2010

If I'm to be given a spanking, then I prefer it on the bare not least cos it's easier to ensure its made the impact without causing severe bruising and the like. People did try using tickling on me when I was younger but then I often felt as if I needed the loo!

Do they have anything on over the onesie?

Any complaint regarding how a child is treated is taken seriously and there will be investigations and depending the seriousness protective measure will put in place around children during that period. The source may be a healthcare professional, school, a report of what a child *may* of said, reports from neighbours so yes things can happen and it *may* include spanking as at least in the UK it leaves marks then it will fall foul of UK legislation although spanking per se isn't outlawed in Northern Ireland and England although in Wales and Scotland it is. A concern that parents can run out of options while one the one hand held  in law to be responsible for children's behaviours but often feeling that they can and will be overruled in other measures can be corrosive in terms of discouraging  parental responsibility but there's no excuse to to leave a child black and blue.

More NB but sissy which wouldn't surprise a certain person here I guess. I don't think in terms of gender so much as gravitate towards more girl-like things but don't have a gender seeking rocket in me set to land in Girl World totally transformed and just treated exclusively as a girl. We've all got identities but we're all very a part of the bigger thing - the human race - and sometimes being a little less centred around identities and more into just play nicely with each other, learning to live with our differences might be more what we all need as much as we feel respected by others.

Day 8 -  Vendredi (Friday) – The chart Matin, Rien à fêter (Morning – Nothing to Celebrate) Thomas awoke to the quiet hum of the hospital bed motor. The sound was soft, mechanical, almost soothing, but its meaning wasn’t. Maman stood beside him, eyes calm, her hand on the remote as the mattress slowly descended with a muted whir. She didn’t greet him with a smile today. No cheerful words. No warm pat on the arm. Just: “Bonjour, mon petit.” (Good morning, little one.) It was calm. Not cold, but certainly not light-hearted. And somehow that tone made him feel even smaller than waking up in a thick, sodden diaper ever could. He hadn’t needed to check. He already knew. The sensation clung to him, warm at first, but now clammy and unmistakably heavy, the padding between his legs swollen to near bursting, held tightly in place beneath the fleece of his sleeper, which was, thankfully, still dry. Barely. Maman’s practiced hands moved with quiet efficiency, folding down the blanket and unzipping the sleeper with a whisper of teeth. Her fingers brushed the fabric aside, then pressed lightly against the front of the padding, checking its weight. Her mouth tightened slightly, and she nodded as if confirming what she already knew. “Pas de fuite aujourd’hui,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. There was no praise. No relief. Just the same quiet routine. She peeled the tapes away, wiped him gently, and said not a word as she bundled the swollen diaper into a neat roll, carried it off to the bin, and returned a few minutes later with a fresh towel and a clean shirt to start his day. There were no words about what he had or hadn’t done. The silence was louder than either. À l’école - Présenter la honte (At School, Presenting Shame) Thomas had hoped that Friday would pass quietly, that maybe the class would be too distracted by the upcoming weekend to dive as deeply into their childish assignments. But the final period, Développement de l’enfant, arrived like a storm cloud, and there was no dodging it today. Each student was expected to take two minutes to present the potty training chart they'd designed earlier in the week, the one that had felt ridiculous when they made it, and now, in Thomas’s case, felt like a cruel echo of reality. Some students turned theirs into jokes. One boy made his chart entirely out of scribbled emojis and rewards for "flushing the big scary toilet." Lena’s was charming, glittery, with a pretend unicorn sticker for every dry night, and she laughed nervously as she read it, her cheeks pink but glowing. Then came his turn. He walked to the front clutching the page like it might slip through his fingers. His voice was dry, almost hoarse, and he barely got through the list, dry in the morning, no leaks, used the potty before bed, didn’t cry, asked for help, before retreating quickly to his seat, eyes locked to the floor. He didn’t notice Chloé rising until her voice rang out, chipper as ever. “Moi, j’ai vraiment réfléchi à mon tableau. Et j’ai même utilisé quelques bonnes idées de Thomas.” (I really thought about my chart. And I even used some of Thomas’s good ideas.) The class laughed. Not at him, not directly. But he felt it anyway, every giggle a tiny pinprick. Lena glanced sideways at him, her expression tightening slightly. But she said nothing. Thomas sat back in his chair, trying to disappear into it. He barely registered the final few minutes of the lesson. Madame Béziers was still speaking, something about “reprise dans deux