you today. Babysitters are for babies, and you’re not a baby, are you?”

O gee, ya think this might be a trap? “Um, no?” I think it was a trap.

“Of course not! Being a bedwetter doesn’t make you a baby.”

“But I’m …” DAMMIT! How friggin long has she been planning this!?! That scheming, conniving, very nice person I married.

“It’s okay. It’s been a while since I last sat for you – ope! Hung out with you, and I thought you’d be dry by now like the other kids I ‘hang out’ with, but it’s not a big deal. Let’s see how you did last night. Do you have some dry nights, or are you always wet come morning?”

Okay, so first off, ‘ope’ is our word. Mary didn’t grow up in the Midwest, so she can’t use it unless she’s being ironic. That’s just a basic etiquette thing. Second, “No thanks, I can take care of it myself. I’ll be down in just a minute.” And if you’re wondering why I didn’t reject the premise, it was because my wife at the time, Mary, tricked me into coming to bed with her so she could make me wear one of those stupid diapers (and also the aforementioned reasons but also, at least I’m accusing her of this, those STUPID diapers)!

I know a put-up job when I see one! I know when I’m being hustled … upon reflection several hours after the fact. And yes, it was wet, and yes, she knew it was wet because she yanked the covers down and my pajamas don’t hide much (and she picked them out! Dammit!). So I couldn’t even claim to be dry.

“Sorry, kiddo, just doing my job.”

“But … but …” Where are the excuses when you need them!?! “But Mom doesn’t do that anymore. I’m big enough – I mean, old enough! – to take care of it myself.”

“O, well, your mommy didn’t tell me that. The last time I ‘hung out’ with you …”

“Stop saying it like that!”

“Excuse me, little girl, I don’t know all the rules that may have changed since the last time I babysat you, but I’m positive the rules still include not raising your voice at me. That’s strike one.”

O my god. She is being such a …“But I barely did!” Which also, if you’re inclined to see it that way (also known as objectively), which Sara clearly was, I may have also given that reply a little too loudly in a manner many would characterize as raising my voice and, purely by coincidence, it was at her. Oops.

“Okay, that’s strike two.” Sara gave me this pointed look that reminded me very much of this look my wife gives me when she’s trying to warn me about my behavior with just her eyes. “Can I finish what I was saying now?”

“Yes.” And good for me for barely pouting at all.

“Good girl.” O my god, my hot babysitter crush who’s also kinda a hardass and a bit of a B thinks I’m a good girl! Squeee!

“As I was saying, I don’t know what rules might have changed since I babysat for you last, and I’d be much happier if we just did things like we did back then so your mom doesn’t get mad at me. Will you be my big helper and just go with the flow today?”

“Yes,” I said. Yes, I’ll do my best, you patronizing … I didn’t say. Good for me for not saying it. My Wisconsin Catholic upbringing must’ve been faulty because, in addition to be super gay, I didn’t even feel a little guilty for the sin of thinking all the words I wanted to call her right then.

“Thank you. Why don’t you just lay back and we can get your bedtime diaper off you.”

“No.” Who said that? Me. I said no. I refused. I chose not to follow the babysitter’s directions. I chose not to do what I was told.

Cuz ya know why? If Mary wanted to role play, and I’m assuming she did cuz she left me with my old babysitter, who now that I think on it looks a lot like Mary and also happens to be six years older than me like Sara was, I can roleplay too. Really heccin good. Really.

“Okay, just … Excuse me? What did we just say?”

“I can do it myself! I don’t even need them!”

“O really? Cuz through those jammie pants it looks like someone didn’t stay dry last night.”

Scoff! Incredulity! How rude!“Because I had to go, and they make me wear them even though I don’t need them!”

“Honey,” Sara said to me while trying, so it seemed to me cuz I don’t really know her that well, to exercise a great deal of patience that appeared to be quickly running out, “I very much doubt your mommy would still be diapering you at your age if you didn’t need them. Now lay back …”

“But I can do it myself!”

“I’m going to count to three. One …”

“No!!!!” Which is when it occurred to me I was taking it on faith that my parents really were out of the house cuz they definitely would’ve heard that. I didn’t go full tantrum, but Sara wouldn’t listen, and grown-ups have this stupid thing about not shouting but ya know the frick what, we wouldn’t heccin have to shout if they’d just listen to us! And, um, by ‘us’ I mean women in their early thirties. Um, really.

