Mommies and Daddies

I still make the toilet pretty often.   But sometimes they last 2 or 3 hours lol 

I wish to be breastfed too

Yeah I get that. We only have 2 seasons in Florida. Summer, winter, summer and summer to the extreme. The great thing about the human body is it adapts to changing conditions. It took 2 or 3 years after I moved from Michigan to Florida, but my diapered mid-section got used to the heat.  Virginia isn't as extreme as Florida so you should be able to adapt as well. And I though fire retardant clothing was supposed to stop you from spontaneously ignoting. Maybe you should try wetting the diaper before putting the clothes on. Yeah I get that. We only have 2 seasons in Florida. Summer, winter, summer and summer to the extreme. The great thing about the human body is it adapts to changing conditions. It took 2 or 3 years after I moved from Michigan to Florida, but my diapered mid-section got used to the heat.  Virginia isn't as extreme as Florida so you should be able to adapt as well. And I though fire retardant clothing was supposed to stop you from spontaneously ignoting. Maybe you should try wetting the diaper before putting the clothes on. I jest, but only partially. A diaper isn't going to make you overheat any more than a few layers or cotton underwear briefs. Yes there is some adaption your body would need to do, but most of the adapting is all in the mind.

Thanks to @wyrdone for donating $10!

Chapter 12: Back to The Nursery I already knew where this was going. She gave me a chance to act like an adult, and I ruined it so completely that I couldn’t have done worse if I’d been trying. Mom could tell I wasn’t ready to be an adult, and honestly, I had to agree with her. The moment I opened the door and saw her sitting on the bed; a sense of dread and resignation ran through me. The shock caused pee to dribble down my leg, but by then, that hardly mattered. In that single instant a whole tangle of emotions ran through me. There was fear and anger, and beneath both of them, relief. That was what scared me most. I wasn’t just mad at my mother; I was mad at myself. My mom was doing what she always did, and I had accepted that she wasn’t going to change. Mostly, I was furious at how easily I unraveled. It wasn’t just that I failed; I got worse each day. On Tuesday, I still had a purpose: to get a job. I didn’t do much to make it happen, but at least it was a noble cause. By Thursday, my only goal was to use the bathroom, and even that was too much for me to handle. What scared me most was how calm she was. The first time, when I came home, she was angry. On Sunday, when she stepped in again, there was concern. This time there was nothing. No frustration, no worry, no satisfaction, not even vindication. Just cold, flat certainty. That was worse than anger. Anger meant there was still an argument. This time, there was no argument. In her eyes, I was just a baby. That’s all I’d ever been, and that’s all I’d ever be. And beneath all of that was what I hated most: relief. I knew what was coming. The waiting was over. I didn’t have to try to be an adult anymore. Some part of me welcomed that, and I hated myself for it. The nursery took away all control. No autonomy. No choice. No privacy. But for all of that, I was never alone. Someone was always there, making the decisions, setting the rhythm of the day, telling me what came next. Adulthood was worse. In New York, my life was an endless loop of working, eating, video games, and sleeping. It was lonely and miserable, but it was better than this. I had purpose. I had structure. I had a reason to get up in the morning. Here, I had none of that, and there was nobody to help me. It was the only version I knew, and I didn’t want it. As horrible as the nursery was, all I had to do was surrender and accept it. Adulthood demanded everything, and I didn’t think I was capable of giving it. Even worse, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be an adult anymore. In our family, there wasn’t a middle ground. We were either an adult or a baby, and adults were potty trained. The bin full of used Pull-ups, along with my damp underwear, made it hard to argue that I was potty trained. All of the emotions—fear, anger, and relief—hit me all at once, and I tried to think of something to say. Not because I thought it would help. Because it was what I was supposed to do. I stammered, “Mom, I can explain.” Mom’s tone didn’t change. In that same flat voice, she said, “No, you can’t.” She let those words hang over us for a few moments. It might have been only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then she said, “Reggie, you’re not ready for any of this.” I cried, “I just need a little help. I can do this. I promise.” Mom scoffed, “Reggie, you’re not even potty trained. You might have been once, but you aren’t anymore.” She said it like I’d said something absurd, something that didn’t even deserve a real response. Still, it was the first hint of emotion she’d