Vol. 2 - Confessions from the Changing Table
Confession: I am much braver in theory than I am in real life.
In theory I am a very important crinkly prince of Plushveria. Ruler of blanket forts. Commander of the Hippo Guard. Brave explorer of biscuit cupboards. Official supervisor of cosy things.
In real life I can be completely defeated by one raised eyebrow and a soft little “come here, you.”
That is the dangerous thing about being little at heart.
You can be walking round pretending to be a proper adult. Paying bills. Doing emails. Making decisions. Wearing trousers like some sort of tax-paying citizen.
Then someone says something soft in the right voice and my brain drops all its paperwork.
The changing table, real or pretend, means a lot to me. Not just because of nappies, although yes, obviously, hello, crinkle boy reporting for duty.
It’s more the feeling of it.
Like... I don’t have to keep pretending.
I don’t have to be clever.
I don’t have to be in charge.
I don’t have to explain every tiny thing before I’m allowed to need help.
Someone goes, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
And my whole body goes a bit quiet.
That’s the bit that gets me.
Not in a silly dramatic way. Well. Maybe a tiny bit dramatic, because I am me and the Plushie Council does love paperwork.
The kind of care where the babyish bits, the disabled bits, the overwhelmed bits, the shy bits, the “I don’t know how to ask” bits, don’t get treated like a problem.
My wobbly hands. My tired brain. My shy face. My little habits. The way I sometimes need someone else to take over just enough so I can stop holding everything so tight.
No making me feel bad for needing help.
The kind where being looked after doesn’t make me less grown up. It just means somebody loves me enough to notice when I’m running out of brave.
And yes, sometimes that care is very silly.
Sometimes it’s being told the Plushie Council has reviewed my behaviour and decided I am overdue a change, a cuddle, and possibly a snack.
Sometimes it’s being called a soggy little prince and wanting to vanish under a blanket while also secretly glowing like a nightlight.
Sometimes it’s doing that very suspicious thing where I pretend I’m not loving every second.
The royal record will deny this.
Harvey Hippo has evidence.
I think I like the changing table idea because it’s the opposite of being left to just cope.
It’s a place where somebody sees the little “uh oh” signs before I can even explain them.
Where embarrassing things become normal because they’re handled gently.
Where being needy doesn’t make me too much.
Where I can be wriggly and shy and cared for without having to earn it by being impressive first.
And maybe that’s the real confession.
It’s not just that I like nappies.
It’s that I like the kind of love where even the softest, smallest, most helpless-feeling parts of me are still wanted.
Where I can be a little bit ridiculous and still be held.
Where I don’t have to be brave every second.
Where someone smiles and says, “There he is. That’s my sweet boy.”
And then my brain does the thing.
The “oh no I have melted” thing.
Because I think part of me is always waiting to be told I did well.
Not in a big serious way.
Just in that little boy way where praise skips past my grown up brain and lands somewhere much softer.
The place that still wants to be good.
Still wants to be chosen.
Still wants to make someone proud.
Confession from the changing table:
I am not as brave as I look.
I am much softer than I pretend.
And if you are gentle with me, I may become absolutely useless.
Possibly biscuit-bribable.
Definitely watched by Harvey Hippo.
And unfortunately he is very good at keeping records.
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