I would have explained that impressive logic to Sara, but before I could, she was pinning me down on the bed looking rather cross with me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was something I said? “Strike three.” Ruh roh

Do you think it was the multiple refusals, the going back on my word as soon as I gave it, the raising my voice and raising it again (several times) after having been warned not to, or my general ‘tude? I had a sneaking suspicion this version of Sara and the current version of me were going to get along a little less swimmingly than the shades of yesteryear.

“Daphne Ann,” Sara said to me, making me wonder who told her my middle name, “I have a very nice day planned for us. We can have fun, or you can stay in your room until your parents get home, and then I’ll let you explain your behavior to them. Which do you want?”

“Fun,” I meeped.

“Then you are going to hold still while I change you out of your nighttime diaper, we are going to deal with your misbehavior, and then we’re going to have our nice day together. If you don’t listen to me or you talk back, you’ll find yourself alone in your room with no TV and no phone for the whole day. Understand?”

So actually the last time Sara ‘hung out’ with me, the only thing phones did was make phone calls, but a lot of things were happening right then in my bedroom that didn’t happen back then, so I guess there were just some anachronisms built into the plot. Based on a true story, as Hollywood says, is very different from a true story. I opted not to point out the historical inaccuracies, mostly because I didn’t think she’d appreciate criticism of her artistic license, and answered only, “Yes.”

“Thank you. Now stay put while I get what we need.” I had a feeling this was gonna be one of those days that was gonna be all about conflicted feels but that in future years (or days, whichever comes first … or day, singular, perhaps) would stand out in my memory as So Heccin Fun. So yeah, leaning into it. She wanted to treat me like a bratty early teen with an overprotective mom who may or may not need ‘a little extra help’, whatever that means, then that’s what I’d be. Headspace, here I heccin come.

I didn’t want to tempt fate by sitting up to look around, so I just followed Sara across the room with my eyes. She opened my underwear drawer and came up with a packet of baby wipes. I was about to be on very intimate terms with my babysitter.

“Okay,” she said as she plucked one out on her way back to me in a tone sorta like she didn’t enjoy this part of the job, which, ya know, realism. And as my former and current selves both tended and tend to do, I felt a pang of guilt for making it harder on her than it had to be before remembering this was all my mom’s fault … before escaping my headspace long enough to blame Mary and then going right back into headspace.

“Scooch down for me,” Sara instructed. Not coldly or clinically, but I wouldn’t call it warm and fuzzy either. Even the nicest babysitters have a limit to their patience, and I sorta kinda did definitely run up some debt with her in a startingly brief span of time (four minutes, tops).

“All the way to the end of the bed. You know the drill, knees over the end. Lift your butt for me.” I did, and she pulled my pajama pants off me, leaving me in just a, “Cute diaper. I like that little lion. Did you pick these out,” she asked me as she untaped it. I didn’t answer (and the answer would’ve been no).

“Ya know, I understand it’s probably not fun still needing diapers at your age,” Sara lectured me, which was so overstepping her bounds as an occasional babysitter, if you ask me and I did so there, “and still needing help with them. I mean, you’re old enough to be babysitting and changing diapers, and here you are on your back getting your big girl diaper changed by your babysitter. I bet you’re worried your friends will make fun of you so hard if they find out and tell everyone at school.”

Ya know what, she was taking her sweet time with those wipes. Almost as if she wanted to draw it out or something so she could rub those words in or something. But Sara wouldn’t do that, right? But she continued just like someone else I know who just loves to continue.

“And you probably miss out on sleepovers and Girl Scout camp. All experiences that help girls your age grow and mature, so it’s not like I’m judging you for needing a little extra help for your age like your mom says. But I do hafta say it would make you seem a lot more mature if when you have a wet diaper, you just say so, and when someone is going to change you, that you make it as easy and fast as possible instead of telling fibs, refusing, raising your voice, and having a tantrum like a toddler. Being a bedwetter and needing diapers doesn’t make you a toddler. I’m sure there are women more than twice your age who still need diapers and need help changing them…”

And yes, I got little jibe.

“… but when you act like a toddler, it makes it very hard for people who just want to help you to not treat you like a toddler. There, all clean. Please try to be a big girl and act your age for me today. Will you?”

“Yes,” I said feeling this very confused mix of emotions. Guilt, gratitude, embarrassment, and also a little love, like maybe Sara did care about me after all and wasn’t being mean on purpose. Just overprotective and strict, because she’s overprotective, like my (imaginary) mom. Some serious junior mom vibes she was giving off. I had a lump in my throat (and I didn’t like it cuz I knew where it would lead).

