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I would change someone soon after they wet their diaper so they get used to being dry. That might make it easier when it comes time to start potty training.  Before I started to potty train someone I would teach them how to tell when they were wet so they can ask for a dry diaper. One way I would show them how to check their diaper is the squish test. If they squeeze their diaper and it feels squishy they are wet. The appearance of the diaper can tell a lot about its condition.  If it is sagging or the padding looks wet or clumpy a diaper change is needed. Wetness indicators are an easy way to check a diaper.  I would tell them that when the wetness indicator changes color they are wet.   Even though someone knows how to tell when they are wet I would still perform diaper checks because they might not want to stop what they are doing to have their diaper changed.  If they are older or have started potty training they might be embarrassed that they are wet so they won't ask for a dry diaper.   Pull ups now have a learning layer that allows someone to feel when they are wet.  That can help someone who is having trouble telling if they are wet.  It sounds like Emma and Ash want to potty train and are motivated to get out of diapers and start wearing pull ups. 

I've been sort of interested in cloth products and am thinking of trying some out. There are a couple threads on the Rearz cloth training pants and they seem interesting. The dinosaur print version especially catches my eye. Brings out some little feelings in me. The threadedarmor pull-on diapers, split  are interesting. They have more capacity, but they're much more expensive and I saw one comment about them not lasting long. I'd want to get at least as much use out of them as I would from a similarly priced package of diapers. Any other comments on these? Are there other brands you recommend? I like the idea of prints that are more little than baby. On a similar subject, is there any good adult underwear printed like kid underwear?

Sissygasms 😍

I agree there is room for everyone here, that's one of the things that makes this site so great. I just don't see the use of yet another label. I believe our ability to discuss things like this without making things personal or negative also makes this site somewhere I like to hang out in. Hugs, Freta

“Be careful. Don’t drop it,” he said. In a flash we were moving again. As we strolled past the shops, I caught Vanessa and Michelle whispering conspiratorially. At one point Michelle glanced back at me and smiled. Later I saw Vanessa pull out her phone. As Michelle leaned over the screen, I watched her eyes grow wide and her hand cover her mouth in surprise. Vanessa pocketed her phone and they both giggled. I tried to catch up, but my snow boots kept sliding and I was too afraid to run. I was so completely focused on their antics I didn’t see Susan and bumped into her. This sent the bakery box of cookies scattering across the cobblestones. “What’d you do that for?” Susan barked. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” I shot back. I bent over to salvage the cookies from the pavement. Josh and Hannah helped. We managed to scrape the remnants into the box. I was tired, cold, wet and my tolerance level was low. So, when Caleb glided behind me and chuckled again at my exposed panties, I lost it. “Shut up!” Overcome I spun around and gave him a hard shove. He stumbled backwards over a low rail fence into the snow. He scrambled to his feet his face flush with anger and his fists balled. Instantly, Uncle Carl materialized between us. He handed Caleb the box of broken cookies and swung his arm around his shoulder and walked him away. I looked up and saw Vanessa and the two aunts shaking their heads in disappointment. The group slowly migrated back to the parking lot accompanied by Susan and Lily’s outcries. “We have nothing to decorate, she broke all the cookies!” To which Mr. Morrison patiently replied, “We have plenty of cookies. There are four more boxes.” Back in the car I sat buckled in the middle seat again filled with resentment. Mrs. Morrison was going to get an earful! When we arrived at the Morrison home, I pulled off my coat, boots and gloves and made a beeline for my birth certificate. I snatched up the envelope up and marched into the kitchen. “Where is Mrs. Morrison?” I asked Uncle Carl. “I think she’s talking with Vanessa,” he shrugged. He opened a cabinet and poured a healthy glass of Baileys Irish Cream and meandered into the living room. I could only imagine the wild tales Vanessa was spinning. A knot formed in my stomach. I tried to steady my nerves. The children had deposited the bakery boxes on the counter and fled upstairs. The two aunts had walked into the living room and Mr. Morrison had wandered away, scotch in hand, into his study. I felt apprehensive. I was about to face Mrs. Morrison and did not want to succumb to her domineering manner. I listened and confirmed my solitude. I slid over to the counter and picked up the bottle of Baileys. I spun the cap and titled it back. Its creamy goodness was warm and comforting as it caressed my throat. I don’t weigh very much, and I hadn’t had any alcohol in over a month. I took another swig. By the time Mrs. Morrison entered the kitchen I was full of confidence. “I understand you had quite an outing tonight. Why don’t we speak in the library,” Mrs. Morrison beckoned. I no intention of being lured into the