The Best Babysitter in Town Vol. 2 Ch. 8 (Patreon)

I carried Gordy’s used diapers to the outside trash, and though it wasn’t my first time emptying a diaper pail, it was my first time emptying an adult diaper pail. I was kinda low key amazed at how heavy it was, and it didn’t even seem like there were a lot of diapers in it. Not that I counted, but only a couple days’ worth probably.

I washed my hands at the kitchen sink twice, even though I’d worn gloves, and tried to process what had just happened. I’d just changed a poopy big boy diaper. I’ve changed newborns up to late-to-train toddlers, and I’ve never seen such a messy butt. I hadn’t been downplaying it for Gordy’s sake, though. It really didn’t bother me, and that in itself felt weird. There’s something about Gordy that makes me just accept things I wouldn’t accept otherwise. The best I could puzzle it out at the time, I figured it was because Gordy needed a caregiver. We were friends and classmates and equals, but I couldn’t help seeing Gordy as having special needs, and I don’t just mean the incontinence. Something about his personality, his demeanor made me on the one hand always cognizant of how strange everything I did for him when babysitting was, but on the other, how perfectly normal all those things are for a babysitter to do for her charge. I went back and forth between those modes so seamlessly, often without even making a deliberate choice to, that I worried I was going to cross a line I couldn’t see and damage our friendship. It was definitely trending toward a feeling of normality, each act of caregiving normalizing everything just a little bit more.

I went back upstairs to wait for Gordy in his room, and when he didn’t emerge after twenty minutes, I got up to investigate the silence where there should have been splashing sounds because, once again and for whatever weird reason he does this (hopefully only when I’m over or he’s alone), the bathroom door was still open.

“Gordy,” I asked from the hallway, tapping on the door frame, “everything okay?” Obviously not, because before he answered with words, he answered with a sniffle. He said “I’m fine” at the same time I was saying “I’m coming in.”

He was sitting on the toilet, his dirty shirt in a puddle in the corner. He looked away from the door but didn’t ask for any privacy. I’m not sure what privacy even means for Gordy so long as others help him with these things he’s capable of doing on his own (Besides me and his stepmonster, were there others? I think an aunt? Wasn’t sure). He hadn’t even been in the tub yet.

“What are you doing,” I asked super gently. I once babysat a ten-year-old the same week his parents told him they were getting divorced, and when I got there and his mom told me he was out back, I found him sitting on the edge of his sandbox staring at nothing and fiddling with a twig. I asked him the same question, and that was the tone I used with Gordy. I sat down on the edge of the tub so he couldn’t help but look at me.

He sighed and answered, “Trying to use the toilet.”

“Is that normal sometimes, three times in one morning?”

“No, not unless I’m sick with something.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“No … I just …”

“Making sure you’re all done? Did you try manual stimulation?”

Up came Gordy’s head like a deer hearing the oncoming car too late. “H-how w-what w…” He’s kinda cute when he’s speechless; ever cuter when he’s not sitting on the toilet and we’re not discussing his bowel movements.

“I looked up timed voiding earlier, while you were in here earlier. I was just curious how it worked.”

“Yes,” he barely whispered. I took that to be an affirmative on my question.

“Anything?”

“No.”

“Then you’re probably all done, don’t ya think? Been sitting there a while.” He nodded. “Ready to get in the tub then?”

“Yeah … I just really don’t wanna have another one of those today.”

“What, baths?” That’s what came out of my mouth while inside I was going D’oh! “Sorry,” I cringed. “I’m really not ditzy.” He was definitely looking at me like I’m a ditz. I wasn’t feeling uncomfortable until I mistook what he so obviously meant. I did my best to recover and project my best-babysitter-not-a-ditz confidence. I pivoted and turned the tap on, feeling the water to make sure I wouldn’t freeze or scald him; like he hadn’t had enough trauma for a day that wasn’t even half over.

I got up and out of his way, but he just sat there. I had a decent idea why he was hesitant. Probably doesn’t help that I vacillate back and forth, but I can never tell if Gordy needs gentle loving kindness or tough love. Perhaps I’d get better results by just picking one and sticking with it, and I get that most people need both sometimes, but at the exact same time? Kinda seemed that way with Gordy, but he was such a different person in school versus when I babysat for him, I just wasn’t sure.