semaines”, and “cette fois ce sera noté”, her voice light, encouraging. He caught the words “progrès”, “deuxième chance”, and “au début de la troisième semaine.” But he didn’t really understand what she meant. He’d find out later. Le Soir (Evening) The air in the dining room was warm, filled with the comforting scent of roasted chicken and herbs. The soft clink of cutlery against plates gave the evening a calm, homey rhythm. It had been a quiet dinner so far, the kind of ordinary, gentle calm that lulled Thomas into thinking maybe the worst of the day had passed. He had almost begun to relax. Then Chloé straightened her back just slightly and cleared her throat. It wasn’t loud, but it was purposeful, the kind of sound a girl makes when she’s rehearsed her moment. “Maman ?” she began, tone honey-sweet. “Je dois vous dire quelque chose.” (Maman? I need to tell you something.) Claire turned from the sink, curious. “Oui, ma chérie ?” (Yes, sweetheart?) Thomas looked up mid-chew. Chloé folded her hands primly in front of her, eyes wide with practiced innocence. “Thomas m’a tout raconté.” (Thomas told me everything.) His fork froze in midair. “Les couches, la grenouillère, ses petits accidents la nuit… Il m’a dit qu’il avait honte, mais qu’il me faisait confiance.” (The diapers, the sleeper, his little nighttime accidents… He told me he was ashamed, but that he trusted me.) He stared at her, stunned. “I didn’t—” he started, but no one was looking at him anymore. Claire blinked, caught off guard, but then her face softened. “Oh… c’est bien qu’il ait quelqu’un à qui parler.” (Oh… it’s good he has someone to talk to.) Chloé gave a small, humble smile, perfectly timed. Then, with a casual lift of her spoon, she added: “Et si on mettait son tableau dans sa chambre ? Pour suivre ses progrès ?” (And what if we put his chart in his room? To track his progress?) Claire’s eyes lit up. “Mais quelle bonne idée.” (What a wonderful idea.) Thomas’s stomach twisted. He looked down at his plate, appetite gone.  Le tableau sur le mur (The Chart on the Wall) That evening, long after the dishwasher had been loaded and the rest of the house was quiet, Claire appeared in Thomas’s room holding the potty chart he'd submitted in class. He was already in his pajamas, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, legs dangling over the vinyl mattress cover. The bear sat next to him on the pillow, the room quiet but for the faint hum of the power adapter plugged into the bed’s motor. Claire didn’t ask. She simply stepped inside and smoothed the paper flat with practiced fingers. Then, with three neat strips of tape, she fastened it directly to the wall beside his bed, just above the bed’s control panel. Exactly at eye level. Thomas watched, too stunned to interrupt. When she was done, she tapped one box with the tip of her finger, then turned to him with a soft, instructive smile, like a mother explaining a new bedtime routine to a much younger child. “On cochera chaque matin : si tu es resté sec, si tu n’as pas touché la couche, si tu as demandé de l’aide, et si tu n’as pas pleuré.” (We’ll check off each morning: if you stayed dry, if you didn’t touch your diaper, if you asked for help, and if you didn’t cry.) He said nothing. What could he say? Claire reached into the top drawer, and returned with a thick folded diaper, a tub of cream, and a soft pair of plastic pants, pastel blue, no prints. She met his eye briefly, then patted the bed. “Allonge-toi, mon trésor. C’est l’heure.” (Lie down, sweetheart. It’s time.) Thomas hesitated only a moment. Then he lay back, slowly, like someone sinking into a memory. Claire gently lifted his legs, sliding the diaper under him with efficient hands. The familiar crinkle filled the air between them, louder in silence than it should’ve been. She sprinkled powder, rubbed in the cream, and pulled the thick padding snug between his legs. Each tape was fastened firmly, tight, but even. Then the plastic pants followed, cool against his skin, gently elastic at the thighs. “Voilà,” she whispered. “Comme ça, même si tu es très fatigué, le lit restera sec.” (There we go. Like this, even if you're very tired, the bed will stay dry.) Thomas said nothing. She kissed his forehead, zipped up the sleeper in one smooth motion, arms tucked inside, snug from heel to collar, and tucked the blanket around him carefully. Then, with one last glance toward the chart above his head, she whispered: “Bonne nuit, mon petit. Dors bien.” (Good night, little one. Sleep well.) The door clicked softly behind her as she left him in the hush of the room. The chart on the wall watched him in silence. And Thomas watched it back. Then the door creaked open again. The hallway light spilled across the floorboards as Chloé stepped inside with quiet, deliberate steps, holding a ceramic mug so large she needed both hands to steady it. She didn’t announce herself. She didn’t need to. Instead, her voice slipped through the silence like a ribbon: “Coucou, bébé étoile.” (Hi there, star baby.) Thomas closed his eyes, already knowing what she was holding. “Celui-là est un peu plus grand,” she murmured with a soft smile, carefully slipping the mug through the space between the hospital bed’s rails. (This one’s a little bigger.) He didn’t move at first. His face