Rainbow Diapers

Great chapter , I really like the way the story is going .  

That can probably be fixed by changing your wardrobe. It worked for me, anyway. I'm in thick cloth nappies pretty much full-time.  My nappies are low-slung at the front, which reduces the bulge. The bulky bit is mainly between my legs where it's needed, not higher up. In the winter months I'm in dungarees, a vest onesie and a shirt, with a smock-style pullover top over that. Dungarees have a low crotch and hide everything pretty well. I generally manage to get through the day in a single nappy (& another for the night).  In the summer months I'm in heavy duty cargo shorts - a bigger size than I'd be in without nappies. And a T-shirt onesie. I scale the nappy padding down a bit for the summer, and usually need a change around teatime (that's 5pm-ish for those not in the UK).

Chapter 5: Mom gets her baby back! One of the worst parts about being in timeout was the uncertainty. We never knew how long we would have to stay put, nor what Mom would do once she finally let us out. Sometimes, our punishment lasted only two or three minutes; just enough for her to assert her dominance and remind us who was in charge. But she sometimes also kept me in timeout for more than an hour. The unpredictability made each timeout feel even more daunting. Without any warning or explanation, we could be left standing for what felt like an eternity, wondering if the end was near or still far away. Even short timeouts made it clear that Mom was in charge and kept us alert. The lack of routine or set duration meant we could never settle in or become comfortable with the process, leaving us anxious about what would happen next.  Regardless of the duration or reason for being there, the rules never changed. We had to assume the position: face the wall, feet spread apart, and arms clasped behind our back. Most importantly, no talking! That was the mistake I made. The thing about timeouts is that ten minutes doesn’t feel much different than thirty minutes. They both drag on endlessly, and after a while, I lose all sense of time. Even before my dad spoke up, it felt like I had been there a long time, but mom left us there even longer. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer, I blurted out, “How much longer are you going to keep us here?” I realized my mistake immediately, but it was too late. I was hoping for a warning, but she didn’t do that. She walked over, put a pacifier in my mouth, and asked Kristy, "Can you remind Reggie of the timeout talking rule?" Kristy replied, “No talking.” “Now, no more talking. Mommy hasn’t decided how to deal with you just yet.” That was a clear sign that she viewed me as a baby; she never referred to herself in the third person unless I was in diapers. Most of the time, especially since I became an adult, the punishment ended once I was released from timeout. As long as I sounded contrite and showed that I understood why I was there, Mom would hug me, and that would be the end of it. If she felt I wasn't sorry or remained upset, she'd send me to bed early. No matter how upset Mom was, she never threatened to put me back in diapers or treat me like a baby again. As long as I took care of them, she reluctantly accepted that I still had accidents. I remember the last time this came up, after I flew from New York to Sacramento. I arrived at their house with a wet Pull-up, and although Mom was clearly frustrated that I hadn’t changed out of it, she didn’t threaten to put me in a diaper. I hadn't thought about being a baby again until she referred to herself in the third person. The uncertainty of what was going to happen caused me to wet my Pull-up, which was already wet. This time, it was enough that it leaked, and I could feel the pee trickling down my leg. It wasn’t a full accident, but my pants were noticeably damp. Eventually, I overheard Mom talking to Charlotte. Mom asked, “Are you ready to be an adult again?” I'm not sure if Charlotte was genuinely sorry or just avoiding conflict, but as usual, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I know that Reggie doesn’t always look out for himself. He made me promise not to tell you, but I should’ve told you about the flight. And I’m sorry that I let him sit upfront. I told him that he had to sit in the back, but he didn’t want to.” My mom responded firmly, “I want you to understand just how dangerous it is for Reggie to sit in the front seat. I know that he is technically an adult, but he is too small to sit up front. The physics don’t know how old he is, so he needs a booster seat, just like Kristy.” Charlotte sounded remorseful and replied, “I know. I won’t do it again, I promise.” Although I couldn’t see Mom hug Charlotte, I heard her say, “I know honey, and I think you’ve learned your lesson. Now, why don’t you take care of dinner, while I deal with your brother.” After some time, Mom finally came over to me. She gently removed my pacifier and asked, “Do you know why I put you in timeout?” I realized it was best not to argue. If