The First Humiliation
I was just over four years old. The nursery in a quaint little town near Bristol felt like a cosy corner of the world where everything had its own charm. There was one girl I particularly fancied—Emily. Her dark blonde pigtails, tied up with enormous scarlet bows, seemed downright magical to me. I was smitten.
One day, I offered her a Cadbury Dairy Milk button. In return, she broke off a piece of her KitKat and shared it with me. It felt like our little secret, and I was over the moon. But one thing cast a shadow over it all: nap time.
Nap time was my personal nightmare. Every time I drifted off, I had the same dream: I floated down a quiet river, the water so clear I could see rainbow-coloured fish darting about, and me, gliding along the surface, weightless and free. Waking up, though, was the worst. I’d open my eyes to a soaked bed, panic gripping me, wondering how to hide it.
Hiding it was impossible. I’d try to cover the damp patch with the blanket, praying no one would notice. But the nursery assistant, perpetually sour-faced, always sniffed it out. She’d strip the sheets in silence while I stood off to the side, feeling the stares of every child in the room burning into me. It happened two or three times a week. At home, Mum and Dad reassured me: “It’s just a phase.” They took me to the GP, who for some reason peered down my throat and prescribed drops. Then there was another doctor, Dad’s jolly mate, probably a child psychologist. He played draughts with me, cracked jokes, and promised it would get better. Nothing changed.
Then, one day, it happened again. The nursery assistant was changing my sheets, and I stood there like a criminal in the spotlight, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. Everyone was watching. But the worst part was Emily’s gaze. Her big scarlet bows swayed as she turned to look at me, and I felt my heart crumple with shame.
The sheets were hung out to dry right outside our classroom window. Mine, with its telltale stain, was smack in the middle—displayed for all to see. I tried to comfort myself: “How would anyone know it’s mine?” There were a few others just like it, but then came the shout from cheeky little Oliver:
“He wet himself!” he crowed, pointing right at me.
“Did not!” I protested, but my voice shook.
“Did too! Look at that stain! Bet you can’t say it’s not yours!”
I went silent. What could I say? Giggles erupted around me, even from kids whose sheets were also drying outside. How could I explain it wasn’t my fault, that it happened in my sleep, that doctors said it would stop? My face burned. I caught Emily’s eye and wished I could vanish. But I didn’t know how.
In desperation, I fled to the small park behind the nursery. I burrowed into the thickest patch of grass near an old wooden fence and collapsed onto the ground. I lay there, staring up at the poplar trees, and time froze. An hour passed, maybe two. I couldn’t bring myself to go back.
My parents searched for me. Somehow, Mum found me in the wilderness. Suddenly, her face—furious and frantic—loomed over me.
“There he is, your son!” she snapped at Dad. “I’m done. You deal with him!”
She stormed off. Dad crouched beside me. His voice was gentle but pained.
“Son, what were you thinking? We’ve been worried sick.”
With him, I could always be honest. The tears came flooding out.
“Dad, no one can help me. I did it again. They all saw. They laughed, pointed at me…”
“Who? Tell me their names. I’ll have a word.”
“All of them, Dad.”
He sighed, pulled me into a hug, and murmured,
“It’s normal for your age. It’ll pass. Happened to me too when I was little. We’ll go to the cinema, get you that Lego set you wanted…”
But I didn’t care about Lego. Shame choked me. I blurted out,
“I’m not going back to nursery!”
Dad rubbed his temples.
“Son, we’ve got work. Your sister’s at school. Who’d look after you?”
“Me! I’m big now!”
“No,” he said firmly. “Hang in there a bit longer. We’ll figure something out.”
So I figured it out myself. I decided I just wouldn’t sleep at nap time. No sleep, no dream—no accident. Perfect. I’d fake it, keep my eyes shut, and think about anything else—like visiting Gran and Grandad in their Cotswolds cottage.
The next day, I was determined. All the kids settled down, the teacher adjusted blankets. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending, replaying Gran’s cherry scones in my head, the birdhouse Grandad and I built. I could smell the warm pastry, hear the creak of the birdhouse in the wind…
Then the scene shifted. The cottage was by a river. I jumped in, and Grandad cheered, “That’s it, you’re swimming!” The water glittered, fish darted past… and I woke up. Soaked. I’d fallen asleep despite everything.
“How?!” I whispered, hating myself.
Same torture. The staring, the whispers, the snickers. I searched for Emily but couldn’t meet her eyes. This time, I didn’t wait for the sheets to be changed. I bolted for the supply cupboard, wedged myself on the narrow steps, and curled into a ball. I knew they’d find me—but I needed to delay the humiliation.
Footsteps. The door creaked open. In the dim light, I saw her—Emily. Her scarlet bows glowed against the hallway light. My stomach dropped. I wanted to cry, “Emily, I tried, I really did!” But she just sat beside me and, like a tiny sage, placed her hand on mine.
“You know,” she whispered, “I still like you.”
I froze. My throat tightened, not from shame but something warm, new. Happiness. We sat there in silence, two little people, and in that quiet was more strength than any doctor’s promise, any Dad’s reassurance. How did she know? How did a four-year-old understand that love fixes things?
We stayed in that cupboard, and I was happy. And you, Emily? After that day, I never wet the bed again. As if her words had healed me.
Now, forty-two years later, I look back and wonder: where did that wisdom come from? How did she know love was the answer? Her words saved me at four, and I’ve carried them ever since.