2011

Charlotte is learning about consequences of her acts , and poor Oliver is helples needing start over about potty training 

Well at least he is going to stay with her so he can hopefully convince her he is a good lab assistant material. Plus she seems like a nice mommy material 😅

That’s was a good chapter Jake says he don’t like to feel like a toddler but in the end he needs this atention and care , and jenny is in mommy toddler mode doing what is best for her toddler boy ! Curious to see more of this mommy toddler interaction especially if Jenny gonna dress Jake like he is now (diaper and onesie ) for daycare , and hopping she introduce a bottlefeeding for bedtime to keep Jake calm and without nightmares 

Chapter 8 Dinner was finished, plates pushed aside. Mum folded her hands on the table and looked at us both. “About the diuretics,” she said simply. Charlotte froze. I blinked, not understanding. Mum’s eyes fixed on her daughter. “You put them in your brother’s drink in Stockholm. You watched while he squirmed and shifted, and when he couldn’t hold it any longer you laughed. Did you think I would not find out?” Charlotte went crimson, her lips parting. “I only wanted to teach him a lesson. He always acts so…” “A lesson?” Mum’s voice was calm, measured, and somehow sharper for it. “Your brother’s accident at the airport was not an act of carelessness, it was something you deliberately forced. You tricked him, Charlotte. You humiliated him in front of strangers, and you hid behind me while I blamed him for weakness. Do you deny it?” Charlotte’s eyes darted to me, then back to Mum. Her voice was small. “No. I only wanted to show him that… that he is not as grown up as he pretends.” I stared at her, speechless. The memory of that day came rushing back. The ache in my bladder, the shame when I couldn’t hold it any longer. I had believed it was my fault, my bad luck, my pride. But now… she had caused it? Mum leaned forward slightly, her voice steady. “Oliver, you should know this: you did have choices. When the men’s room was closed, I told you the ladies’ was free. You refused, because of your pride. That much was your own fault. But Charlotte made certain you would be desperate long before we landed. She set you up to fail, and that was cruel.” I opened my mouth, but no words came. Mum straightened, her tone returning to calm authority. “That is why I let Charlotte wet herself in the shop yesterday. I gave her the same dose she gave you. And when she stood there in soaked clothes, in front of strangers, she finally learned what you endured.” Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Be quiet,” Mum said firmly. “You got what you deserved.” Silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall. Then Mum turned to me, her expression softening. “Oliver, your punishment is officially over. You have worn diapers day and night since Stockholm. That ends tonight. After dinner, I will help you out of it. You will have normal underwear and pajama bottoms again.” For a moment I could only stare at her. My punishment… over? I had dreamed of this, but never thought it would happen now. Relief surged through me, dizzying. Mum’s gaze shifted back to Charlotte. “As for you. The twenty-four hours you spent in diapers was for your accident in the shop. That part is finished. But for the diuretics, for deliberately tricking your brother, you will spend a week diapered every night, just as Oliver wore on our holiday. You will understand that actions have consequences. And let me be clear, Charlotte. This is only the start. If I see fit, I will add to your punishment. If you mock your brother again, if you argue with me, I will extend it without hesitation.” Charlotte’s face burned scarlet, her fists tight in her lap. “A week?” she whispered. “Yes,” Mum said. “Every night. That is the fairest punishment I can give.” I sat frozen, my mind reeling, my cheeks hot. My punishment was over. Hers was beginning.   After the dishes were cleared, Mum rose from her chair and motioned for us both to follow her upstairs. My heart thudded. The words she had spoken at dinner still rang in my ears: your punishment is officially over. In my room she stopped me first. “Up on the bed,” she said simply. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, while she unpinned the heavy, damp cloth from around my waist. She wiped me down with a brisk, practised hand, then folded the diaper and set it in the pail. “Tonight you will wear these,” she said, handing me a pair of plain cotton briefs. They looked so ordinary, so grown-up, that my throat tightened just holding them. I slid them up my legs, the thin fabric clinging where I had only felt bulk before. Over them she gave me striped pajama bottoms. “There,” Mum said, satisfied. “You are dressed like a young man again. Make sure you prove you deserve it.” I nodded quickly, hardly able to speak. In Charlotte’s room it was different. Mum spread a thick disposable, the Pampers I knew too well, on the bed and patted it firmly. “Down,” she ordered. Charlotte’s face burned crimson. “Mum, these are enormous, I don’t need these.” “You do now,” Mum cut her off. “Oliver wore these every night. You will too.” Reluctantly Charlotte lay back. Mum tugged her shorts and panties down in one motion, slid the bulky diaper beneath her, and taped it tight around her hips. The thick padding rose high over her waist, forcing her legs apart. Then came the clear plastic pants, stretched snugly over the top until the crinkle was muffled into a steady rustle. Charlotte sat up, scowling. “This is ridiculous.” Mum only patted the front. Later, downstairs, Charlotte went to the kitchen and reached for a glass. Mum intercepted her, holding out a pink baby bottle filled with juice. “Use this instead.” Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “Mum, no. I’m not a baby.” “You will drink from the bottle,” Mum said evenly. “Half of it, at least, before bed. That is not negotiable.” Charlotte glared, but under Mum’s stare she lifted the bottle to her lips. The nipple squeaked faintly as she sucked, her cheeks flushing deeper with every swallow. When she set it down, half-empty, Mum nodded. “Good girl. Now off to bed.” Charlotte stomped upstairs, the thick Pampers forcing her walk into a waddle. I followed more quietly, the soft cotton of my pajama bottoms brushing my legs. For the first time in weeks, in months actually, I felt almost normal.   But the next morning, I woke to cold. Not the usual damp cling of a wet cloth diaper, but something worse. My pajama bottoms stuck heavy to my legs, the sheet beneath me clammy and slick. I blinked, groggy, then touched the mattress. My hand came away wet. My stomach dropped. The blanket was soaked through, dark blotches spreading wide. The waterproof cover had done its job, but I was lying in a puddle. My first night free, and I had drenched the bed. Across the hall, voices cut through my panic. “Up you get,” Mum said firmly. “Mum, please, not like this,” Charlotte’s voice answered, high and miserable. I froze, listening. “Wet, just as expected,” Mum went on, her tone calm, almost teasing. “Quite a flood.” “Mum!” Charlotte squeaked. “Please, just let me change before breakfast, I don’t want him to see me like this.” “You will get used to it,” Mum replied without sympathy. “Downstairs now. Pajama top is fine, the diaper stays. Breakfast first.” The rustle of plastic pants and Charlotte’s muffled protest followed, then the thud of feet on the stairs. I looked back at my own bed, at the mess I had made. A burning lump rose in my throat. She had to face breakfast in her swollen Pampers, teased and squirming, but at least her mattress would be dry when she crawled into it tonight. Mine… mine reeked of failure. A knock, then Mum opened the door. Her eyes flicked once to the soaked bedding. She didn’t even need to pull it back. “Go take a shower, Oliver,” she said evenly. “Don’t worry about the bed, I’ll take care of it. Fresh pajama bottoms are on the chair.” I nodded quickly, unable to speak, and fled past her into the bathroom. The hot water ran down my face, but it did not wash away the shame of waking in a puddle.   When I came down, my hair still damp from the shower and a clean pair of pajama bottoms clinging to me, Charlotte was already seated at the table. Her pajama top hung low over her lap, but nothing could hide the swollen bulk of her soaked Pampers beneath it. The plastic pants gleamed faintly in the morning light, the waistband peeking above the hem when she shifted. Her cheeks burned as she stared down at her plate, refusing to look at me. Mum poured herself coffee and sat at the head of the table. She let us eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scrape of cutlery, before setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Oliver,” she said evenly, “you wet the bed last night. That happens, and you will not be punished for something you cannot control. You remember the rule we used before, the one for bedwetting. Fourteen dry nights in a row. Until then, you will be diapered every night. Once you can prove that, the diapers end. Wearing a diaper at night is not a punishment, but it is sensible. It keeps the sheets dry, it means less laundry, and it means you do not