was warm, his cheeks still carrying the weight of the day, the chart on the wall, the laughter in class, the way no one had even looked at him when Chloé made her sweet little speech at dinner. But the smell of the milk was comforting, and the warmth of the mug seeped into his fingers when he finally accepted it, holding it awkwardly between both palms. The liquid was smooth, sweet, familiar, and the way it filled his belly, slow and steady, made it hard to stop drinking. Chloé crouched next to the bed rail as he sipped, watching him closely, her voice no louder than a lullaby. “Tu veux ta petite étoile demain, non ?” she said, brushing her fingers gently over the front of his sleeper, where the fleece stretched slightly over the thick padding underneath. “Alors bois bien.” (You want your little star tomorrow, don’t you? Then drink up.) He finished the mug without looking at her. She took it back carefully, set it on the nearby table, and stayed a moment longer, just long enough to smooth a wrinkle near his shoulder and tug the blanket a little higher, the way one might tuck in a toddler before switching off the nightlight. Then she leaned closer, so near that he could feel her breath against his cheek, and whispered: “Fais de beaux rêves, Thomas.” (Sweet dreams, Thomas.) She lingered for half a second more, letting the silence settle around them like a final exhale, then smiled, and added, just loud enough for only him to hear: “Et essaye de ne pas tout inonder cette fois.” (And try not to flood everything this time.) She straightened, turned, and disappeared into the hall, pulling the door gently closed behind her. The room dimmed once again, the only glow now coming from the faint outline of the chart above his head. And as the warmth in his belly spread downward and the familiar thickness of the diaper began to feel heavier… he already knew what kind of night it would be. Day 9 - Samedi (Saturday) – The medical supply shop Thomas had been awake for a while, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracking the slow shift of light from pale grey to soft amber as the sun crept through the shutters. He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. The sleeper held him in place, zipped and secure, and beneath it… he already knew. The diaper was soaked. Thoroughly. The telltale warmth had given way to a heavy sag, clinging faintly against the inside of his thighs, and he could feel a slight dampness where it had begun to push back against the fleece. But even that didn’t bother him like it should have. That was what scared him. He should’ve felt humiliated. Panicked, even. The same burning shame that always gripped him when Maman opened the door or when Chloé whispered one of her teasing little comments. And he was ashamed, still, deeply, but it came in waves now, no longer sharp and urgent. Beneath it was something steadier. Something quieter. He felt safe. That word drifted into his mind uninvited, and he flinched inwardly the moment it formed. Safe. Not free. Not respected. Just… safe. Because someone would come soon, unzip the sleeper, clean him up, change him, dress him, feed him, and he wouldn’t have to say a word. It was disgusting. Infantilizing. Unbearably embarrassing. But lying there, not yet seen, not yet spoken to, there was a tiny part of him, one he couldn’t quite crush, that didn’t mind it at all. And that part was what terrified him most. Le constat de Maman (Maman’s Assessment) The door opened with its usual quiet creak, but even that soft sound made Thomas's body tense beneath the blanket. The footsteps that followed were calm and unhurried, steady in their rhythm, the kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who had done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times, and had stopped being surprised by anything she might find. — Bonjour, mon petit. (Good morning, little one.) Her voice was warm, perhaps a little tired, but there was no impatience in it, no coldness either. She moved to the side of the bed and rested a hand gently against his forehead, not checking for fever so much as checking if he was truly awake. Then her fingers slipped through his hair once, twice, smoothing it back without comment. She didn’t wait for him to move. Her hand reached behind his shoulders, fingers finding the zipper at the back of his sleeper, and slowly pulled it down in one smooth motion. The fleece parted, warm air escaping as she peeled it down past his chest, his stomach, then paused at his hips. Not out of shock. Claire rarely looked shocked anymore. But this morning, her fingers lingered a moment longer than usual. The inner lining of the sleeper, usually protected by the plastic pants, was visibly damp. Her hand slid lower, brushing the edge of the mattress protector. Near the corner, where his thigh had pressed during the night, there was a faint patch of wetness. She exhaled, not in frustration, but with a kind of quiet finality. — Ce n’est plus suffisant, ça. (This isn’t good enough anymore.) Thomas didn’t speak. His cheeks burned against the cool morning air. His eyes stayed on the ceiling. Claire gently folded the fleece down the rest of the way, pulled the thick, swollen diaper out from under him, and began cleaning him with slow, steady care. She worked in silence