But I tried anyway: “I don’t wanna change anymore poopoo diapers today either, but ya can’t just sit there all weekend just in case.” I didn’t say it mean; I just said it blunt. Sometimes it feels like anything that can be described as blunt hurts his feelings, but he did stand up, flush the empty toilet bowl, close the lid, and wash his hand. Aside from the actually using it part, Gordy has excellent toilet habits, in a way I’d never say to him in a million years. Not making fun; I just know plenty of guys who never put the seat down, and I’ve been to enough frats to know college boys aren’t all a hundred on remembering to flush.

Gordy got in the tub, and I guess at some point I’d decided to give him a hand because I was leaning over to shut off the faucet and grab the soap and washcloth before his weight was fully on his sit bones. Part of me, I think, wanted to do it to help him feel better, and part of me also wanted a bath to not turn into the hour-long soak-and-sulk fest Gordy seemed intent on. I enjoy a long bath as much as the next person, but I didn’t want Gordy getting even deeper into his own head. He snapped out of it toward the end of his change, kinda of, but just soon as I was gone for a few minutes …

Anyway, I switched back to upbeat babysitter mode. “You mind if I help?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Where’s the enthusiasm,” I joshed him. “Do you know how many boys would kill to be in your position right now? Lean back.” He did, but he didn’t smile or perk up. I let out a sigh, the kind you do when you’re tired of trying to accomplish the same thing over and over again and it’s a struggle Every Damn Time. Didn’t mean to; didn’t want Gordy to feel like I was upset with him. And I wasn’t; I was just on my way to being upset with him because I had about all I could take of the sad boy routine. I dipped the washcloth in the water.

“Gordon, what’s wrong?” O yeah, he got his full name.

“I had an accident,” he said like he was a little exasperated because I should’ve understood that by now.

“And when you have that kind of accident, do you always get upset like this?” If the answer was yes, okay. That would be harder to deal with, but if the answer was no, then what gives.

“Sometimes,” he answered. So never mind the simplicity of a binary.

“Can I ask you some personal things, as your friend?” The friend who had wiped his butt and was giving him a bath, and o yeah, had spanked him to tears and copious sobs, complete with getting snot on stuff. Ya know, normal friend stuff. I was starting to question whether, while I was there as a babysitter, I could be his friend after all. The line was blurring to the point I wasn’t even sure there was one.

When his stepmom asked if I would spend the weekend over as a friend, I said sure; when she and I both turned that into a babysitting gig, we never did acknowledge it. She was paying me either way; just at some point between the original ask and when I arrived, it became an implicit, unofficial weekend of babysitting. It became a lot more official when he got in trouble just before I got there, but I’d be lying if I said it was only then that the weekend turned more into babysitting than friends-hanging-out.

I hadn’t felt like just a friend since the moment his stepmom told me he was in trouble, which was as soon as I walked in the door, but if he hadn’t been, would I really have not helped him get ready for bed, for instance? Friends don’t do that. Can you assume the role of a caregiver without being asked by the person – and not even consciously choosing to do some caregiving tasks, as I hadn’t made each and every decision after putting careful thought into it but just started doing those things and only realized after – and still be just friends?

I was sure we could be friends anywhere and anytime, except if I was babysitting. But I wanted to still be friends when I was babysitting, so I tried to be a friend who asks her friend super personal questions and bosses him around a little.

As to my question, Gordy seemed to sigh without actually doing it and answered, “Yeah.” So I wasn’t the only one bordering on exasperation.

“Did you use the toilet this morning?” I had just assumed he had earlier. I’ve had kiddos fib to me when I’ve asked if they used the potty, but I didn’t think Gordy had fibbed earlier.

I couldn’t tell whether his “Yes” was annoyed or unhappy. Probably both.

“So the timed voiding doesn’t always keep messy diapers from happening even if you went earlier?” For once I think we both felt equally awkward. And I still can’t tell if that’s a friend question or a caregiver question or both.

“Not always.”

“How often is that? Just wondering,” I hastened to add.

“I, uh, four, maybe five times a week unless my stomach is upset from something.”

“And your tummy is fine today?”

“Yeah. Like I said, I feel fine.”

“See, to me,” I said very carefully, “and I’m not trying to be mean, four or maybe five times a week doesn’t seem that rare to me. Like, I know this is TMI, but I usually only go once a day.” The irony of what is and isn’t TMI between us … Actually, not irony, just unfairness, a reminder that I get a lot more privacy than him when it comes to the same basic things. He can have that privacy, but first he would have to to tell his stepmom that their little arrangement is over.