shown. It wasn’t just that she didn’t think I was potty trained. She wondered if I ever was. I wanted to say something, but the words never came. I stammered, searching for them, but before I could get anything out, Mom said, “Let’s go. You need a bath.” I cried, “I’ll take a shower.” “No, you won’t. That’s Mommy’s job.” The shift to that single word meant everything. This was no longer a conversation. It was the next stage. My mother grabbed my arm. Not hard, just firmly enough that I couldn’t slip free. At the stairs, I instinctively pulled away. I cried, “Please. Don’t. I can do this myself.” My voice trembled, and I sounded small. Mom’s voice remained eerily calm as she delivered the words I feared most of all. “Reggie, this has all been too much for you. You’re overwhelmed, and you need Mommy to take care of you.” That didn’t just mean I was headed to the nursery; it meant I was going to be swaddled. Wrapped in a blanket, unable to move, and left alone with my thoughts. I cried, “Please! No!” Mom wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. “Baby, it’s okay. Mommy’s got you. Don’t fight. Mommy is here.” She put a pacifier in my mouth. I spit it out, but she put it back and held it there until I started sucking. Strangely, the pacifier, combined with her voice and rocking motion, calmed me. My breathing slowed, and I passively followed her to the bathroom. She held me with one arm while she used the other to fill the tub. When it was ready, she guided me into the water, and I sat in the warmth. In some strange way, the bath was relaxing. The water was perfect, and it was nice to finally be clean. Mom’s tone shifted back to the warm, gentle voice she always used in the nursery, which was oddly comforting and shameful at the same time. That was always her trap. When I wasn’t in the nursery, Mom expected perfection. Any mistake, no matter how small, was treated like a complete failure, and she never let those failures pass quietly; she seized on them and never forgot them. But the moment she put me back in the nursery, those expectations vanished. I couldn’t fail, because she took care of everything. All she wanted was complete obedience, and once she had it, she was warm and loving. I learned to fear independence, which made giving in so much easier. After the bath, mom brought me into the nursery. Whatever part that could resist was gone, and I just went with it. For whatever reason, I had nothing left to give. I lay there in silence and let it happen. My mom usually chose heavier pajamas during the winter. She preferred two-piece pajamas because they were easier to change. They were basically a sweatshirt and sweatpants. But because she was planning to wrap me tightly in a blanket, she dressed me in my summer pajamas. I knew what was coming as soon as she took out the thin pajamas. After changing me, she guided me to the crib, pulled soft mittens over my hands, and fastened the blanket around me with calm efficiency, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Unlike last time, my thumbs were folded inside my mittens, which turned my hands into useless clubs. The blanket pinned my arms and legs so tightly that I couldn’t move them. After she finished, Mom gently kissed my forehead and said in a calm voice, “Just relax. Don’t worry. Mommy is just outside.” I hadn’t eaten since the night before, and even then it had only been a small frozen dinner. At first, I was too shocked to feel hungry, but once my mother left the room, it hit me hard. I still had the pacifier in my mouth, and I was afraid to spit it out. Even if I had, the gel numbed my tongue enough that I couldn’t really speak. The only thing I could think to do was cry, which was too humiliating. After what might have been only a few minutes, Mom came back. In a bright, almost apologetic voice, she said, “Mommy almost forgot to feed you. I’m sorry, baby. Don’t worry, Mommy has some formula for you.” She put the bottle to my mouth and said, “Drink up. It’ll make you big and strong.” The teat filled my mouth, and I sucked in every time I breathed. Each breath brought more formula into my mouth, and I had to swallow before I could breathe again. The flavor wasn’t bad; in fact, it was quite nice. It was slightly sweet, with a banana-peach flavor. When it was gone, she praised me for finishing it, kissed my forehead, and then left the room, leaving me in the condition I feared most: completely alone. The nursery was eerily comforting. It was dim enough for sleep, but not so dark that I couldn’t see. A kind of bluish light made it feel like bedtime. When she wanted me awake, the lighting was warmer, but never so bright that it was distracting. In the corner, a lavender mist drifted into the room, giving the air a faint baby-powder scent that I instinctively associated with comfort, though it wasn’t strong enough to be overwhelming. And over all of it, a mix of soft lullabies and falling rain hummed in the background, creating a gentle layer of white noise. That