library again. “No, we can talk right here.” I said firmly. Mrs. Morrison raised her eyebrows. It was clear she was taken aback by my tone, but I didn’t care. I whipped out the birth certificate and tossed it on the counter. “This is fake, isn’t it?” “You make it real my dear,” she answered calmly. “I am not twelve years old.” “I would suggest that document confirms otherwise as does your behavior tonight. But before we proceed, I should elaborate. It is not unusual to correct minor errors on an official document such as a birth certificate or marriage license. But these must be done through supported amendments and by the department of vital records. This process takes time. Fortunately, I have a close friend in vital records in California. We went to school together. I was previously aware of the misspelling of your mother’s name. So, I made an inquiry through my friend. She was kind enough to expedite the correction. During our conversation I persuaded her to make another adjustment to your birthdate.” “That was complete invasion of my privacy. Who asked you to interfere?” “You did when you signed our contract.” “What? I didn’t ask you to do that.” “Not in so many words but you did agree to forfeit your adult rights. So, under the terms of which you signed you were technically a minor and ineligible under the law to make such a request. I did it for you.” I shook my head in frustration. “You’re twisting my words...I mean, our agreement around.” “Hardly. I acted in your best interest.” “How is it in my best interest to make me twelve?” I said loudly. “It fits you. But before you become completely emotional, I should explain the certificate is not completely official. There is no corroborating documentation to support the change. In addition, what you possess is merely a copy I printed. It contains no official embossed stamp. Your original record remains untouched, for now. However, I do know in order to process such an alteration my friend would have made the changes internally in order to send them to me. And as I understand it, she is well away on her Christmas vacation by now. So, I have no way of knowing whether she reversed the records on her end. But not to worry this is nothing which would stand up in a court of law. You, of course, possess several opposing official documents which prove this certificate is false. All you would need to do is produce them.” “So, this is just a joke,” I said waving the paper. “That is one perspective. Now there is a more serious matter to discuss.” “Yes, there is,” I stated defiantly. “Michelle.” “What about her?” “You invited that redhead here just to...knowing full well she was...” “I don’t understand what the issue is dear.” “She’s Jack’s ex-fiancé!” “I would advise you lower your voice. Yes, you are correct, but Michelle is also a friend of the family. I invited her here for dinner and to spend time with us for the holidays.” “But she’s...Jack and I are married! It’s wrong!” I shouted. “I admit it’s wrong but not for the reason you believe.” Suddenly, Mrs. Morrison’s whole demeanor switched. She gnashed her words as she advanced on me. “How can my son, Jack, be married to a little girl? A spoiled, disrespectful disobedient twelve-year-old. A child who throws tantrums, runs away, destroys property, and attacks other children. Now give it to me.” “What?” “That,” she said pointing at my hand. “Take it off and put it in my hand.” “No!” “I failed to notice it earlier. I should have taken it when you signed the agreement. Now give it to me or leave my house immediately,” she said. Damn! Jack was arriving on Friday. It was only one more day. I was so close. This was irritating! Hours ago, I had resolved to leave after confronting Mrs. Morrison. But in reality, I had no real place to go, and it was bitterly cold outside. And even if I was given my belongings, I had little cash and my credit cards were almost at their limit. We faced each other in silence as I pondered my options. I couldn’t allow Mrs. Morrison the satisfaction. This had been her plan all along. It all was so transparent now. Each new humiliation was an attempt to drive me from her home and away from Jack. And now I would also be creating a perfect opening for Michelle. I consoled myself Jack would arrive Friday and set everything right. But that notion did not address my current situation. I despised the thought, but I had to endure this a little longer. “Give it to me, now.” “Fine,” I snarled as I wriggled my wedding ring off and dropped it in her hand. “Little girls do not wear wedding rings,” she said. It was only jewelry, but the significance and symbolism of surrendering my wedding ring could not be understated. “You can have this instead,” Mrs. Morrison quipped as she laid down Michelle’s coat button on the counter. “That was an accident—." I started. “And I suppose attacking Caleb was an accident too.” “No! It was just, —," “What? A further confirmation you are an immature child who cannot be trusted to behave. You continue to act as you please with complete disregard to your agreement. Even now, after I have spoken to you, your volume and tone continues to be disrespectful. You have disrupted my family’s Christmas for the last time!” “I can explain!” I interjected loudly. “There is nothing to explain. It has only been a few hours and in that time, you have embarrassed Michelle, run away, deliberately damaged store property and assaulted Caleb!” “You don’t understand I —," I exclaimed. “No, it is you who does not