“So,” I continued, “four or five times a week isn’t a lot less than seven. So when I asked if you always get upset when you have that kind of accident in your pants and you said sometimes, I guess what I’m wondering is what makes sometimes different than others?” His brow was furrowed, and I couldn’t tell if he was about to tell me to mind my own business or not. “I’m asking because I want to understand so we can talk about it and maybe you’ll feel better.”

I looked at him almost the whole time I said all that. He answered without looking at me once. “When it happens in public or around people who aren’t, ya know, family. I mean, it’s not great around family, but I don’t have to be embarrassed about it or try to hide it.”

I dipped the washcloth again and wrung it out before soaping it up again, the whole time looking down so he wouldn’t see me smile. He just doesn’t get certain things. Like, nothing I said between the yard and sending him off to take a bath had sunk in, maybe didn’t even penetrate his boy brain.

I can’t imagine what the stress is like for him, the way having to hide something from everyone outside his family must’ve conditioned him to feel like he had to hide it even from me, and undoing conditioning that strong takes time. I get that. But how many times and how many ways would I have to tell him implicitly or explicitly that he doesn’t need to hide anything from me before the two of us could even chip away at that conditioning? How many times would I have to do all of these caregiving tasks with a chipper tone and a smile before he accepted that I was telling the truth about none of it bothering me.

“Arms up,” I told him and started washing his underarms and sides. “You think you have to hide it from others because they won’t understand and might give you a dirty look or say something mean?”

“I know they sometimes do. It’s happened lots of times.”

“How often is that?”

“I at least get a weird look if it happens and someone can tell it’s me.”

“Which is how often?”

He shrugged. “A time or two a month? Which is, like, I dunno, maybe a third of the time I have an accident in public.”

“Because they don’t understand, right? If they knew you had your condition, they’d understand, right?” Did he see where I was going with this? “Lean forward.”

“Even when people understand, it’s not like they don’t think it’s gross and wanna be around me. Not that I can blame them.”

Well, fuck that! Which is exactly what I told Gordy. “Fuck that! Dirty diapers are gross, not you. If there are people who can’t tell the difference, they can eat a bag of dicks, okay?”

Well, Gordy sure looked surprised. I bet his sweet bippy he never had a babysitter talk like that before. I mean, I’m not that wholesome.

“I understand, Gordy. I understand you have a condition and that sometimes that means having messy pants. But did I act like it was gross? No. Did I act like you were gross? No. Did I walk away or tell you to? No. What did I do, Gordy?”

He looked a little chagrined, a little embarrassed to answer. “You … changed me.”

“I did the exact opposite of walking away! I wouldn’t even let you walk away. I offered to help because we’re friends, and that what friends do.”

“Friends don’t help with that,” he said back with a scoff.

“Well, this one does.”

“Cuz you’re babysitting. I mean, I’m not mad, I get it.”

Wow, I thought to myself, so this is what it’s like to wanna spank sense into a twenty-year-old boy. “Are you grounded from changing yourself this weekend?”

“No.”

“So it wasn’t something I had to do. I offered because … because. Open your legs a little.” I worked the bar down his thighs. The water was milky with the dissolving soap. “If you’re not okay with me helping that way, just say so. But every time I ask if you are, you say yes. So either you don’t think you’re allowed to say no, or you’re afraid you’re going to hurt my feelings, or you don’t want to say no.”

He didn’t say anything, and I sensed it was for a similar reason why I wasn’t sure in what capacity I was doing what I was doing: he didn’t know. I didn’t answer for him, because I didn’t know the answer either, but I told him, “Maybe you don’t know, and that’s okay. But just …”

I stopped what I was doing and sat back, sighing again, and like it was my turn to speak without looking at him. “Could we just … not keep doing this? Something happens, you get all sad and distant, I try every which way I know how to make you feel better. It’s tiring for both of us.” Like, this was a lot of emotional labor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and I didn’t know that time whether he owed me an apology or not. He’s not responsible for how he feels, but he is responsible for how he acts. So I guess that’s both yes and no. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know; it’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“You sound a little mad.” I never expected Gordy to call me out like that, and I was a little proud of him. Small way of standing up for himself, which he needed to do a lot more, even or maybe especially with me (but especially with his stepmom).

“I am, a little. But just a little. But really I just don’t want our friendship to be like this. I wanna be friends when I’m over here babysitting in the same way we’re friends everywhere else.” I thought I knew what he was going to say next, so I jumped there before he could. “And yeah, if you have a messy accident on campus or anywhere else, I’ll help you change, so don’t just go assuming that I ever do anything with you just because I’m your babysitter sometimes.”

