Mommies and Daddies

I look at him doing laps and realize he is an amazing man. Something I will never be. He is definitely superior to me in the man department. Calling him daddy will be humiliating but he could make me do worse. So rather than get another spanking I might as well make him happy. “Ok Daddy I will”  

mary ann was more human to me, ginger and howels were too snobby.

The conclusion to Paige's story. For now? Made using Grok AI. Thanks so much to everyone who has stayed with the story to the end Epilogue  Six months later.  The nursery was painted pale yellow now. Emily had spent the first week after the wedding turning the spare bedroom into a proper nursery — crib, changing table, a rocking chair in the corner, a shelf lined with cloth books and soft toys. There were no bars on the window because there didn't need to be. Paige couldn't reach the windowsill.  Her crib had been replaced with a larger one after the first month — a heavy wooden crib with high sides and a drop-down front that Emily and Michael operated with one hand. The mattress was firm and covered with a waterproof sheet. The blanket was soft and pink and monogrammed with the letter P in the corner. There was a mobile above it — butterflies and flowers that turned slowly and played a lullaby when you wound the key.  Her days had settled into a routine. She woke up in the crib at 7:00 when Emily came in. Emily changed her diaper — she was always wet, and often messy, by morning. She was then placed in the highchair in the kitchen and fed breakfast — baby cereal or oatmeal from a jar, spoon-fed by Emily while Michael read the paper and drank coffee at the table beside her. After breakfast, she was changed again if needed, dressed for the day in whatever Emily had picked out — usually a onesie or a short baby dress with a diaper cover, always thickly diapered underneath — and then placed in the playpen in the living room while Emily worked from home. Lunch was at noon, also in the highchair, also spoon-fed. Afternoon nap in the crib from 1:00 to 3:00. She always wet during her nap. She was changed when she woke up, given a bottle, and returned to the playpen until dinner. Dinner was at 5:30 in the highchair — more baby food, sometimes supplemented with a bottle of formula. Bath at 6:30, diaper on by 7:00, crib by 7:30. The pacifier went in at 7:15 and stayed in until morning.  Over time, Paige had developed a quiet habit. Whenever Emily reached for her — whether to lift her out of the crib, the highchair, or the playpen — Paige would automatically raise her arms. It had started as an unconscious movement and had become automatic. She no longer thought about it. Her body simply responded.  She had not used a toilet in six months.  One afternoon, while Emily took her to the grocery store, Paige was wearing a short yellow dress with a visible diaper underneath. As Emily pushed the cart down the produce aisle, Paige spotted a woman she recognized from her old job standing near the apples. Her heart jumped. She waited until Emily was distracted for a moment, then slipped out of the cart and ran toward the woman as fast as her small legs would carry her.  “Miss! Miss!” Paige called out desperately.  The woman turned. For a brief second, Paige thought she saw a flicker of recognition — but it quickly disappeared. The woman looked down at her with a polite, slightly confused smile and bent to pick her up.  “Hi there, sweetheart,” the woman said gently, lifting Paige into her arms. “Where’s your mommy?”  Paige clung to her tightly, wrapping her arms around the woman’s neck and refusing to let go.  “I—I’m not— I’m not a baby,” Paige tried to say, but the words came out small and lisped. “Please, you have to help me. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m—”  Before she could finish, Emily appeared beside them. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were cold as she took in the sight of Paige clinging desperately to the stranger.  “I’m so sorry,” Emily said smoothly, reaching for Paige. “She tends to wander off.”  The woman smiled and handed Paige over without question. “She’s adorable. You’ve got your hands full.”  Emily took Paige from the woman’s arms. Paige tried to cling tighter, but Emily’s grip was firm. She didn’t look happy.  “Thank you,” Emily said politely. She turned and walked away with Paige held securely against her side. The woman smiled after them for a moment before going back to her shopping, completely unaware of what she had just witnessed.  The adoption had been finalized three months ago. Emily and Michael had retained a lawyer who specialized in unusual cases — an adult with a documented medical condition that made independent living impossible, combined with a long history of deception about her physical stature. The legal argument was straightforward: Paige Elizabeth Martinez was a thirty-year-old woman who stood three feet tall, weighed thirty-one pounds, was fully and irreversibly incontinent, could not reach doorknobs, could not climb into a chair without assistance, and had demonstrated over the course of a documented week that she was unable to care for herself in even the most basic ways. The lawyer had photos — the crib, the highchair, the diapers, the onesie. He had the medical report from the pediatrician Emily had taken her to, which documented the incontinence, the physical dimensions, and the developmental regression observed over the course of a single week. He had the driver’s license with her real height listed — three feet, zero inches — proof that she had been lying about a growth spurt for years.  