The First Embarrassment
I was just over four years old. The nursery in a little town near Cheltenham felt like a cosy corner of the world where everything was right in its own way. There was one girl I particularly fancied—Emily. Her dark pigtails, tied up with enormous scarlet ribbons, seemed like something out of a fairy tale. I was smitten.
One day, I offered her a chocolate caramel. In return, she broke off a piece of her Cadbury bar and handed it to me. It felt like our little secret, and I was over the moon. But there was one thing that ruined it all—nap time.
Nap time was my personal nightmare. Every time I drifted off, I had the same dream: I was floating down a gentle river, the water so clear I could see rainbow-coloured fish darting below, and I was gliding along, weightless and free. But waking up was another story. I’d open my eyes in a panic, drenched, with no idea how to hide it.
Hiding it was impossible. I’d try to cover the wet patch with the blanket, praying no one would notice. But the nursery assistant—a perpetually stern woman—would sniff it out straight away. She’d strip the bed in silence while I stood there, feeling every pair of eyes in the room burning into me. This happened two or three times a week. At home, my parents would soothe me: “It’s just a phase, love.” They took me to the doctor, who inexplicably checked my tonsils and prescribed drops. Then there was Dad’s mate, a jolly chap who might’ve been a child psychologist. He played draughts with me, cracked jokes, and promised things would get better. They didn’t.
Then, one day, it happened again. The nursery assistant changed my sheets with that same weary look, and I stood there, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Everyone was staring—but worst of all was Emily. Her enormous ribbons swayed as she turned her gaze toward me, and my heart shattered with shame.
The sheets were hung to dry outside the window, right opposite our room. Mine—with its damning stain—was dead centre, like some kind of public humiliation exhibit. I tried to console myself: “Who even knows it’s mine?” There were others in the same boat, but then came Jake’s voice:
“He wet the bed!” he crowed, pointing straight at me.
“I did not!” I snapped back, my voice wobbling.
“Did too! There’s the proof! Gonna say it’s not yours?”
I clenched my teeth. What could I say? Sniggers rippled around the room, even from kids whose sheets were hanging right next to mine. How could I explain that it wasn’t my fault, that it happened in my sleep, that even doctors couldn’t fix it? I burned with shame, caught Emily’s eye, and wished I could vanish. But I didn’t know how.
In desperation, I bolted to the tiny park behind the nursery. I burrowed into the overgrown grass by an old fence and collapsed, staring up at the poplar trees. Time froze. An hour passed, maybe two. I just lay there, unable to face going back.
My parents searched for me. Don’t know how they found me in that thicket, but suddenly, Mum’s furious, worried face loomed over me:
“There he is, your son!” she snapped at Dad. “I can’t deal with this—you talk to him!”
She stormed off. Dad crouched beside me, his voice soft but pained.
“Son, what’s all this? We’ve been beside ourselves.”
With him, I could always be honest. Tears spilled out before I could stop them.
“Dad, no one can help me. I did it again—wet the bed. Everyone saw. They laughed, they pointed—”
“Who? Name them, and I’ll have words,” he said firmly.
“All of them, Dad…”
He sighed, pulled me into a hug, and murmured,
“It’s all right, lad. Happens to loads of kids your age. Promise you, it’ll stop. I did the same when I was little. We’ll go to the pictures, get you that Lego set you’ve been on about…”
But I wasn’t thinking about Lego. Shame throttled me, and I blurted,
“I’m not going back to nursery!”
Dad looked helpless.
“Son, I get it, but Mum and I work, your sister Lucy’s at school. Who’d look after you?”
“I’ll stay by myself! I’m big now!”
“No,” he said gently but firmly. “Just hang on a bit longer. We’ll sort something.”
So I came up with my own solution: I wouldn’t sleep at nap time. No sleep, no river dream, no accidents. Simple. Just keep my eyes shut, pretend, and think of other things—like visiting Grandma and Grandad in their Cotswolds cottage.
The next day, I was determined. All the kids lay down, the teacher adjusted blankets, and I squeezed my eyes shut, feigning sleep. I pictured Grandma’s cherry scones, Grandad showing me how to build a birdhouse. I could smell the warm butter, hear the creak of the wooden feeder in the breeze…
Then, suddenly, the cottage was by the river. I jumped straight in from the window, and Grandad cheered, “That’s it, you’re swimming!” The water sparkled, fish darted past—and I woke up. Soaked. I’d fallen asleep after all.
“How?!” I whispered, hating myself.
The same torture began again. The stares, the whispers, the giggles. I searched for Emily but couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. This time, I didn’t wait for the sheets to be changed—I sprinted to the supply cupboard, curled up on the narrow stairs, and hugged my knees. I knew they’d find me, but I needed to delay the shame.
Footsteps. My stomach dropped. The door creaked open, and in the dim light, I saw her—Emily. Her scarlet ribbons glowed against the hallway light. My heart thudded. I wanted to cry, *I tried, I really tried!* But she just sat beside me, placed her small hand on mine, and said softly,
“You know… I still like you.”
I froze. My throat tightened, but not from shame—from something warm, unfamiliar. Happiness. We sat in silence, two tiny humans, and in that quiet, there was a strength I’d never felt before. I didn’t know how she, another four-year-old, understood what even doctors couldn’t—that love was the only thing that could mend shame.
We stayed in that cupboard, and I was happy. And you, Emily? From that day on, I never wet the bed again. As if her words had healed me.
Now, forty-two years later, I look back and wonder: how did that little girl know such a profound truth? How did she understand love was the only thing that mattered? Her words saved me at four years old—and I’ve carried them in my heart ever since.