And poor Gordy, he sniffled again and got teary, and I understood why.

So to recap, I said, “Can’t we be friends all the time? I’ll try if you’ll try.”

“I’ll try. I promise.”

“I meant what I said yesterday. You really are safe with me.” I didn’t pay the tear or two that escaped his eyes any mind. I felt a little misty myself, and I know sometimes it’s better not to make a big deal or even acknowledge every emotion.

I washed all the dirt and grass stains and yard smell off of him. I got to the the last part of him to wash, and, well, I wanted to and figured he wouldn’t be unhappy about it. Why I wanted to was a question to interrogate later. Just then, I asked him, “Remember the last time I gave you a bath?”

His emotionally tired expression sprang a small, embarrassed smile. “Y-yeah.”

“Can I tell you something personal about me? I always thought the smell of fresh cut grass on a boy is kind of a turn on.” My turn to blush. I wouldn’t call it a fetish, just turn on.

I could see wheels turning in his head, like he was trying to come up with a response or even a plan to make a move of his own, which woulda been kinda cute, but let’s face it: Gordy, who still hadn’t ever been on a date, wasn’t ready to make a move on me. It would be awkward, and anyway, I didn’t want to get out of the driver’s seat.

I asked a blunt question, much more blunt than I ever am with other boys. “You want me to give you an HJ again?” See? I really am not that wholesome, not that I wanna get a reputation.

Those were some enthusiastic nods, not like the hesitant, embarrassed ‘yes’ I made him actually say last time.

“I’m gonna hafta teach you how to do this yourself sometime,” I joked as I put my hand around him under the water. “Bet you last more than one stroke this time.” I don’t think he heard me, but I won my bet. Not that I had a watch, but I think he lasted a few minutes. I had this momentary feeling of pride, like he had grown in the weeks since last time (not physically), maturing a bit since the time he literally came the moment my fingers closed around him. And if I’m being super honest, some of that pride was for me, like I was a teacher and he was a student. And I was happy for it; Gordy needs more pleasure in his life.

When he was on the changing table after, he looked ready to fall asleep, not from the HJ but because it had been a trying morning. I was tired, and I hadn’t been the one pushing the mower. I got him taped up, gave the front of his diaper a couple pats, and he sat up and yawned, which made me yawn.

“Let’s take a nap,” I suggested. “We can do our homework after lunch.”

“Good idea. I’m tired,” he yawned again.

I realized I hadn’t showered after working in the yard, and I didn’t wanna sleep in my own bed until I had. The sheets in the guest bed felt expensive, and I was sure they had some complicated washing instructions, and I couldn’t be bothered just then. But Gordy’s sheets? I had a feeling they saw the inside of the washer a lot.

“Can I sleep in your bed,” I asked. “I’ll wash them after; I smell like yard, I know.” Having checked on him after he went to bed the last time I was over sitting, I knew which side he slept on. Probably woulda been polite of me to wait for an answer before I got into the bed on the other side. I would’ve been waiting a while. Poor little virgin looked like he was most in the rain.

“Um,” he practically stuttered over the single syllable, “no, sure. Yeah. I’ll, uh, use the couch.”

“You’re are such a silly sometimes,” I said as I pulled the comforter from his side of the bed toward me. He stood there. “Well?” He looked like he was trying to avoid stepping on a broken lightbulb as he shuffled across his own floor and into his own bed. Then, predictably, he made himself as small as possible and used only enough bed to keep himself from falling to the floor.

“You can use all of your half, Gordy,” I said as I turned the other way and got comfortable on one of his pillows.

“Um, thanks.”

“It’s your bed, ya big silly. Just keep your hands to yourself.”

“O, uh, I will.”

Over his head, as per usual. “I know. Now go to sleep.”

Even if I hadn’t been tired, being super honest here, I would’ve made him take a nap. He needed it, and it would’ve been as his babysitter that I put him down for a nap. I probably should’ve put some pajamas on him or something, but I didn’t think of it cuz he can do that himself. He just didn’t, because he’s Gordy and sometimes just doesn’t do obvious stuff unless you tell him to, like he forgets he doesn’t need to wait for the instruction and doesn’t need permission.

And I noticed how he didn’t flinch when I called myself his babysitter more than few times in the bathroom, and he used the term too. So I guess he was over me being the babysitter and him being the babysat.

Could I be his friend and babysitter? We’d both try.