What Emma Wants

Chapter Description: Emma is a young woman in a world that is inherently unfair to young women. In this parallel universe, women develop their motor skills much later than men. If a young woman develops her skills early she can move out of the "specialised" women's classes in time to take her tests with the men, and have an entirely different trajectory for life. The question is: Will Emma get there in time? Final exams are coming up and as desperate as Emma is, she's still struggling. Things are made even more complicated by the arrival of a guy who upends her world view.

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What Emma Wants

By Elfy

I slowly opened my eyes as the chirping of birds outside brought me out of dreamland. I grumbled as I rolled over wanting some more sleep, the thickness between my legs told me that it hadn’t been a dry night. It wasn’t much of a surprise; I think I’d had one dry night in my life and that had been sheer luck.

My nursery was always the worst in the mornings. The overwhelming pinkness seemed to glow even brighter shortly after dawn, with the sun that was now streaming through the window making me squint. My pink curtains were so thin they were more for show than anything else. This had been my room for as long as I could remember, and it had hardly changed at all in the time aside from the furniture getting bigger. Here I was, one month past my eighteenth birthday, and my surroundings were the same as one month after my first. The one thing I had convinced my parents to do was add an extra bookshelf with some of my favourite books, a small concession to my actual age.

I grabbed a frilly pink pillow and held it over my head in a desperate attempt to block out the real world for a few more minutes. It was no use. My senses were already waking up. I could hear footsteps, probably my younger brother, stomping up and down the landing. The smell of bacon, Dad’s favourite, sizzling in a pan wafted through the air. That was the duty of my mom, of course, to make sure Dad’s breakfast was cooked and his clothes washed and ironed before work each morning. It would be my duty too soon, no matter how much I hated the idea of it.

I grumbled as I rolled on to my back. I kicked off the blanket that had felt cosy during the night but was now making me too sweaty to reveal my pyjamas. As pink as the rest of the room my sleepwear was very childish decorated as it was by pictures of sleeping bunnies. Underneath was, of course, my ever-present diaper. I didn’t need to reach down to know it was soaked. The bulky overnight padding successfully keeping my bed dry was as familiar as it was hated.

“Morning!” Mom started talking before the door had opened but by the time she finished her singsong greeting she was already halfway to my crib.

I didn’t say anything, nor did I uncover my face. The morning routine was set in stone, and my participation was not needed for most of it. Mom’s thin-wristed hand slipped between the thick bars of my baby bed and then reached down under the waistband of my pyjama pants to press against my diaper. I don’t know why she bothered with this part. It wasn’t as if I was likely to be dry.

“Let’s get you changed and ready for school.” Mom said.

The side of my crib came down and I finally pushed the pillow off my head. With another grumble I rolled sideways and then swung my legs over the side of my bed. I stood up and almost fell straight into mom.

“Oops, careful.” Mom said with a chuckle.

I didn’t find it funny. It was another in a long list of examples that I still wasn’t ready for what I truly wanted; to get out of these damn diapers and start to get taken seriously. I wasn’t optimistic about achieving that dream any time soon though. According to Dad it had taken years before Mom was out of diapers completely.

Mom held my hand as we walked over to the changing table. I hoisted myself up and lowered my pyjama bottoms helpfully for Mom, any chance to show I could be responsible I wanted to grab with both hands.

“Is this really necessary?” I asked as I rubbed my eyes and looked up at the glow-in-the-dark shooting stars that decorated my ceiling.

“You know it is.” Mom’s hand patted the sagging round diaper.

“You could at least let me TRY to potty train.” I complained.

“Baby, you know that’s not up to me.” Mom said as she pulled the tapes on the diaper.

I sighed and let my head roll dispiritedly to the side. No, it wasn’t Mom’s decision. It wasn’t even Dad’s. This was an argument we’d had on the changing table countless times; it was one I knew I couldn’t ever win.