The judge had signed the papers without hesitation.  Paige Elizabeth Martinez no longer existed in any legal sense. Her apartment had been emptied by Emily and Michael, the contents donated or discarded. Her car had been sold. Her job had been resigned on her behalf. The life she had built — the career, the apartment, the independence, the pretense — had been systematically dismantled and replaced with a crib and a changing table and a drawer full of diapers.  She still protested. Every single day, she protested. She told Emily she was an adult. She told Michael she didn't belong in the crib. She tried to explain about the taller teen, but Emily always stopped her there, holding up a hand, shaking her head with that tired expression that meant the conversation was over. The lisp had not gone away. If anything, it had deepened over six months of pacifier use, her tongue and palate reshaping themselves around the silicone nipple that sat in her mouth for hours every day. She sounded like a toddler having a tantrum. That was the thing that broke her heart the most — not the diapers, not the crib, not the baby food, but the sound of her own voice, lisped and small, trying to say the words "I'm an adult" and hearing them come out as "I'm an aduwt."  The pacifier was permanent now. Emily kept one in every room of the house — one in the nursery, one in the living room, one in the kitchen, one in the diaper bag. There was always one within reach, and whenever Paige started to fuss, Emily would simply slip it in and wait. Paige had stopped resisting the pacifier months ago. Her mouth opened for it automatically, the way a baby's does, and the sucking would start within seconds, and the fussing would taper off, and the protest would dissolve into quiet, rhythmic sucking that she couldn't seem to stop even when she wanted to.  Emily and Michael were planning a short honeymoon for the following month. While they were gone, they would need someone to watch Paige. One evening while Paige was in the highchair being fed dinner, Emily and Michael discussed it at the table.  “Karen said she could do it,” Emily said. “Or Jess, if Karen’s busy that week.”  Paige felt a sudden warm rush between her legs at the mention of their names. The thought of being left alone with either woman for several days made her stomach drop. She didn’t even realize she had wet until Emily glanced over and sighed.  She was sitting in the playpen on a Tuesday afternoon when Emily came in with her phone and a particular expression — the expression she wore when she had news that Paige wasn't going to like.  "Guess what," Emily said, sitting down on the couch across from the playpen. "Sarah's engaged."  Paige looked up. Sarah — one of her oldest friends, a bridesmaid at Emily's wedding, the one who had caught the bouquet. They had known each other since high school, since they were teenagers, since before Paige had started lying about her height, since before any of this had happened. Sarah had been there for all of it — the mall incidents, the bedwetting at the sleepover, the night the bouncer wouldn't let Paige into the club. Sarah had watched Paige shrink from a friend into a flower girl over the course of a single wedding weekend, and she had smiled the entire time.  "She met someone at our wedding," Emily continued, smiling. "Ryan Caldwell — he was one of Michael's college friends, a groomsman. They started talking at the reception and apparently never stopped. He proposed last weekend."  Paige said nothing. She sucked on her pacifier and stared at Emily through the bars of the playpen.  "The wedding is in two months," Emily said. "And Sarah called me today with a very special request." She paused, and her eyes were warm, and her smile was the kind of smile that meant the decision had already been made. "She wants you to be her flower girl."  Paige's pacifier dropped from her mouth.  "No," she said immediately. The word came out flat and hard despite the lisp. "No. I won't do it. I'm not being a fwower giwl again. I'm not."  "Paige—"  "I'm thiwty yeaws old! I'm not a wittle giwl! I won't weaw anoder baby dwess and thwow fwowers on the gwound whiwe evwyone watches and—"  "Paige, stop."  Emily's voice was calm but firm. The kind of calm that meant she had already thought this through and the discussion was not a discussion.  "Sarah specifically asked for you," Emily said. "She's known you since high school, Paige. She saw you at our wedding and she thought you were the sweetest thing she'd ever seen. She's already picked out the dress."  "I don't CAWE what she picked out! I'm not doing it! You can't make me!"  "You're doing it," Emily said simply. "And I think you'll feel differently when you see the dress. Sarah sent me a picture."  She held up her phone. Paige didn't want to look. She tried not to look. But her eyes moved to the screen before she could stop them.  