understand!” she emphasized. Her fingers reached out and snaked around one of my pigtails, “But I will make you understand!” “Ow! Let go of me!” I yelled. With my head at an angle and my hair tightly in Mrs. Morrison’s grasp she began to drag me out of the kitchen. “Aaaahhhh!” I screamed like I was being stabbed. My stocking feet vainly fought for traction on the tile floor as I frantically clawed at the countertop. My actions to cease my forward motion were futile. Mrs. Morrison was stronger and bigger than me. “I warned you would this happen. I even reminded you before you left. But you are obviously incapable of being good,” she lectured. I suddenly remembered her warning from the hallway. She was hauling me to the living room! “No! Not in there, the library, the library!” I yelled. I screamed, swung my arms, and kicked at Mrs. Morrison but my attack had little impact. “You can’t do this!” I panicked. In seconds we arrived in the living room. Mrs. Morrison planted herself in the middle of the beige striped sofa and roughly jerked me over her lap. She wrapped her strong arm around my waist and clamped me in place. I wasn’t going anywhere. “Stop! Don’t do this! You have no right!” I yelled. “No dear, you have no rights!” She flipped my dress onto my back, and I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know who was in the room. She slapped my bottom about a dozen times. The sensation was strange with my bottom encased in tights. She added a few more swats and stopped. For a moment I thought it might be over. “If you recall, I warned I would pull down your panties and spank your bare bottom bright red in front of the entire family,” she scolded. “Vanessa, would you please gather everyone in the living room?” “Sure thing,” Vanessa answered. “No, no, no! Don’t call them in here, please!” I pleaded. I writhed but Mrs. Morrison held me firmly in place. A stampede of footsteps approach and halted nearby. I clamped my eyes even tighter and hoped by doing so I could block out any voices too. Mrs. Morrison spoke as if she were conducting a lecture. “Excellent. I wanted you all to witness what happens in this house when you are willfully disrespectful. I promised Stephie she would be punished if she continued to act up. I have given her every opportunity to correct her behavior. Unfortunately for her, she did not heed my warning. So, she has forfeited any modesty and therefore will be spanked on her bare bottom. Children, please take note of this punishment as a warning to you all,” she announced. I bucked and twisted as Mrs. Morrison’s fingers discovered the elastic band of my tights. She grasped my tights and stupid reindeer underwear and worked them down below my bottom. “Hold still!” she commanded. The rush of cold air on my exposed bottom was fleeting as Mrs. Morrison immediately began spanking me with her hand. She alternated from one bottom cheek to the other. Tears welled in my eyes. Limited by my tights I kicked my legs minimally as I squealed. Due to my size, I have a petite bottom. It is tight and round. This physical attribute allowed Mrs. Morrison’s wide hand to cover each of my bare cheeks expertly. She even managed to spank me at the underside of my cheeks where my legs met my bottom. Each time she applied this technique I yelped in pain. SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! My struggles were pointless. The spanking continued and I clenched my fists. I imagined it was the same reflex from old westerns when gunfighters had a bullet removed and bit down on a piece of wood. It didn’t help and my bottom grew hotter and hotter. Mrs. Morrison spanked me in focused silence with a steady rhythm. Mercifully, she stopped. “There. That is a sufficient bright shade of red as promised. Please understand this punishment was warranted. Now you may all go back to enjoying your evening,” Mrs. Morrison said. The footsteps reversed and the room went quiet except for my soft sobbing. I tried to control it but I had trouble catching my breath. Mrs. Morrison grasped the hem of my tights again and pulled them down my legs and off. She repeated this with my underwear. Then in one awkward motion Mrs. Morrison placed me barefoot on the carpet. My hands flew to my heated behind and rubbed furiously. I kept my eyes on the floor. If anyone else was in the room, I didn’t want to know. How could I ever look any member of the family in the eye again? I was mortified! Mrs. Morrison cleared her throat and soothed her right hand as she spoke. “I am sure, at this point, you think yourself treated unfairly perhaps even harshly. But I spanked you to prove a point. To demonstrate the importance of keeping one’s promises. I have fulfilled my promise by reddening your bare bottom in front of the entire family. And as I have stated previously, I do not see you as an adult but rather as a spoiled child in need of correction. I intended for others to share my perspective and I feel in some small way I have accomplished that goal.” She was right! The entire family had seen me spanked like some naughty child. How could they ever see me as anything but a little girl? It was awful. In one dramatic presentation Mrs. Morrison had altered the entire family’s view of me. I would never be taken seriously again. How could they ever see me as Jack’s wife or as a woman? I had allowed Mrs. Morrison to strip me literally and figuratively of my adult self.                                                                                            The End