“Now,” she said as she deposited the wipes in the diaper and rolled it up – and hey, true story, Miss Mary Plans for Everything didn’t have a very good plan for disposing of those in my parents’ house, but I digress – “we need to deal with your poor choices. Sit up for me.”

She helped me sit up, and I had this feeling I was going to get a consequence from this Sara that I never got from the real Sara. “What’s … what’s my punishment?”

“Come stand in front of me,” Sara said as she took a seat on my bed and stood me, naked from the waist down, in front of her. “What happens when you make poor choices?”

“I get p-punished.” Hey, why is my voice quavering?

“You get a consequence. What consequence do you usually get?”

“Um … I get grounded?”

“Daphne Ann, I know what consequence happen in your house. When you make a make a bad choice, you get a spanking.”

“But I don’t! I don’t get spankings!”

“Daphne Ann Schmidt, I know you still get spankings.” (My maiden name, Mary? Seriously?)

“But I’ve never gotten spanked before!” Hey, sniffling. Where the heck did that come from?

“Daphne! Do not fib to me. I know you get spankings. I’ve seen you spanked before.”

“But that was a long time ago!”

“And the whole neighborhood saw at the block party last summer when you threw a tantrum about getting ready for bed before the fireworks. Everyone saw your daddy swat your little bottom all the way back to your house.”

O, tears; how literally unexpected. “Please don’t spank me. I’m too old! And I’ll be so good, but please? No one my age gets spanked anymore.”

“I know for a fact that’s not true. You may be the only one in diapers come bedtime, but you’re not the only girl your age I still sit for. And even if it was true that no one your age still gets their bottom spanked when they’re naughty, it wouldn’t change the fact that you still get bare bottom spankings. After all, almost no one your age still wets their bed and wears bedtime diapers, but you do.”

“Mom and Dad are gonna be so mad at you!”

“Your mommy gave me permission to spank your bare bottom if you misbehave.”

“Bare!?! Please not bare! Please! It’s embarrassing!”

“I just changed your diaper, little girl. If you’re all out of theatrics, please get over my knee and let’s get this over with.”

“At least let me bend over the bed or something! Only little kids get spanked over the knee.”

“And when you act like a naughty little girl, that’s how you’ll be treated. If you want to prove to me you don’t need to be treated like a little girl, right now you need to accept the consequences of your actions. Now, over my knee.”

Sara has really got the stern-but-not-angry tone down. And what the heck is that ball doing in my tummy? I’m not scared of a spanking … am I?

I always do my best to not start crying until I’m well into getting my butt spanked, but I also don’t do headspace. When you’re lifestyle like me and Mary are, you don’t do headspace. It’s just how you are all the time every day. Maybe that’s different for a little like my friend Jane cuz she regresses and needs to switch between her big and little selves because while she’s also lifestyle, it’s not a hundred percent of the time that she’s coloring with crayons. She has to adult too. But I am a hundred percent of the time subject to discipline, no jumping in and out of it. Anytime, anywhere, Mary can spank my butt for any reason or none at all. No headspace needed.

But this was roleplaying, and while I’ve roleplayed without really getting into the headspace of the scene, this time I did. And it was on purpose, but if I knew just how deep I was gonna go, not sure I’d do it again.

She helped me over her knee not with a tug but with enough of a grip on my wrist that I couldn’t have run away even if I tried. “I’m going to spank your bottom with my hand the same number as your age. If you try to reach back, I’ll use your hairbrush. Are you ready?”

“Y-(sniff)-y-yes. I’m s-sorry.”

“I know you are, and we’ll talk about that as soon as your spanking is over.”

The woman playing the character of Sara has given me age in hand spanks just taking me to my pre-spanking timeout spot, and that was my actual age, and all those swats rarely ever provoked more than a grumpy, verbal protest from me. This time was less than half as many swats, and though she spanked only a little hard, I bawled. B-a-w-l-e-d: bawled.

The whole thing took less than a minute and left me laying across her lap a hot mess. Later, when I was processing what the hell happened, what I came up with was the realism. I was in my headspace, and Mary was in hers. Because when Mary my wife spanks me, I don’t try to get out of it nearly as much, and she spanks way harder for way longer. That’s how adult Mary spanks adult Daphne, but fake Sara spanked non-adult Daphne.

“Okay,” Sara said to non-adult me, “you can get up now.” She helped me sit up, and somehow it felt like my butt was on fire. I was still crying hard; I even had actual tears running down my face, and Sara wrapped me in a hug and let me cry on her.