until the last wipe was folded and tossed aside. Then, just as she began drying him with a fresh towel, a voice echoed from the hallway, bright, alert, and far too cheerful for the hour. — Où on va ? (Where are we going?) It was Chloé. Claire turned her head slightly toward the door without stopping her hands. — Au magasin médical. Tu peux venir si tu veux. (To the medical store. You can come if you like.) There was a pause. Then Claire added, her tone brisk but neutral: — Mais d’abord… prends ça, s’il te plaît. Poubelle jaune. (But first… take this, please. Yellow bin.) She held out the tightly rolled, sodden diaper. Chloé stepped into the room, her bare feet soft on the wooden floor. Without a word, she walked over and accepted the diaper with both hands, holding it carefully beneath the middle where the weight sagged low in her grip. She wrinkled her nose with exaggerated playfulness. — Ouf. Il était bien rempli, celui-là. (Wow. That one was full.) Claire gave her a flat look., Chloé. (Chloé.) — D’accord, d’accord. J’y vais. (Alright, alright. I’m going.) And with that, she turned and carried it toward the hallway, arms slightly extended to keep the bundle away from her dress. Just before exiting, she tossed one more line over her shoulder with sugar-sweet innocence: — Je peux l’aider, non ? Il me fait confiance. (I can help, right? He trusts me.) Thomas blinked, heat rising all the way to his ears, but still, he didn’t say a word. And as the muffled sound of the trash lid opening echoed faintly from the other room, he stayed right where he was, clean, quiet, and once again, not saying no. Au magasin médical From the outside, the store looked discreet and unremarkable, a pale sign with quiet lettering, a few soft banners about mobility aids and incontinence solutions hanging in the window. But inside, everything was clean and well-lit, the shelves arranged in precise, gentle rows, the soft scent of lavender cleaning spray blending faintly with plastic and cardboard. Claire walked in with the confidence of someone who had done this before, not for herself, but for people she had loved. Thomas followed just behind her, tense and silent, with Chloé hovering to one side, her steps practically bouncing. The woman behind the counter greeted them with a warm smile and eyes that held the steady calm of someone who dealt in embarrassment for a living, and neutralized it effortlessly. Claire spoke to her in steady, quiet French. Thomas could follow just enough to know they were talking about la nuit (the night), les fuites (leaks), and how les couches actuelles ne suffisent plus (the current diapers weren’t enough anymore). His cheeks darkened as he looked down at his shoes, heart fluttering. The woman nodded with sympathy and understanding, already turning to the shelves behind her. “Il a grandi un peu ?” (He’s grown a little?) Claire gave a half-smile. “Et beaucoup bu le soir.” (And drinks a lot in the evening.) From behind a neat row of packages, the woman pulled one down, larger, firmer, clearly designed for more serious needs. “C’est notre modèle le plus fiable pour la nuit. Il doit l’essayer pour confirmer la taille.” (This is our most reliable nighttime model. He needs to try it on to confirm the size.) Thomas’s heart skipped. Claire agreed before he could speak. “Oui. Il va l’essayer.” (Yes. He’ll try it on.) He blinked, turning toward her. “Do I really have to—” Claire gave him a look. Not harsh. Not angry. Just immovable. “Come, Thomas.” The saleswoman led them to a small changing room: soft lighting, a cushioned bench, a clean white trash bin. She handed him the sample and gestured clearly. “Pantalon et sous-vêtements, s’il vous plaît.” (Pants and underwear, please.) Thomas hesitated, his fingers shaking. He began to undress slowly, face burning. The assistant waited only a few seconds before stepping forward, unbothered. “Je vais le mettre. C’est plus simple.” (I’ll put it on. It’s simpler.) Without waiting for a reply, she unfolded the diaper, guided him to sit on the bench, and with practiced movements, slid it beneath him, pulled it snugly into place, and fastened each tape with gentle precision. It was snug. Firm. The thickest he had worn by far. It surrounded him like a soft, padded wall. “Lève-toi, s’il te plaît.” (Stand up, please.) He obeyed, blinking down at himself, unsure of what to do with his hands. She stepped back, opened the curtain all the way, and gestured calmly toward Claire. “Parfait. Ça lui va très bien.” (Perfect. It fits him very well.) Thomas stood there, stiff, shirt barely reaching the waistband, the diaper fully visible and undeniably bulky. Claire nodded, satisfied. “On en prend un paquet.” (We’ll take a pack.) The saleswoman gave a friendly smile. “Et avec ça, vous avez droit à un petit cadeau, une tétine offerte. Vous pouvez choisir là-bas.” (And with that, you’re entitled to a small gift, a complimentary pacifier. You can choose over there.) Claire began to shake her head, “Non, merci—” (No, thank you—) But Chloé was already there, fingers dancing over the small display of adult-sized pacifiers. “Oh, regarde ! Celui-ci est mignon !” (Oh look! This one is cute!) She picked up a pastel blue pacifier and held it toward the counter, turning it slightly so they could all see the cartoonish