“Honestly, baby, I bet all your little friends don’t give their poor Mommies this much grief every morning.” Mom pressed some cool baby wipes against my crotch causing me to jump.

“Well, maybe I just want it more than them.” I mumbled.

“Emma, if you want to get out of diapers you need to find yourself a husband.” Mom said, “You know that. Any progress on that front?”

“No.” I replied shortly.

“You should get a move on, baby.” Mom said. God, I hated that pet name, “If you want to get out of diapers, you’ll need to find yourself a man to marry. You know, when your father took over changing my diapers from my Daddy it was a really romantic moment.”

I stared at Mom with furrowed eyebrows. She couldn’t be serious. She seemed to notice my expression as she smiled and continued.

“We were young and in love.” Mom said with a wistful far-off look in her eyes, “We were nervous and that intimacy of the first diaper change really helped bring us closer together.”

I sighed and bit my tongue to stop myself from talking back. My legs were lifted and rolled back as the wet diaper was pulled out from under me. My feet were held in the air until Mom had flattened the new disposable and slipped it under my rear end. When my butt came back down it was on top of a fresh crinkling diaper. The sides were pulled up and taped closed with the speed of an expert who had been changing my diapers for eighteen years… which is exactly what Mom had been doing.

“Alright, wait right there whilst I get your clothes.” Mom said. She put a hand on my chest as I tried to get up, “Don’t sit up. We don’t want you to fall.”

Mom’s lack of faith in me was annoying. Sure, like ninety-nine percent of girls my age I had some trouble with coordination and could be a bit clumsy, but it wasn’t like I was totally incapable of looking after myself. When Mom turned to head to the closet, I decided to ignore her and sat up, I swayed a little as my balance tried to catch up to the movement but I didn’t fall of. Success.

Mom came back over with my outfit for the day. I let out a deep sigh. None of my outfits were what I would describe as “grown up” but this one was particularly childish. A pink t-shirt with a picture of a unicorn flying through the sky, a rainbow trail coming out of the back of it. Over the top Mom had selected a denim dress that came up to the middle of my chest with straps that went up and over my shoulders. She helped me off the table and I didn’t need to look into the mirror to know that it barely covered my diaper. The in-built petticoat pushed the dress out in every direction. I tried to flatten it all down to give myself more cover and hopefully make the outfit look more mature, but it didn’t work, as soon as I flattened one bit another part would stick out.

Mom completed my outfit with the fashion accessory all young women and girls had. A pacifier with a big latex bulb, a pink mouth guard and a long piece of rainbow coloured ribbon that attached it to a metal clip on the front of my dress. The pacifier bobbed against my chest ready to be pushed into my mouth as soon as a man had decided I had done enough talking.

I was still trying to make myself presentable when Mom took my hand and led me out of the nursery. The fresh diaper crinkled loudly in the otherwise quiet landing, it was a sound I had almost tuned out having become so used to it but just occasionally, when I was particularly frustrated, my ears heard the tell-tale rustle common in every house with girls younger than their mid-twenties around the world.

As I waddled down the stairs the familiar sounds and smells of breakfast came wafting down the hallway to me. The smell of eggs and bacon frying, for my Dad and Brother, of course, we women were expected to watch our figures so I knew it would be cereal for me. I could hear my brother talking, his voice only recently deepened by puberty, and then my Dad’s loud and booming laugh in response. Despite what it may seem I never hated my family, they were simply upholding the “natural order” of things.

Once in the kitchen I made my way to my highchair. It was yet another point of contention that I had argued about for years, pretty much as soon as I was able to talk, I was protesting, but my family insisted. The most annoying thing was they were probably right. I did need it just like I needed help with so many other things.

There is a fundamental and profound difference between women and men. No matter how much I despise or try to fight there could be no doubt about it. As we were all taught in our rudimentary biology lessons, girls simply developed slower and later than boys. Whilst boys would be out of diapers by four or five years-old girls most often needed them into their twenties. I believe the textbook said the average age of female potty training was twenty-five which meant I could expect another seven years in padding, a thought so horrible it made me want to cry.