have to wake up cold and lying in a puddle. It is not about making you feel small, it is about keeping you comfortable and protected until you can manage on your own.” I swallowed hard, staring at the table. Fourteen nights. Two weeks of perfect control. It felt impossible, but at least Mum said it was not a punishment. A chance, not a sentence. Then her gaze turned to Charlotte. “And you,” Mum continued, her tone just as calm, “since you were the one who started all of this, your punishment will last as long as Oliver’s does. Not one week. Not two. For the entire period until Oliver has proved himself dry for fourteen nights. When he wears a diaper, you will wear a diaper as well.” Charlotte’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Mum, no! That could be months.” “That depends entirely on your brother,” Mum said, cutting her off without raising her voice. “If Oliver proves himself, you are free. Until then, you will share his routine. Every night. Every morning. That is only fair.” Charlotte’s face flamed scarlet, her fists tight around the fork. She opened her mouth again, but no words came. I sat stiffly, heart hammering, hardly daring to breathe. My fate was bad enough, but hers had just been tied to mine. Mum took another sip of her coffee, then added calmly, “And this arrangement will make sure there are no more tricks. Your own freedom now depends on Oliver’s progress, Charlotte. If you try to sabotage him, you only trap yourself for longer. On the contrary, you should be encouraging him, because the sooner he reaches his fourteen dry nights, the sooner you are free as well.”   One day later, I came down the stairs stiffly, the thick cloth around my waist heavy and damp under my pajama bottoms. Charlotte padded in from the other side of the landing almost at the same time, her Pampers crinkling faintly under her nightshirt. We met at the kitchen door, both red-faced, neither of us willing to look at the other. Mum was already at the table, coffee steaming in front of her. She set down her cup when she saw us. “Charlotte first,” she said, crooking a finger. Charlotte shifted uneasily, tugging at the hem of her nightshirt. Mum’s hand pressed the front of the diaper, then tugged at the elastic of the plastic pants. “Dry. Good.” Charlotte let out a small sigh of relief. “Since it’s dry, you may take it off yourself,” Mum went on, her tone brisk. “Back upstairs, panties and jeans on before you come down for breakfast. Go.” Charlotte turned sharply and stomped back up the stairs, cheeks scarlet. “Oliver,” Mum said, turning to me. She tugged back my waistband, gave a firm squeeze at the sodden cloth, and nodded. “Wet again. Sit.” My stomach twisted, but I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair. The padding squelched against me as I sat down, a clammy reminder. Once Charlotte returned, dressed properly, Mum waited until we were both seated before standing up and going to the kitchen door and revealing a large sheet of card taped to the inside. A simple chart, with two columns, one headed with my name, the other with Charlotte’s. “This,” she said, tapping the sheet with her finger, “is our bedwetting calendar. Every morning will be marked. A sun for dry, a teardrop for wet. Very simple.” My mouth went dry. A calendar, in plain sight, tracking every failure. Charlotte flushed too. “Mum, that’s… that’s not fair. Everyone will see it.” “Everyone who needs to see it,” Mum replied evenly. “That means the two of you, and me. That is all. Now eat your breakfast.”   After lunch, Mum set down her napkin. “We are going to the supermarket,” she announced. Charlotte was already halfway to the door, but Mum stopped her with a single word. “Oliver will ride in front with me today. You will sit in the back, in the booster seat. He had to endure it often enough. Now it is your turn.” Colour rose hot on Charlotte’s cheeks. “But I’m twenty years old! People will see…” “They will see nothing. You will get in and out of the car, and that is all. The rest is between us.” Mum’s voice was calm, final. Charlotte muttered under her breath but obeyed, stomping out to the driveway. I slipped into the passenger seat, my heart thudding strangely to be there for the first time in weeks, while Mum guided Charlotte firmly into the back. She sat stiffly as Mum buckled the seatbelt across her hips, pulling it snug until it clicked. The car hummed to life, the road rolling steadily beneath us. I stared out the window, while Charlotte sulked behind me, her arms folded tight. Every bump in the road made the booster squeak softly, a sound I knew too well. At the supermarket, Charlotte