bear on the front. “Celui-là est parfait pour lui. Il ira bien avec son doudou. On va le prendre, non ?” (This one is perfect for him. It’ll go great with his teddy. We’ll take this one, right?) “Chloé, ce n’est pas le moment pour—” (Chloé, this isn’t the time to—) “Et franchement…”, she turned toward Thomas with a smile that was too kind to be innocent — “…puisqu’il est déjà en couche, il pourrait tout simplement la garder, non ? Ce serait dommage de l’enlever juste après l’avoir mise. Ce serait dommage de le gaspiller.” (And honestly… since he’s already in a diaper, he might as well just keep it on, right? Would be a shame to take it off right after putting it on. It would be a shame to waste it.) Thomas felt heat flood his face. “I’m not keeping this on all day! And I don’t want some stupid pacifier! This is ridiculous—!” Claire didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t flinch. She just stepped forward, took the pacifier from Chloé’s hand, and pressed it gently but firmly into Thomas’s mouth. His lips closed automatically. The silence was instant. He froze. His eyes widened as his protest dissolved into mute, stunned stillness. Claire nodded, her expression unchanged. “Il est utile, finalement. On va le garder.” (Turns out it’s useful. We’ll keep it.) Then, directly to him: “Ne l’enlève pas. Pas avant que je te le dise.” (Don’t take it out. Not until I say so.) The assistant said nothing, her smile staying professional. “C’est courant. Beaucoup trouvent ça apaisant.” (It’s common. Many find it calming.) Claire took the pack under one arm and gestured toward the fitting room. “Retourne te rhabiller, mon cœur. Tu peux le garder si tu préfères, mais replie-le bien si tu l’enlèves.” (Go get dressed, sweetheart. You can keep it on if you prefer, but fold it neatly if you take it off.) Still pacified, Thomas shuffled back behind the curtain. A few minutes later, dressed and silent, he followed Claire and Chloé out into the warm air of the parking lot. He kept his eyes down, the pacifier gone, tucked safely into Claire’s purse. Claire had just opened the car door when Chloé leaned forward from the back seat. “Maman ? Avant qu’on rentre… je peux te parler ? Seule à seule.” (Maman? Before we go home… can I talk to you? Just the two of us.) Claire paused, then closed the door again with a quiet click. “D’accord. Thomas, attends dans la voiture, s’il te plaît.” (Alright. Thomas, wait in the car, please.) Entre mères et malice Claire closed the car door with a quiet, deliberate click, her purse hanging loosely from one hand, her posture still and expectant. She waited, glancing sideways toward Chloé with that slightly raised eyebrow she used when she knew a story was coming. Chloé didn’t disappoint. She leaned against the car, arms crossed, face lit up with the same gleam she always had when she’d thought two steps ahead of everyone else. “Alors, voilà. Pendant que Thomas était dans la cabine, je suis allée un peu plus loin, vers les rayons pour besoins spécifiques.” (So, here’s the thing. While Thomas was in the fitting room, I wandered a bit further, into the special needs section.) Claire’s brow furrowed just slightly, but she said nothing. “Et j’ai vu un harnais. Un vrai, avec des sangles solides, pour le lit ou même pour la voiture.” (And I saw a harness. A proper one, with sturdy straps, for beds or even the car.) Claire tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Tu penses à quoi, exactement ?” (What exactly are you suggesting?) Chloé grinned. “Le voyage scolaire. L’auberge. Pas de lit médicalisé, pas de barrières. Tu veux vraiment qu’il erre dans les couloirs en pleine nuit ? Encore ?” (The school trip. The hostel. No hospital bed, no rails. Do you really want him wandering the hallways again in the middle of the night? Again?) Claire exhaled through her nose. That memory hadn’t faded, the bump, the noise, the sight of him fumbling in the dark with a half-fastened diaper. “Ce n’est pas une mauvaise idée. Mais il ne l’acceptera jamais.” (It’s not a bad idea. But he’ll never agree to it.) “Pas si on le lui impose.” Chloé’s tone was light, but her eyes sparkled. (Not if we force it.) Claire turned to face her more directly. “Tu proposes quoi, alors ?” (So what are you suggesting?) Chloé shrugged with studied innocence. “On lui donne le choix. Le harnais, oui… mais en échange, il ne devra plus porter les vieux pyjamas roses de Mamie. On pourrait trouver quelque chose de plus… adapté. Plus pour lui.” (We give him the choice. The harness, yes… but in exchange, he won’t have to wear Grandma’s old pink pajamas anymore. Maybe we can find something more… fitting. Just for him.) Claire blinked, not at the idea itself, but at how easily Chloé had packaged it. A trade, not a command. A decision, not an imposition. Clever, and effective. She checked her watch. She gave one slow nod, then turned back toward the store. “Allons-y. On va demander conseil.” (Let’s go. We’ll ask for guidance.) Back inside the familiar coolness of the shop, the same assistant welcomed them back with a curious smile. Claire explained their concern, discreetly, of course, about the upcoming overnight school trip and how to safely manage nighttime care away from home. The assistant understood at once. She led them toward a back aisle, where