It wasn’t just potty training that separated the sexes though. Whilst the diapers might be the most obvious difference if you were to look between a boy and a girl of a similar age it was far from the only thing. Along with the delayed potty training came a big delay in developing fine motor skills. Basically, girls needed a lot of help with a lot of things. For instance, breakfast. Whilst I could eat an apple on my own there was no way I could handle a spoon without most of my cereal ending up down the front of my dress. That was just one example of a thousand.

The practical result of these genetic differences was that girls were simply treated differently. We were essentially little more than babies until well into adulthood. The diapers seemed to inspire a certain amount of protectiveness from the men who would keep us in nurseries, dress us like overgrown toddlers and generally not trust us to do anything for ourselves. They weren’t nasty, for the most part, they were just doing what they thought was best to help. The “immaturity” of women had seeped into every aspect of life. Even older women, like my mom, who had been long potty trained were still treated as little more than children a lot of the time.

It may have been obvious, but I HATED it. I hated being treated like I was different or less able. I was jealous of boys, like my brother, who could just get on with their lives. I loathed the fact that unless I was extremely lucky, I was going to end up like my mother. Married off and looking after the home whilst producing babies whilst my husband earned the money. I wanted more but I almost certainly wasn’t going to get it.

What was really the most frustrating aspect of it all though was that I was capable of so much more. I was smart, at least for a girl, and I took pride in that. School was almost a waste of time for me, I had to try and learn what I could in my spare time. I would ask for books for my birthdays and Christmases. Dad clearly didn’t agree and thought it would lead to me “getting ideas” which was apparently a bad thing. For once mom got her way though, mostly because she was the one to head out to the store for presents, and at least twice a year I would unwrap a new book.

But none of that mattered. I could apply to be taken out of the girl’s classes and put into an accelerated program, the only way for me to go to college and have a potential career, to escape my fate as a future homemaker but I wouldn’t be accepted. Whilst I may have had the intelligence to pass the requisite tests it was irrelevant because I still had the coordination of a toddler and in the world’s eyes that was all that mattered. Even amongst girls my age, I was behind the curve.

“Nice dress, sis.” Ollie said with a smirk.

I scowled at him. He knew about my frustrations and, like any good brother, poured salt into the wound when he could. What I wouldn’t have given to switch places with him…

“Oh, Richard, dear.” Mom said to Dad as she made the cereal, “The Wilkinsons have invited us over for a little get together.”

“Sounds marvellous.” Dad replied without looking away from his newspaper. I was pretty sure Dad had spent more of his life looking at the papers than he had me.

I had hopped up into the highchair, nearly falling over in the process, and when Mom returned, she locked the tray in place and put my breakfast on it. I looked at the unappetising wet cereal without enthusiasm whilst Mom brought eggs and bacon for the men. My mouth watered just looking at the cooked breakfast.

A piece of cloth fluttered down over my face to rest against my chest. My bib was to protect my clothes from any food that missed my mouth, mom never liked having to change my clothes before sending me off to school. Mom then sat down with her own cereal and two spoons.

“Alright, baby, open up.” Mom said sweetly.

“I’m not a-…” I started complaining but Mom simply shoved the spoon into my mouth.

As I ate my lacklustre breakfast in silence Ollie started telling Dad about his latest sporting achievements. As if to emphasise the differences between us Ollie was very smart and athletic, popular too. It only made me feel worse about my own situation. We had the same abilities and yet he was going to get all the opportunities whilst I was going to get nothing.

I hated mealtimes just because they took so long. In between my own mouthfuls I had to wait for Mom to eat and she liked to gossip to no one in particular leaving me waiting even longer. If it were up to me, I would eat as quickly as possible so I could get away from the highchair and go back up to my room.

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