climbed out quickly, glancing around the car park, but no one gave her a second look. Inside the shop, she walked with her chin high, while Mum and I pushed the trolley down the aisles. It was only on the way home that the tension thickened. Charlotte sat in the booster again, glaring out of the window, every squeak of the seat a reminder of her place. I sat up front, oddly relieved not to be the one strapped down. Mum kept her eyes on the road, Charlotte sulked in silence behind us, arms folded tight across her chest, and I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the blur of hedges and houses. That was when it hit me, a pressure in my bladder. I clenched my thighs together, shifting in the seat, trying to focus on anything else. But the sensation only grew stronger with every passing minute, hot and insistent. I had grown used to letting go the instant I felt the need. I pressed my palms into my lap, biting my lip, willing myself to last until we reached home. But the pressure spiked again, harder this time, and I gasped. “Oliver?” Mum’s voice was calm, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “I… I’m fine,” I whispered, though my voice shook. I wasn’t. Another jolt and I lost it. Warmth spread fast across my crotch, soaking through my briefs, darkening my jeans in seconds. It ran down the edge of the seat, pooling beneath me, the smell sharp and undeniable. Charlotte leaned forward, craning her head to look. “Oh my God” “Charlotte, quiet,” Mum said firmly, her eyes still on the road. “We will deal with this at home.” I sat frozen, heat flooding my face hotter than the wet spreading beneath me. By the time Mum pulled into the driveway, the damage was done: my jeans clung heavy, the car seat darkened and damp. I climbed out slowly, the soaked denim cold against my skin, every step squelching. Charlotte followed behind, her face split between disbelief and grim satisfaction.   Mum said nothing as we filed inside. My jeans clung to me with every step, cold and heavy, dripping faintly onto the tiles of the hall. Charlotte trailed after us, her eyes bright, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth though she didn’t quite dare let it show. In the kitchen, Mum finally turned to face us. She spoke in that same calm, measured tone she always used, which somehow made it worse. “Oliver. From now on, you will wear a diaper for any outing where a bathroom is not easily reachable. We cannot risk this happening again, not in my car, not in public. This is not a punishment. It is a practical solution to a medical problem. It will keep you dry and save the seats.” I felt my face burn, even though she said it wasn’t punishment. It didn’t feel like anything but. Mum’s eyes moved to Charlotte. “Since your punishment is tied to your brother’s, the same rule applies to you. Whenever he must wear one, you will as well. For him it is protection, for you it is consequence. That is fair.” Charlotte’s mouth fell open. “Mum, no! That was his accident, not mine. Why should I…” “Because,” Mum cut her off firmly, “you wanted to trap your brother in diapers. Now you share his rules. Every one of them. If he wears one, you will too.” Charlotte flushed deep red, gripping the back of a chair.  “The decision is made. Diapers when a bathroom is not easily reachable. Both of you. Now, Oliver, upstairs to change. Charlotte, you will help me clean the car seat.” I stood rooted to the spot for a moment, humiliated beyond words. My jeans clung cold and heavy, my cheeks burning. Charlotte glared at me, her eyes promising revenge, but she couldn’t argue against Mum’s verdict. I peeled off my soaked jeans upstairs, the wet denim slapping to the floor with a heavy sound. My underwear was no better, clinging cold and sour against my skin. I dropped it all into the laundry basket and stood for a moment in just my shirt. Not a punishment, she had said. A practical solution. Maybe for her it was practical, sheets and car seats kept dry, less laundry for her to do. But for me, standing there red-faced with my skin still prickling from an accident I hadn’t been able to stop, it felt like punishment. Every bit of it.

I went to my cousin's ex's house.  I watched a bit of the Chiefs v. Cowboys and ate something.  Even after my cousin and his ol' lady split, family holidays are still not optional.  I kind of enjoy it, but I wish it waas like it was before they moved out here.  To me, Thanksgiving and Christmas are just another day.  (Additional church service on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day....) I get time and a half for working those, along with New Year's Day.