a small but specific display showed a few multi-purpose restraint systems: safety harnesses originally intended for children with behavioral or cognitive challenges who had outgrown traditional car seats. The clever design allowed them to be strapped into a seat or anchored to a bedframe with soft loops and firm buckles. Claire examined one. It was sturdy. Subtle. Adjustable. “Ça pourrait fonctionner. Avec un lit basique, c’est faisable.” (This could work. With a basic bed, it’s doable.) Chloé ran her hand along the fabric, curious. “Et… est-ce qu’il y a des pyjamas adaptés à ce genre de harnais ? Quelque chose de plus… présentable que ce qu’on a ?” (And… are there pajamas that work with this kind of harness? Something a little more… presentable than what we have?) The assistant smiled. “Justement.” She guided them to a nearby rack, where a few sealed garment bags were hanging neatly. “C’est un modèle un peu spécial : fermeture éclair dans le dos, jambes pieds intégrés, couche plastique à l’intérieur, et un fin matelas absorbant cousu dans la doublure.” (It’s a special design: back zipper, footed legs, built-in plastic layer, and a thin absorbent mat sewn into the lining.) Claire unzipped one. It was dark navy, soft and simple. The fabric had the stretch of sportswear, but the interior was unmistakably built for function. It looked nothing like a baby sleeper. And yet, it was exactly what they needed. Chloé clapped her hands once, quietly. “Il va adorer. Même moi je le trouve stylé.” (He’s going to love it. Even I think it’s stylish.) Claire nodded, already moving toward the register. The harness and the sleeper were purchased with little further discussion, the assistant making a note to include a small info pamphlet on how to describe the items on a school health form. By the time they returned to the car, the sun had shifted across the lot and Thomas was still sitting in the back seat, silent. Claire opened the passenger door and slipped into her seat, placing the receipt and packaging carefully in the footwell at her feet. Le formulaire (The Form) Claire unlocked the front door and pushed it open without ceremony. The cool, clean smell of their tidy home met them all as they stepped inside. Without needing to be asked, Chloé took the bag of purchases and vanished down the hall. Claire removed her shoes, set her purse aside, and headed straight to the kitchen. The silence between her and Thomas wasn’t uncomfortable. The kitchen was warm with late-afternoon light, quiet except for the gentle tap-tap of Claire’s pen as she smoothed the school form out across the wooden table. A soft breeze drifted through the half-open window, rustling a napkin nearby. Thomas hovered awkwardly in the doorway, watching as she filled in the top portion with practiced, looping letters. “Viens t’asseoir, mon cœur.” (Come sit down, sweetheart.) He obeyed, sliding into the chair opposite her, eyes skimming the form. Informations médicales pour voyages scolaires. His throat tightened. “C’est juste un formulaire pour le voyage. Les professeurs doivent savoir s’il y a des besoins particuliers.” (It’s just a form for the trip. The teachers need to know about any special needs.) Claire’s tone was calm and composed as she moved through the first sections. “Tu n’as pas d’allergies alimentaires, hein ?” (No food allergies, right?) He shook his head. “Et médicaments ?” “Just ibuprofen sometimes.” She nodded, writing. “Je vais noter ça. En cas de douleur ou de fièvre.” (I’ll note it. In case of pain or fever.) She continued through the contact numbers, both hers and the school’s, and then paused at the last section: “Mesures spécifiques à prévoir.” Her pen hovered over the box. “Je vais écrire que tu as besoin de protection la nuit.” (I’m going to write that you need protection at night.) Thomas shifted in his seat, face turning red, but didn’t protest. She scribbled gently, then added, “Et que l’adulte référent devra t’aider à mettre ta protection le soir.” (And that the supervising adult will need to help you put on your protection at night.) He swallowed hard, unable to meet her eyes, but he didn’t protest. He nodded slowly, his hands in his lap. Then Claire reached into her purse and pulled out a small paper leaflet, folded in half, clean and white, and laid it beside the form. “Et ça, c’est pour éviter ce qui s’est passé l’autre nuit.” (And this is to avoid what happened the other night.) Thomas squinted at it, a diagram, some straps, a photo of a child seated and secured. His eyes widened. “Un harnais ? Non, je…” (A harness? No, I—) Before the protest could reach full volume, Claire lifted the pale blue pacifier from beside the form and placed it into his mouth with practiced calm. He froze, humiliated but silenced. “Tu écouteras, ensuite tu pourras répondre.” (You’ll listen, then you can respond.) She gave it a second, then continued. “On ne va pas t’attacher. Pas à moins que tu sois d’accord. Mais pour ça, il faut choisir.” (We’re not going to restrain you. Not unless you agree. But for that, there has to be a choice.) She reached beneath the table and set two folded garments down side-by-side. One was unmistakable: the faded, floral-pink sleeper from his first nights, thick and childish. The other, still folded, was a new one, deep navy