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This morning is brought to you by the courtesy of a Tena Ultra Active Fit diaper with a cute cotton/lycra diaper pant from Big Tots that has soft clouds on a white panty. Of course, as usual, I am wet and messy this morning. -
This chapter was meant to take us all the way through the visit to the doctor, but it was about 5.8k words, so I cut it half. Chapter 8: Swaddled While Charlotte and I were held captive in the nursery, my mom demanded absolute obedience. She expected us to be meek and compliant, submitting to her treatment without resistance. In her view, the worst offense was asserting any independence. To enforce that expectation, she relied on a mix of rewards and punishments. The system was deliberately staged. Mom returned freedoms in small increments, and each step up was harder to earn than the last. First came the small things: feeding ourselves, first with our hands and then with utensils, being let out of the playpen, and choosing what we watched on television. For a little while, Charlotte was even allowed to move through the house without adult supervision, but I never reached that level. Each new freedom held out the promise that normal life might be restored, as if Charlotte and I could prove we were responsible enough to be treated like adults. But the climb was never secure. A single act of defiance, or even the suspicion that we were becoming too sure of ourselves, was enough for Mom to take everything back. The cruelest part was never knowing how far the fall would be. Sometimes a timeout was only that: a few minutes in the corner, followed by a hug and complete forgiveness. More often, it meant being sent back to the playpen and made to start over from the beginning. Mom made sure Charlotte and I were almost never on equal footing. One of us was always meant to see what the other still had, and what could disappear without warning. Since Charlotte tended to be better behaved, she was usually allowed greater freedom than I was. The most severe punishment my mother imposed was swaddling in the nursery, something she never used when we were children. She reserved it for the moments when we had pushed too far and, in her judgment, needed a reset. She never called it punishment. In her mind, we were overstimulated and had to be broken down completely before we could be put back on track. It began with the swaddling itself: being wrapped so tightly that we couldn’t move our arms and legs. Then came the crib in the darkened nursery, where we were left for an indeterminate period that was almost always longer than a day. Even when we were finally let out, the punishment didn’t end. We were confined to the playpen, fed only baby food, and kept in mittens for at least a week. The worst part wasn’t the confinement; it was the isolation. The nursery was actually quite pleasant. It was designed to be comforting: a humidifier released a constant lavender mist, while a loop of lullabies played softly in the background. Together, they created a kind of white noise that hung in the air. The lighting was dim, but not completely dark; there was just enough light to make out the rails of my crib and the mobile hanging above it. Even the swaddle, though tight, was oddly comforting. The blanket was weighted, and it felt almost like a hug. And that was what made it so isolating. It was a kind of solitary confinement, soft enough to seem merciful. I was trapped there, completely alone, with no real contact from anyone. The only times my mother came in were to feed me or change me. Even then, she spoke to me the way someone might soothe an infant, and I wasn’t expected or really able to answer. This was the first time she used this punishment on me, and I had no idea how long it would last. To me, it felt like an extreme version of timeout, which, in a way, it was. I assumed it would only last a few hours. I knew I wasn’t going to see the end of the game, but I still assumed Mom would let me out before dinner and go back to treating me like a small child, not a baby. Unfortunately, even in the dark, I wasn’t remotely tired. I slept eleven hours a night, took a ninety-minute nap every afternoon, and had just taken that nap a few hours earlier. The only reason I closed my eyes was that I had nothing else to do. After what felt like hours, Mom came into the nursery. For a moment, I thought she was going to let me out, but instead she said, “Okay, baby, let’s get you a bottle so your little body doesn’t dry out.” She lowered the rail, pressed the bottle to my lips, and murmured, “There you go. Drink it all up.” With the nipple filling my mouth, I didn’t have a choice. I had to suck, and with each swallow more of the sweet, flavored water filled my