Mom sensed any defiance, I’d be sent back to the corner. So, I admitted, “I didn’t listen to you, and I flew home by myself.” I couldn’t help but add, “But—” Mom immediately raised her hand. “Stop! This is not the time for excuses. I don’t want to hear them, and they don’t matter.” Her voice, calm but firm, didn’t carry the tone she usually reserved for children; instead, she spoke to me as an adult. “Look! I understand that you want to be an adult, but the world will never see you that way. You can't do what others do, and you have to let people help you.” As she finished, her tone shifted. Now, she spoke as though addressing a stubborn child. “Since you can’t seem to understand that, and I don’t think you’re capable of doing so, it’s my job to take care of you.” I made one final attempt to prove I was more than just a child. “I know, but I’m a lot more capable than you think. I went to Dartmouth and have lived independently for six years. I can take care of myself." For a moment, Mom seemed to listen and I hoped she'd finally see me as an adult. But ultimately, her protective instincts took over. She addressed me directly, “Reggie, I know that’s what you think. But I’ve already given you chances to prove that you are ready to be an adult, and you’ve failed every single time.” Mom continued, pointing out the reality of my situation. “Look at you. You may have lived on your own, but you lived in a closet. You only left the closet for work, and everything you own fits in a small box. You’re filthy, and you’re nothing but skin and bones.” To drive her point home, she reached out and squeezed my Pull-up. “And you’re soaking wet.” Her words cut me deeply, because I felt the same way. She was right. I wasn't living in New York; I was barely surviving. She asked, “How many times have you peed in this Pull-up?” I stammered, “Once.” “Don’t lie to me. It’s leaking, and your pants are wet. How many accidents have you had this week?” My mom’s question made me reflect on the number of accidents I’d had since losing my job. That was my second accident of the day, and there were two more on Monday. I didn’t even count the two times I wet myself on the airplane; I only did that because I didn’t want to get up from my seat. Still, I realized that I couldn’t admit to having four accidents. I quietly answered, “Three.” My mom scoffed, “Three! I think you’re lying, but even so.” She turned to Kristy and asked, “Kristy, tell grandma what happens when you have more than two accidents in your Pull-ups?” Kristy defended herself, “Ganma, I big girl. I use the potty.” “I know sweetie, but what happens when you go potty in your Pull-ups two times.” Kristy said, “I haf to wear diapees.” My mom reassured her, “But you’re a big girl now, and you don’t wear diapers anymore.” Kristy vigorously nodded, “Yes, I big girl.” My mom turned to me and asked, “So, what does that mean for you, Reggie?” That was a trap; there wasn’t a safe answer. I tried to defend myself: “Mom, I don’t need diapers.” “It looks like you do. In my opinion, you were never truly potty trained anyway. If you were, we wouldn’t have to start over.” Desperate, I protested, “Mom! I am potty trained.” My mom was skeptical. “Really? And those three accidents were just because?” Without waiting for my response, she reached into my bag and pulled out the wet pants from Newark. She held them up for everyone to see, emphasizing her point. “Does this look like it comes from a child who is potty trained?” She continued her inspection, removing every pair of underwear I had packed. Among them were the two pairs I had peed in on Monday. Though they had dried, I hadn’t had a chance to wash them, which left them smelling awful. My mom sniffed the underwear, then shook her head in disgust. “Wow! I wasn’t expecting that. This is a mess; it’s a good thing you don’t need them anymore.” I asked, “What?” “You heard me. Since you don’t need them, I’m throwing all of them out. You’re going back to diapers. If you ever show me that you’re ready to be potty trained, we can try again. Once again, I tried to protest. “Mom, I’m a grown man!” Mom answered, “No, you’re not! You’re not even a big kid. Big kids don’t need diapers. Now come on, you’re absolutely filthy, and need a bath.” She stepped behind me and led me toward the bathroom. Hoping to recover a sense of dignity, I twisted free from her grip. I cried, “Fine! I’ll take a shower.” Mom pulled me back, and held me tighter; tight enough that I couldn’t break free. She scoffed, “No you’re not. Little boys take baths. Since you can't bathe yourself, I have to give you one.” I tried to argue, but she stuck a pacifier in my mouth. “Stop your whining! Suck on this.” The moment the pacifier touched my lips, I realized something was wrong. There was a strange gel coating it, and as soon as it touched my mouth, my tongue began to tingle and then go numb. Shocked and frustrated, I immediately spit the pacifier out, not caring how childish it looked. I screamed, “Mom! You can’t do this! I’m not a baby! Just let me take a shower.” My