Mother would send my younger sister Elaine, who, of course, was already fully toilet trained, into an empty stall before lifting me up on to the hard plastic of the changing table hanging from the wall. I’m certain these changing tables were intended to have a parent place some type of mat or cover on top of it for both comfort and sanitary reasons, but mother never had a changing pad packed with her, leaving me to lie in discomfort on the plastic surface. Then there was safety strap, which mother always secured on top of me, as if I were a squirmy toddler who couldn’t be trusted to hold still for a diaper change.