blue, clean lines and masculine stitching, still in its packaging. Claire spoke gently. “Si tu préfères porter celle de Mamie, tu pourras. Sans harnais.” (If you prefer to wear Grandma’s sleeper, you can. No harness.) Then she tapped the navy one. “Mais si tu veux cette grenouillère, la bleue, plus moderne, tu devras accepter le harnais pour le voyage.” (But if you want this sleeper, the blue one, more modern, you’ll need to accept the harness for the trip.) She didn’t explain the sleeper’s other features. Not yet. Thomas blinked rapidly. He tried to speak, to form a question, but it came out muffled through the pacifier. The same gesture that had quieted him once already now softened his protest before it began. Claire reached out and gently removed the pacifier. Then she folded her hands and waited. No pressure. Just her gaze, steady and calm. “Alors, Thomas ? C’est à toi de choisir.” (So, Thomas? It’s your choice.) Déjeuner - Lunch Chloé took the shopping bag and disappeared toward his room with the same enthusiasm she might’ve shown organizing a board game. Claire, unhurried, stopped by the kitchen long enough to rinse the pacifier at the sink, drying it with a folded towel before setting it gently on the nightstand beside his bed. It didn’t look out of place anymore. In the bedroom, Chloé had opened his drawers, making room. The bulky new diapers were stacked where folded sweaters used to be. She hummed to herself, unwrapping the new navy sleeper from its packaging and hanging it carefully from a hook on the inside of the closet. The harness remained in its zip bag, tucked beside his suitcase, not hidden, just waiting. Thomas lingered in the doorway, watching. Neither of them acknowledged him for a moment, as if he were simply part of the furniture being arranged. Claire looked over her shoulder at last. “On va déjeuner. Après, tu pourras faire une petite pause.” (Let’s have lunch. After that, you can take a little break.) He didn’t respond with words, but followed her quietly to the table. Lunch passed without event, pasta, bread, juice. Chloé spoke easily about nothing in particular, and Claire gave no hint that anything was unusual. The form, the diaper, the sleeper, the pacifier, none of it existed at the table. After the meal, Chloé opened a cupboard and pulled out a different set of memory cards. “Tu veux refaire une partie ? Celui avec les animaux, ou la nouvelle boîte avec des objets de la maison?” (Want to play again? The one with animals, or the new set with household items?) He hesitated for a second, then pointed clumsily at the second box, miming eating with a hand to his mouth, then drawing a circle in the air like a plate. The game was almost comforting now, not because he liked it, but because he knew the rules. Préparatifs du soir (Bedtime preparations) The memory game had lasted longer than expected. A new set of cards this time, pictures of everyday household objects, simple things with matching words printed in clean, rounded letters beneath each one. Thomas had struggled more with this set, not because it was harder, but because there were so many small differences in French between what he thought a word was and what it actually meant. He held up a card with a table on it. “Une… chaise?” “Non, ça c’est une table,” Chloé said quickly, laughing, nudging his arm. Claire, who had just entered with a tray, corrected him with patient clarity. “Et une chaise, c’est ça.” She showed him another card. (And a chair, that’s this one.) He smiled, quietly pleased when he got the next one right. The picture of a fork, une fourchette. They clapped lightly when he said it without help. Dinner followed not long after. The kitchen filled with warm smells, the table already set. As they ate, Chloé made a game of pointing at objects on the table and demanding answers. “Et ça ?” she asked, tapping her glass. “Un… verre,” Thomas replied cautiously. “Très bien ! Et ça ?” She pointed to her plate. “Une… assiette.” “Oh là là, mais tu deviens un vrai petit Français,” she teased, grinning. He flushed but smiled too. Claire corrected him gently once or twice, he said couteau for spoon instead of cuillère, but no one laughed. It was the kind of table where mistakes didn’t hurt. After the meal, Claire suggested some reading time before bed. Thomas retreated to his room, book in hand, though he wasn’t quite sure what language it was in anymore. He sat on the bed with the book open on his lap, eyes skimming the same paragraph over and over without processing a word. His thoughts had wandered. He missed home. Not all of it, maybe. But the small things, the smell of his own pillow, his dad’s footsteps on the stairs, the awkward texts from his mom asking if he was eating enough. He hadn't replied to his mom’s last message. He fumbled for his phone and typed out something quick: Thomas: all fine here we're doing a lot of language games Helen: that's great sweetie. you’re doing so well 💙 💌 love you lots Thomas: love you too The room felt too still. Too quiet. His thumb brushed the corner of the page, and a single tear slid down from the corner of his eye, wetting the paper before he could stop it. That was when Claire knocked once and entered with her usual calm. She carried a fresh diaper, folded pajamas, and the soft scent of lavender soap that always seemed to follow her. “Il est l’heure de se préparer, mon cœur.” (Time to get ready, sweetheart.) He closed the book and nodded wordlessly, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand before she could see.  