mom glared. “Reggie, don’t take that out! I’m giving you a bath, whether you like it or not.” She walked behind, as she pushed me towards the bathroom. I squirmed as she pulled down my pants, but that only earned me a firm swat. My mom never spanked us; I didn’t even know other kids were spanked until I went to college. A firm swat was the most physical she ever was, and it was just hard enough to get my attention. I pleaded, “Mom, please! This is humiliating.” “If you’re embarrassed, imagine how I feel; my twenty-four-year-old son isn’t potty trained, can’t bathe himself, and won’t eat. Now, arms up.” I pressed my elbows to my sides in quiet protest. Mom placed her thumbs into my arm pits, which caused me to raise my arms. She pulled off my shirt, leaving me completely naked, and said, “Oh my gosh! I can see your ribs. How much do you weigh?” I tried to say, “75 pounds,” but it came out garbled. Mom brought out the scale and placed it in front of me, “Step on this, sweetie.” By now, any resistance I felt had faded, and I complied without protest. The display stopped at 62 pounds, thirteen below my required minimum. Mom looked at the display and said, “Sixty-two pounds! Reggie, what did you eat today?” I tried to respond, but the pacifier in my mouth made it impossible. Mom realized her mistake, smiled reassuringly, and said, “Mommy forgot that you have your binky in your mouth.” She carefully took out the pacifier and asked again, “Tell Mommy what you’ve eaten today.” I answered, “A burger, and a coke.” It came out garbled, but she understood what I meant. “That’s it! Just a burger.” “And a Coke.” “That doesn’t count. Thank God, you’re back home.” She sighed, and demanded, “Get in the tub, sweetheart.” As soon as I got into the tub, her demeanor softened. She became gentle and reassuring. She praised me by saying, “That’s a good baby,” and then handed me some cups to play with. The cups were pink and featured a Disney Princess theme. I hate the color pink, and I never played with girl toys. I whimpered in protest. Mom tried to soothe me, saying, “I know, honey. You’re not a girl, but Mommy doesn’t have bath toys for little boys. I haven’t had to take care of a baby boy for a long time. I promise, Mommy will buy you some bath toys.” After Mom took me out of the tub, she wrapped me snugly in a towel, carefully drying me off. Suddenly, she called out, “Charlotte, honey, can you get the diapers and pajamas from the nursery?” Hearing this, Kristy assumed the pajamas and diapers were meant for her. She protested loudly, “No pajamas! I not tired. Not bedtime!” Mom responded with gentle reassurance, “No, honey, they’re not for you. You’re a big girl, but you can’t pout. Big girls don’t pout.” Kristy lowered her head and quietly apologized, saying, “I sorwry.” Maybe Mom was just trying to make Kristy feel helpful, but instead, she ended up pulling her into my embarrassment. She handed Kristy my diaper and the changing pad, and asked gently, “Kristy, honey, can you help Grandma and bring this to the living room?” Kristy immediately protested, her face scrunching up in confusion. “But ganma, I no wear diaper anymore.” Mom reassured her, “I know, honey. They aren’t for you, are they?” Kristy looked uncertain and asked, “They aren’t?” With a calm voice, Mom replied, “No, they’re for Reggie.” Still puzzled, she turned to Mom and asked, “Reggie, diaper?” Mom nodded. Her eyes grew wide as she hesitated before asking, “Is he baby?” Mom answered patiently, “Well, big kids don’t wear diapers, so I guess he is a baby.” She often used this line whenever she put me in a diaper. After a moment, she paused, searching for the right words to help Kristy understand why her uncle had suddenly become a baby. With gentle reassurance, she explained, “Reggie isn’t ready to be a big boy yet, but when he is, I want you to help him learn.” Ten years after gaining independence, I found myself back in diapers, and basically a baby again. Mom changed my diaper right there on the living room floor, not caring that everyone was watching. She put me in baby blue sweatpants and a yellow sweatshirt with elephants, the same pajamas I wore in the winter while I slept in the nursery. She lifted me up and said, “You’re fussy, so you’re going into the playpen while mommy gets dinner ready.” Kristy was completely confused by all of this. Despite her confusion, my mom did her best to reassure her that everything was okay. To help calm her down, mom turned on Kristy's favorite TV show, allowing her to settle quietly in front of the television. Meanwhile, mom brought out the highchair, which immediately triggered a protest. She cried out, “Ganma! I no baby. I big girl!” Kristy’s confusion was evident as she continued to insist that she wasn’t the baby, even though Mom repeatedly tried to reassure her. Mom’s patience began to wear thin, but she still spoke gently. “Kristy, do you need to go to time out? Big girls don’t pout. Reggie is the baby, so the highchair is for him.” Once the table was set, Mom called out from the kitchen, “Kristy, honey, can