When I had calmed down, she patted my back to tell me to sit up. “I’m sorry I had to give you such a hard spanking. I hope you understand that I will not accept you telling me no and raising your voice to me. I know it feels like you’re almost an adult and don’t need a babysitter, but you’re not an adult, and your parents think you do need a babysitter. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat for you, but I’m going to follow the same rules because your mom didn’t give me any new ones. Understand?”

“Yes,” I sniffled. “I’m sorry I was bad and you had to spank me.”

“You’re never bad. You just made some poor choices.”

“You probably don’t even wanna hang out with me anymore.” And I so want Sara to think I’m cool. It’s embarrassing even having her as a sitter cuz she’s only six years older than me, but … I dunno. I just want her to like me cuz I don’t have a big sister or even a lot of friends. I was seriously upset when she went away to college. If Mom had just said she was going to come over, that would’ve been awesome, but Mom has to have her officially babysit me, tells her I still wear diapers to bed and and that I still get spanked … And now she knows I still cry and carry on like a little kid when I do. Not cool.

“Daphne, that is just not true. You got your consequence, everything is forgiven, and you and me can still have a fun day.”

“But you (sniffle) still think I’m a loser.”

“Hey,” Sara said and put her hand under my chin, bringing my eyes to hers in a gesture that somehow felt really familiar. “I do not think you’re a loser. I meant it when I said it’s not your diapers or your wetting or even still getting spanked that makes you seem immature. It’s the way you handle those things. You didn’t handle them very well just now, but you know what?”

“(Sniff) What?”

“I think you can handle them much better than you did. I know you can, and I know that warm bottom is going to remind you for the next hour.”

“Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad I needed a spanking?”

“It can be our secret, but I need you to listen to me and be on your best behavior today. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you promise? Because you know my rule about spanking. Remember?”

“Um …”

“The first spanking is your last warning. Any more bad choices, and I’m going to have to spank again. Understand? Will you be my big helper and help me to not spank?”

“Yes. I’ll be good. I promise.”

Sara kissed me on the forehead and gave me a pat on my butt. “I know you’ll be good. We’re gonna have a very fun day. Up you get.” I stood up, really driving home the reminder I had been sitting on Sara’s lap still naked down below. “You go take a shower, wash your diaper area really well, and I’ll leave an outfit for you on your bed. Come downstairs for breakfast when you’re dressed, and don’t dawdle. We got a schedule to keep today.” She sent me on my way with another spank hard enough to make me eep, and I rubbed my butt the rest of the way to the bathroom.

Sara is much more strict than I remember. I don’t ever remember getting spanked by her ever before, but at least she won’t tell Mom and Dad. And yeah, it was stupid of me to try to get out of it. I just didn’t think Mom would’ve given her permission; all my spankings have been from her for the last two years. Except that stupid block party incident … and a few other times from Dad, but they don’t count cuz my pants stayed up and he didn’t even put me over his knee or anything, so those weren’t real spankings.

And that was me writing us a backstory in my head while I showered and rubbed my butt, which very quickly stopped hurting as the water and alone time broke my headspace. But downstairs making breakfast was Sara, and prior to being Sara, Sara was Mary, and Mary is thorough. First off, gotta be impressed with her getting out of that twin bed without waking me up. True ninja. Second, I saw the hairbrush on my nightstand. She literally set up props at some point when I wasn’t in the room or maybe when I was sleeping. I knew she had to have something bigger than a spanking in store, and that it would be fun but intense.

I’ve never become fully comfortable with this part of my spanking kink. People shouldn’t hit kids, and if I ever saw someone spanking a child, I would literally assault that person. But this scenario Mary had created and the backstory we were building as we went … It was exciting. I have learned, though, that you can’t help what you find kinky. All you can do is keep fantasy separate from reality. I wasn’t a young teen, and Mary was not the girl-next-door babysitter. I knew that.

I also knew that I’d had a hard year. Everyone had. And whether Mary meant it to be therapeutic or just fun or both, I felt better coming out of the shower. I’m an adult, Mary is my wife, and whatever she had cooked up for us, I’d enjoy it more if I dug into my headspace. For sure, she would be digging into hers. She doesn’t do much by halves.

And btw, in my headspace I totally do not need diapers no matter what Mom and Dad say, I don’t need ‘a little extra help’ for my age, and I am so too old for spankings! Hmmph!

But I’ll try to be a good girl and prove to Sara that I’m more mature than my parents (and, um, sometimes my behavior) give me credit for. Really.