mouth. It tasted good, which only made the whole thing more disorienting. By then I understood that she had not come to let me out of the crib. When I finished, Mom patted my back and praised me in the bright, satisfied voice she used for babies. “All gone. Good job. Mommy is proud of you.” After that, she tightened the swaddle, undoing whatever progress I made loosening it. Once she wrapped me up again, she kissed me gently on the forehead and said, “Nitey-night, sweetheart. Remember, Mommy is right outside the door. You’re safe.” Then she left, without even checking my diaper. The next time she came in was a few hours later, though I had no real sense of how much time passed. At some point, time stops meaning anything in a room like that. She entered with the same bright, cheerful voice and said, “Okay, baby, it’s time for dinner. Mommy put some nice din-din in your bottle. It’s all smooth and yummy, and it’s going to help you grow big and strong.” Then she put the bottle into my mouth, and once again I had to suck. Fortunately, she was right: it tasted good. My mother has always been a very good cook, and she never fed me anything unpleasant. In any other situation, I’d probably have enjoyed whatever she fed me. Once again, she patted my back and praised me for finishing the bottle. This time she undid the swaddle to check my diaper, found it wet, and changed me before wrapping me up again, making sure the blanket was just as tight as before. Then she kissed my forehead and left me alone in the nursery. She repeated that cycle three times, coming into the nursery six times in all. Each visit brought the same bottle, filled either with flavored water or the formula she used for meals. I know exactly how many times she came in because, at the time, counting was the only thing that kept me sane. Finally, Mom came in, unwrapped me, changed my diaper, and let me out of the crib. Then she dressed me in another set of pajamas. They were all essentially the same: bright-colored sweatpants and a sweatshirt printed with some infantile pattern. The sweatshirt kept me warm, and the sweatpants were easy to pull down for diaper changes. She led me into the kitchen and helped me into my highchair. Sometimes I thought Mom wished I were even smaller, small enough for her to carry. Instead, she kept both hands on my shoulders and guided me toward the kitchen. Her grip was firm enough that if I tried to pull away, she could pull me back at once. Because of the mittens, Mom had to feed me. Her homemade puree tasted far better than anything from a jar. After I was rescued, I tried some store-bought baby food, and it was awful. Even now, I can remember how different Mom’s version was. She blended real meals into a smooth puree that still carried the flavor of what it had once been: savory vegetables, soft starches, and whatever protein she had cooked, all seasoned lightly enough to stay gentle but still taste like actual food. Sometimes she left in tiny, half-blended bits that gave it the faintest hint of texture. At the end, she fed us a fruit compote that I still remember fondly: soft, sweet, and warm, with just enough tartness to keep it from tasting childish. But no matter how good the food was, being spoon-fed was so overwhelming that I never got used to it. After breakfast, she gave me another bottle, which I drank from her lap as she sat on the living room couch. By then, the fear of being sent back to the nursery was so strong that I didn’t dare resist. I sucked until the bottle was empty, because I knew what would happen when I made things difficult. That earned me a flood of praise. “Good job, baby. You drank all your bottle. Mommy is so proud of you.” Once the bottle was empty and the praise was over, Mom announced, “Baby, Mommy is working, so you need to play quietly in your playpen.” She took me into her office, set me in the playpen, and gave me a plush toy and some stacking cups. I played as quietly as I could, but she took the cups away once her meeting started. After her meeting, Mom took me back to the kitchen for a snack. With the mittens still on, Mom fed me while I sat pinned in the highchair. Once I finished, she had coffee and a piece of coffee cake, and I stayed trapped in my highchair. Afterward, she put me through another round of tummy time, which at least gave me something to do besides sit still and wait for her to decide what came next. After that, Mom moved my playpen into the playroom beside her office. Honestly, I never understood why she insisted on keeping me in her office, since she could monitor me in the playroom just as easily. The playroom had the same humidifier and white noise as the nursery, and over time the constant hum and faint baby-powder smell made me feel even more