you let Reggie out of the playpen and come to the table?” Kristy hurried over and opened the gate to the playpen, her face lighting up with excitement. “Reggie, it dinner time!” Kristy started to walk toward the dining table, but before she got very far, Mom stopped her with a gentle reminder. “Hold Reggie’s hand, sweetheart. I don’t want him to run off.” Mom put me in the highchair and snapped on the tray, locking me in. She put a bib on me, and I was too surprised to object. My silence may have kept things from getting worse. Mom wiped my hands, then served a big plate of spaghetti. She also put a sippy cup full of milk in front of me. I expected the sippy cup, but I didn’t want any milk. I waited for mom to take out my pacifier, and begged, “Can I have a Coke?” However, my tongue was so numb that I couldn’t really speak. Mom seemed to understand, though I don’t know how. She gently shook her head and replied, “No baby. Babies don’t drink soft drinks, they drink milk.” Her tone was firm but not unkind. Then, with a hint of encouragement that seemed downright cruel, she added, “If you’re good, and do what Mommy tells you, she’ll let you do more things.” As I looked down at my plate, I noticed it was piled with twice as much spaghetti as Kristy's. Even Kristy's portion was larger than what I would normally eat. All the others at the table had utensils, and Kristy's were specifically designed for toddlers. Yet, when it came to me, I had nothing. I asked for a fork, but my words came out garbled, sounding more like “forth?” Mom shook her head. “No honey. If mommy thought you were ready for a fork, mommy would have given you a fork. Use your hands. Hurry up, and clean your plate.” I ate until I was full, but couldn't finish my meal. I resorted to an old childhood trick: I spread the spaghetti around my plate, attempting to make it seem like I had eaten more than I actually had. Unfortunately, this tactic didn't fool anyone. After everyone finished eating, Mom noticed what I was doing and let out a weary sigh. “Well, since you’re just playing with your food, I guess I have to feed you.” She started feeding me and said, “I thought you could handle this, but I was wrong.” Frustrated and overwhelmed, I pressed my lips together and shouted, “No! I’m full!” My protest was met with Mom’s stern response: “Reggie, stop! We’re not playing this game anymore. It’s only going to get worse if you keep fighting. You’re not leaving that highchair until you finish your dinner.” Reluctantly, I let her feed me the rest of my spaghetti, and each time I swallowed, she offered gentle encouragement. She began by saying, "That's better, honey," and after each bite, she encouraged me with, "Good boy." When I finally finished my meal, Mom wrapped her arms around me and said, “Look at that, you finished everything. Mommy is so proud of you.” I thought being fed at the table was as bad as it could get, but it got worse. Mom fetched a baby bottle from the kitchen, let me out of my highchair, and led me over to the couch. She motioned, “Sit on mommy’s lap, and drink your bottle.” Confused, I asked, “What’s this?” “It’s a protein shake. You need it to make you bigger.” Without waiting for any further questions, Mom pulled me onto her lap. Using her left hand, she pinned me gently against her chest, then placed the bottle in my mouth with her right hand. Once again, I tried to resist, but it didn’t work. She had me pinned against her chest, and I had to swallow every time I breathed. Afterward, she patted my back, I burped, and she praised me. "Good job. Time for bed." I glanced over and noticed that the game my dad was watching had just started, which meant it was only 7:30 PM. Tears welled up in my eyes as I pleaded, “Mom, it’s early.” “No. You’re cranky, tired, and fussy. You need sleep. We will try again tomorrow.”

I can certainly identify with that. These days I'm more concerned with not upsetting other people - I've no shame for myself at all. Hospital and doctor's visits are routine, whereas in the early days I'd worry a lot about it. Now I just try to arrange to be dry when I go in, & not to wear an AB nappy. Or a cloth nappy.  A nice white Dotty Diaper usually does the trick.  We're planning a walk to the pub for lunch today, & I'll probably wear a disposable. Not because the bulge will be less - my wardrobe can cope with a lot of that without it being obvious - but purely because the risk of chafing is less. Adjusting a bulky cloth nappy to stop the rubbing isn't a discreet process, & our daughter will be with us.  She still doesn't know I'm in nappies. I suppose she'll find out some time, and it's not likely to matter much to her, but it will embarrass my wife so I'll keep things under wraps while I can. But yes, it's about what others feel about my nappies that matters to me these days - I can just roll with whatever comes up.

Sorry the only one I know is by Billy Blaze on the main dailydiapers story page and that only goes up to chapter 7 if you know where Chapter 8 is though I'd love to read it.