But she had seen. She knelt down to place the items on the bed, then looked up at him with quiet kindness. “Tu veux ta tétine ce soir ?” (Do you want your pacifier tonight?) He was only half-listening, distracted and blurry-eyed, still thinking about home, still stuck somewhere between French and English and memory. He nodded vaguely. Claire didn’t say anything else. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the pale blue pacifier, and gently placed it between his lips. He blinked, surprised, but didn’t resist. She set to work without a word, her movements confident now, less hesitant, more routine. The diaper she unfolded was one of the new ones from the medical supply store, thicker than anything he’d ever worn before, with crinkly wings that made a soft, expectant sound as she opened it fully and slid it under him. It felt bulkier between his thighs, wide enough to press his knees slightly apart. The padding climbed higher at the front and back than the old ones, and the plastic shell had a smooth, professional feel, not soft like baby diapers, but something unmistakably designed for someone who needed it. He swallowed, staring at the ceiling as she gently wiped him clean, then dusted him with powder, the scent oddly soothing, almost maternal in its familiarity. When she folded the diaper up over him, he felt the pressure wrap around his middle like a thick, padded hug. Then came the strong tapes, one by one: left, right, bottom left, bottom right. Each fastening came with a tug and a soft pat to make sure it held. The final result was snug. Secure. Inescapable. He truly felt like he was put into it by someone else who had decided that for him. When she turned to the pajamas, he sat up slightly. “Can I wear… the new one tonight?” Claire’s eyes met his gently, but her answer was firm. “Non, mon chéri. On veut qu’il reste bien propre pour ton voyage.” (No, sweetheart. We want it to stay nice and clean for your trip.) He nodded, trying not to show the disappointment on his face. She lifted a familiar pink sleeper from the side of the bed, soft fleece, faint floral patterns, and legs that zipped closed at the foot. It had once belonged to someone else, and he could feel it. But she moved with the same tenderness she always did, helping him slide his arms and legs in, gently lifting the zipper at the back until he was sealed inside again. She gave him a kiss on the forehead, smoothed the blanket over his padded form, and lingered only a moment more before turning off the light and quietly stepping out of the room. And there he lay. In the dark, eyes open, the pacifier still resting gently in his mouth. No one had said if it was okay to take it out. So he didn’t. Le calme du soir (The Calm of the Evening) The soft hum of evening had settled through the house. From the quiet of his room, Thomas could just make out the faint sound of the dishwasher running, the clatter of laundry baskets being shifted in the hallway, a chair scooting gently across the kitchen floor. Familiar now. Predictable. Routine. He lay in the familiar pink sleeper, snugly zipped, the thick new diaper wrapped tightly beneath it, still a foreign feeling, but one that no longer shocked him. The door opened softly. Chloé entered barefoot, her steps light and silent across the floorboards. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she wore a soft cotton t-shirt that looked like she had just pulled it on after a warm shower. She carried a large ceramic mug in both hands, steam gently rising from its surface. “Encore un petit verre avant de dormir ?” (One more little drink before bed?) He nodded and sat up, rubbing one hand over his eyes. She passed him the mug and sat beside him on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. The milk was warm, slightly sweetened, and thicker than usual, rich and heavy on his tongue. He sipped slowly, the warmth filling him with a strange comfort that confused him as much as it calmed him. Chloé watched him drink in silence, smiling slightly. “Tu sais… t’as été très sage aujourd’hui.” (You know… you were really good today.) He glanced at her briefly, then looked away. She reached over, tugging the blanket over his knees. As she did, her hand smoothed over the soft fleece of his sleeper, then paused, pressing gently over the bulky outline beneath. Just a soft pat. Not teasing. Not cruel. Just present. Acknowledging what he was wearing without a word. “Tu deviens un vrai pro, tu sais ?” (You’re becoming a real pro, you know?) Thomas took another sip, grateful for the silence. When the mug was empty, he handed it back to her. She set it aside, then reached for the pacifier, still resting on the table, and, without hesitation, placed it between his lips. Her fingers brushed his cheek as she did, then tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Bonne nuit, mon petit ange.” (Good night, my little angel.) She kissed the top of his head and stood. The lights went out. The door clicked softly shut. And in the darkness, the pacifier stayed right where she’d put it.