was part of what made the whole thing so insidious. If the room was stark and hostile, the cruelty would be obvious. Instead, everything about it was designed to feel safe. That was what made it so hard: its comfort gave me a false sense of security. Even the swaddle twisted something familiar into something frightening. When I was younger, time alone in the crib was a refuge. It was the only place where I could think without interruption. Now that same solitude felt endless. Left alone with my thoughts, I found myself wanting someone nearby, even if their presence meant surrendering control. With so much time to think, my mind kept circling the same questions. Had my mother planned any of this? Charlotte warned me that Mom was setting me up. I didn’t believe her then. Looking back, I think she was right. Everything my mother did after Dr. Olson pulled me out of the nursery seemed designed to make me fail. And once that thought took hold, it spread beyond the nursery itself. Was Dr. Olson part of it? What about the merger, or losing my job in New York? Had my mother somehow set those things in motion too? I didn’t know whether she had that kind of power, but I knew this: if she could have done it, she would have. I found myself wondering why my mother was like that. I thought about the way Charlotte reacted after Kristy’s accident. She was disappointed, but not because Kristy let her down. She could see how upset Kristy was, and her disappointment was rooted in empathy. Instead of making it worse, she reassured her that it was okay and that she would do better next time. That broke a cycle, because nothing like that ever happened in our family. In our house, accidents were a big deal. Kristy wasn’t demoted back to Pull-ups, and she didn’t have to prove she deserved to wear underwear. When I wet my pants, I was immediately put back in Pull-ups, and I didn’t get to wear underwear again until I’d gone three days without an accident. It always came with so much ceremony that it felt enormous. On the other hand, staying dry was never celebrated. Mom checked for accidents, but she never acknowledged it when we were dry. The only time she ever recognized progress was in the earliest stages of potty training, and that disappeared as soon as we were expected to manage it on our own. The longer I lay alone in my crib, the more I longed for a normal mother. Time seemed to blur in the nursery. It was hard to keep track of the days, or even the weeks. There was nothing in the nursery to tell me what time it was, and because every day followed the same routine, it was almost impossible to know what day it was. I tried to track time as best I could, but the longer I stayed there, the harder it became. Being swaddled made it worse, since I couldn’t even tell the difference between day and night. I tried counting how many times my mom checked on me in the nursery, but I lost track. I didn’t know what day it was until the following Sunday, when my dad watched the Conference Championship games in the living room and I recognized the schedule. That was more than a week after Mom swaddled me. By then, Mom had stopped swaddling me, and I no longer wore mittens on my hands. I was still confined to the playpen, but at least I could use my hands to play with toys. I counted backward based on how many times she sent me to bed, and I think that Saturday was the third night I hadn’t been swaddled. The only indication of time I had while I was swaddled came when I heard Charlotte enter the nursery. She quietly asked, “Reggie, are you okay?” I wanted to answer, but my tongue was so numb that I couldn’t. I was just about to mumble something when Mom cut in: “Charlotte. Stop that. Reggie needs rest.” I think that happened on Sunday night, because that’s when Charlotte usually came over for dinner. At some point after that, Mom unwrapped me and let me out of the swaddle for the first time. I think it was Monday afternoon, because it was daylight and she was the only one there. I still had the mittens on, and my thumbs were trapped, but at least I wasn’t in the nursery and could watch television. After a while, she gave me a bottle, changed my diaper, and brought me back to the nursery. This time, she wrapped me in the blanket again and left me swaddled for the rest of the night. The next time, Mom freed my thumbs, and I spent longer in the playpen. She fed me first, then let me play until it was time to feed me again. I think I was only put down for a nap, because Mom brought me back to the living room before feeding me. I was swaddled two more times after that, both of which I think were at night. At some point, she stopped swaddling me altogether. Over time, I was allowed to stay in the playpen for longer stretches. I moved from being bottle-fed to eating my mother’s homemade baby food, and after a few days, my thumbs were freed from the mittens. I could grab toys again, though I still couldn’t really manipulate them. Eventually, the mittens came off