The dress was pale pink. Shorter than the white flower girl dress from Emily's wedding — much shorter, ending well above mid-thigh so that the diaper beneath would be completely visible from the start. The skirt was layered with stiff tulle ruffles that stuck out horizontally, the kind of ruffles you'd see on a toddler's Easter dress. The bodice was smocked with tiny rosebuds embroidered across the chest. There was a matching diaper cover — ruffled, pink, with a large satin bow on the back — and a bonnet. A bonnet. It was pale pink with a ruffled brim and ribbon ties that would go under the chin. There were also matching white ruffle socks and tiny patent leather shoes with a strap. The whole outfit looked like something you'd put on a two-year-old for a family portrait.  Paige stared at the screen. Her mouth was open. The lisp, when it came, was barely intelligible.  "No," she whispered. "No, I won't. I won't weaw dat. Dat's a baby dwess. Dat's a— I'm not a baby. I won't."  "Sarah picked it out special for you," Emily said, and her voice was gentle in a way that was somehow worse than anger. "She said she wanted you to look precious."  "I don't want to wook PWEVIOUS! I want to go home! I want my wife back! I want—"  "That's enough, Paige."  Emily's voice was harder now. She put the phone down and stood up.  "I'm going to call Sarah and tell her yes. You are going to be her flower girl. You are going to wear the dress she picked out. And you are going to do it with a smile on your face."  "I WON'T!" Paige screamed, and she kicked the side of the playpen hard enough to make it rattle. "You can't make me! I'm an ADUWT! I have WIGHTS! Dis is— dis is KIDNAPPING! Dis is—"  "Michael!" Emily called toward the kitchen.  Michael appeared in the doorway. He was holding a coffee mug and wearing the slightly weary expression of a man who had heard this particular protest many times over the past six months. He set the mug down on the counter.  "What's going on?" he asked, though he could clearly hear.  "She's throwing a tantrum about Sarah's wedding," Emily said. "She says she won't be the flower girl."  Michael looked at Paige in the playpen — her face red, her fists clenched, her pacifier on the floor where she'd spat it, her thick diaper visible beneath the hem of the short yellow onesie she was wearing. She looked like a toddler mid-meltdown. She always did. That was the thing that made it impossible for anyone to take her protests seriously — she looked exactly like what she was fighting against being.  "Paige," Michael said, and his voice was patient but firm. "You're going to be Sarah's flower girl. That's not up for discussion."  "NO!" Paige screamed again, and she kicked the playpen harder. "I won't do it! I won't! You can't make me! I'm not a wittle giwl! I'm not! I'm NOT!"  Michael set his coffee down and walked over to the playpen. He opened the gate, lifted Paige out with one hand — she weighed thirty-one pounds, less than a large toddler — and carried her to the couch, where he sat down and laid her across his lap. He flipped up the back of her onesie and pulled down her diaper with practiced efficiency.  "Not again!" Paige shrieked, kicking her legs. "Not again, not again, NOT AGAIN!"  Michael spanked her. Hard. Not cruelly, but firmly — each strike landing with a clear, deliberate sound that filled the living room. Paige screamed and kicked and thrashed, but his hand held her firmly in place, and the spanking continued — ten, fifteen, twenty strikes — until her protests dissolved into sobbing and her kicks weakened to feeble twitches and her body went limp across his lap.  When he finished, he pulled her diaper back up, snapped her onesie closed, and set her on her feet. She stood in front of him, tears streaming down her face, her hands rubbing her bottom through the thick diaper, hiccupping through her sobs.  "I don't… I don't desewve dis…" she whispered, her voice broken and lisped and small. "I'm not a baby… I'm not…"  Michael picked up the pacifier from the floor, wiped it on his shirt, and slipped it into her mouth. She started sucking immediately, the way she always did — the reflex kicking in before conscious thought could interfere. Her sobs slowed. Her breathing steadied. She stood there in front of him, sucking on the pacifier, tears still wet on her cheeks, looking up at him with an expression that was equal parts fury and helplessness.  "Are you done?" he asked.  She nodded, the pacifier bobbing in her mouth. She wasn't done. She would never be done. But her body had surrendered the way it always did, and the protest that was still raging inside her head would stay inside her head, because she had learned that letting it out only made things worse.  Emily came back into the room. She looked at Paige — standing in her onesie and diaper, sucking on the pacifier, tears on her cheeks, red-faced from the spanking — and her expression was not unkind. It was the expression of a mother dealing with a difficult child. Patient. Steady. Immovable.  "Paige," Emily said, and she knelt down so she was at Paige's eye level. "I want you to listen to me very carefully."  Paige sucked on the pacifier and stared at her with wet eyes.  "You are going to be Sarah's flower girl. That is decided. What is not decided is how the next few months go for you." She paused, letting the words settle. "Because of your behavior today — the tantrum, the kicking, the screaming — you are going to bed early for the next three months."  Paige's eyes widened behind the pacifier.  "Six o'clock," Emily said. "Every night. For three months. No exceptions."  Paige shook her head, her mouth tightening around the pacifier, but she didn't dare speak. The spanking was still fresh — she could feel the heat radiating from her bottom through the padding of the diaper. Six o'clock. That was barely an hour after dinner. That was before the sun went down in the summer. That was a bedtime for a toddler, not a — not an — she couldn't even finish the thought.  "And," Emily continued, "you've lost your TV privileges for a month."  This was worse. The TV was the one small comfort Paige had — the one thing that made the playpen bearable in the afternoons. Emily would put on children's shows — cartoons with bright colors and simple stories — and Paige would sit in the playpen and watch them and, for brief intervals, forget where she was and what she had become. Without the TV, the afternoons would be nothing but the playpen and the silence and the slow, creeping hours.  "Emiwy, pwease," she whispered around the pacifier, the lisp making the plea sound even more plaintive than she intended. "Not da TV. Pwease. I'll be good. I'll weaw da dwess. I'll do it. Just—"  "You should have thought about that before you threw your tantrum," Emily said. She stood up. "The decision is made. And if you throw another fit about it, I'll add another month."  She looked at Michael, who nodded once. It was settled.  Emily picked up her phone from the couch and dialed Sarah.  "Hi! Yes, I talked to her. She's so excited. She can't wait." Emily smiled at Paige as she said it — a warm, genuine smile, the kind a mother gives when she's sharing a photo of her baby with a friend. "The dress is perfect, Sarah. She's going to look adorable in it."  Paige stood in the living room in her onesie and diaper, the pacifier in her mouth, tears drying on her face, her bottom still stinging, and listened to Emily describe how excited she was to be the flower girl at Sarah's wedding. She listened to Emily and Sarah laugh together on the phone — two old friends from high school, catching up, sharing news, planning a wedding — and she heard the sound of her own life being arranged and scheduled and decided, the words coming through the phone in pieces — "ruffle socks," "bonnet," "how precious," "she'll love it" — and she stood there and took it, because there was nothing else she could do.  She was thirty years old. She was three feet tall. She was incontinent. She was legally the adopted baby of her former best friend and her former best friend's husband. She went to bed at 6:00 in a crib. She ate from a highchair. She was spoon-fed baby food. She was changed several times a day. She sucked on a purple pacifier that she couldn't stop sucking on. She spoke with a lisp that she couldn't stop lisping with.  And in two months, she would put on a pale pink dress with ruffled tulle and rosebuds and a bonnet, and she would walk down an aisle with her thick diaper visible beneath a ruffled diaper cover with a satin bow, and she would scatter flowers on the ground while guests whispered about how sweet she looked, and she would cry — not from the emotion of the moment, but because she was thirty years old and this was her life now.  Emily hung up the phone and turned to Paige.  "Wasn't so hard, was it?" she said warmly. She smoothed the front of Paige's onesie and adjusted the pacifier clip on her chest. "You're going to be the most beautiful flower girl Sarah's ever seen."  Paige looked up at her. The pacifier clicked softly between her teeth.  She didn't say anything. She had learned that saying things didn't help. The words came out wrong — lisped, broken, small — and they were met with smiles and pats on the head and the quiet, immovable certainty of people who had already decided what she was.  Emily picked her up and carried her to the playpen. She set her down inside, clipped the pacifier to her dress, and turned on the baby monitor on the shelf.  "I'll be in the kitchen," Emily said. "Be a good girl."  The gate clicked shut.  Paige sat in the playpen, surrounded by soft blocks and cloth books and stuffed animals. The afternoon light came through the window and fell across the carpet in long, warm rectangles. From the kitchen, she could hear Emily humming — a lullaby, the same one from the mobile above her crib.  She sucked on the pacifier and stared through the bars of the playpen at the room that was her world now.  Two months until Sarah's wedding. Three months of early bedtimes. One month without TV.  She picked up a cloth book and turned the pages without reading them. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. The sound was oddly soothing. She turned them again. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle.  Her diaper was warm.  She didn't know when it had happened. She hadn't felt it. She never felt it anymore.  She sat in the playpen in her wet diaper, turning the pages of the crinkle book, sucking on her pacifier, and waited for Emily to come change her.

So it totally not your blog you are promoting?

Here is an interesting thing Gilligan's Island where did Ginger get all her makeup from?  As the show went on for 3 seasons and not sure how long that was in real life for them before they were rescued.  So she had to run out of makeup at one time.  And Mrs Howell as well?