helpless. Before leaving, Mom turned on another one of Kristy’s shows, which by then had become one of my shows as well, and put it on a constant loop. I tried to object, hoping she might listen. “Can I watch something else, Mommy? I don’t like these shows.” I even said Mommy, hoping that would make a difference. It didn’t. She wasn’t going to listen to me, no matter what I said or how I said it. She didn’t even turn her head. “Baby, be quiet and watch your show. Mommy is working.” To keep from dissolving into panic, I counted how many times the show cycled. It was the only way I could track time, and I needed proof that life still existed outside the playpen. It looped eight times. The episodes changed, but the show never really did: the same bright colors, the same songs, the same lessons about sharing and saying please and thank you, repeated until I felt myself stripped down into something smaller and more harmless. For those eight episodes, all I had to occupy my mind were the show, the plush toy, and my bottle. After what felt like another eternity, it was finally time for lunch. Once again, Mom fed me one of her homemade purees. Knowing the fruit compote would come at the end, I swallowed each spoonful without hesitation, even after I was full. When lunch ended, nap time came, and what had once felt confining now felt almost merciful. Nap time was the only privacy I had left: a brief chance to disappear into my own head, where my mother’s routines didn’t follow me. After a while, Mom woke me up, changed my diaper, and got me dressed. The first thing she did was take off the mittens. Instead of the infantile patterns on my usual pajamas, she dressed me in navy sweatpants and a burgundy sweatshirt. It was the kind of combination I might’ve chosen for myself, if she’d let me. I still didn’t know what was going on, and I was too afraid to ask. At last, Mom explained. “Okay, baby, it’s time to go.” I asked, “Mommy, where are we going?” Looking back, I’m not entirely sure when Mommy became my default, only that by then it had. It seemed to make her happy, which made things easier for me. Mom didn’t always tell me where we were going or what was going to happen. Sometimes she ignored me. Other times, she’d say, “Don’t worry about it. Just do what Mommy says.” This time, though, she answered. “Mommy’s taking you to Dr. Olson. I want to see if she can do anything to help you.” Dr. Olson had been our doctor since Charlotte and Chris were babies. She and my mom were friends in college, so once my mom had children, it was natural for her to become our pediatrician. Because our growth disorder is so rare, and since she treated both Charlotte and me, Dr. Olson came to be regarded as something of an expert on our physiology. Even when I saw other doctors, they usually contacted her for advice. That was why I was still seeing a pediatrician at twenty-four. Looking back, that fact alone should have told me a great deal about how thoroughly my life was arranged around other people’s ideas of what I was. In Dr. Olson’s view, my body was close enough to a child’s that I still belonged with a pediatrician. Charlotte saw her too, at least until she got pregnant and had to switch to an OBGYN. Dr. Olson was also partly responsible for the way my mom treated us. She believed the disorder didn’t just affect our bodies; it altered our brain chemistry. In her view, even though Charlotte and I did well academically, we weren’t typical adults. We were more like children, which, to her, justified the way my mom treated us. Whenever I went to Dr. Olson with a problem, I usually came away with more restrictions, so I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing her. -
I like the idea of Mom still refuses to see Charlotte as fully grown or trustworthy. 😍👍🏼 -
By soggypobby · Posted
Hi Mia and welcome from the UK. There's absolutely no need to be nervous, we're all a friendly bunch, but totally get where you're coming from, I was nervous at first. -
Reggie’s mom is most effective as a controlling figure who feels completely justified. She cannot tolerate her children growing up, so she keeps redefining one of them as the dependent child, creating a family pattern where dependence is rewarded and maturity feels like betrayal. The next chapter should clarify that this is not just Reggie’s story, but Reggie and Charlotte’s shared escape story, which makes the mother’s role too central to keep hidden. Going forward, Kristy functions mostly as background contrast, while the emotional core of the story is Reggie and Charlotte as siblings. A brief babysitting beat could work, but it should reinforce that Mom still refuses to see Charlotte as fully grown or trustworthy.
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