altogether. I could use my hands to feed myself, and I was back to where I was before she ever swaddled me. One day, I think it was Friday, my mom brought a young girl into the playroom and introduced me to her. Her name was Maya, and she would become the first of many nannies that I had. When Mom came in, she didn’t tell me who Maya was, at least not at first. I was sitting on the floor, playing with a toy, when Mom said, “And this is Reggie.” Maya looked at me and asked, “I’m sorry. Didn’t you say that he was older than me? He looks like a kid.” Mom explained, “He is older than you, but he has a growth defect. That’s why he looks and acts like this. Right now, he’s more like a young child, and you need to treat him that way.” Maya’s eyes dropped before she could stop herself, landing on the waistband of my diaper. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away almost immediately. “Is he really wearing a diaper? Isn’t he potty trained?” Mom sighed. “I’m afraid not. He used to be, at least somewhat, but he’s gone through a terrible regression, and he isn’t anymore.” She glanced at me with something that looked like pity, and that made it worse. “Right now, I just want him to get better, so I’m not worried about that. Maybe someday, but not for a while.” Maya asked, “Does that mean he does everything in his diaper?” Mom nodded. “I’m afraid so. That’s part of why the pay is so high.” I guess the image gave Maya some trepidation, because she asked, “Can I think about it?” Mom replied, “Let’s discuss it downstairs. Reggie doesn’t need to hear about the specifics.” That was one of Mom’s rules: adult discussions happened where I couldn’t hear them. Sunday also meant Charlotte came over for dinner. It was just Charlotte this time, because Kristy was with her dad. Mom asked, “Where is my wonderful granddaughter? I never get to see her anymore.” Charlotte sounded annoyed. “Mom, I’ve told you. She’s with Dennis.” Mom frowned. “Why couldn’t you pick her up and bring her over for dinner? She needs some time with her grandmother.” Charlotte answered, “I think it’s more important that she gets time with her dad.” It was one of the few times I ever saw my mom show weakness. She whined, “Yeah, but I never get to see her anymore. I’ve barely seen her since Christmas.” Charlotte shrugged. “Well, it’s hard to find the time. We’re both busy.” That was true, but it was also deliberate. Charlotte and Dennis had been keeping Mom away while Kristy was potty training. They didn’t want my mom interfering, and they especially didn’t want to risk Kristy having an accident in front of her. That evening was one of the few times Charlotte ever changed my diaper. Thanks to the gel, my tongue was useless. I had no say in any part of my life except this: I could still choose when I filled my diaper. I’m not sure why I chose that moment, but I waited until Mom was busy cooking. Charlotte noticed and said, “Mom, I think Reggie just left a present in his diaper.” Mom sighed. “He did? I’m getting dinner ready. Do you mind?” Charlotte smirked. “Okay, but you owe me.” I don’t know if she said it intentionally, or if she truly felt that way. Either way, she accepted the role. She took me by the hand and led me into the nursery. Once we were out of Mom’s earshot, though the monitor was still in the room, Charlotte knelt beside me and whispered, “Reggie, are you still in there? You seem so lost.” I tried to talk, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t even sure what I would have said. Charlotte studied me for a moment. “Did Mom use the gel?” I nodded. Her expression hardened with concern. She replied softly, “Okay, I understand.” She paused, then added, “I promise, Reggie. I’m going to get you out of this.” Unfortunately, that was much harder than it sounded. My mother wasn’t just some unhinged woman keeping her son captive in a nursery. She was Linda Brown, one of the most powerful women in California. My father had power as well, but he never wanted the spotlight. At one point, he was considered for the Supreme Court, but he didn’t want that kind of attention. He preferred to stay in the background, where nobody looked too closely. That was what made them so hard to fight. My mother pushed, controlled, and made things happen. My father had enough influence to stop her. He just didn’t. Together, she and my father were one of the most influential couples in the state, though not the kind who appeared in the news. They left that to the politicians. They were the people behind them, the ones who kept the wheels turning. It didn’t matter who the Attorney General was; my mother was the one who really ran the department. That was what made it so hopeless. To the outside world, my mother wasn’t abusive or controlling. She was a martyr: a devoted public servant burdened with two adult children who had significant mental health challenges. Nobody saw it as abuse. Our regression was treated as part of the disorder, and my mother was praised for taking us in.