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My face starts to turn red and i tried to hold it but i can't and i start to push

I concur. Wear whatever you like, if containment is not a concern, but even if you don't need to wear anything, if you are envisioning using your night pants as they were intended, here and there, for a relaxing guilty recumbent wee, then go diaper. I've never met a pull-up that can reliably contain a wee taken with reckless abandon, in anything other than a standing position, and certainly not one of the adolescent products, which, although they stretch admirably, are engineered for smaller physiology. I can fit into the XXL Goodnites, but they are of little use to me, and certainly, never, ever, for sleeping in. But I've been at this for too long and have made myself back into a bedwetter. I've learned through hard experience that even the best disposable ABDL diapers can fail you, when gravity is pulling on an unpredictable vector. Cloth diapers are the absolute best insurance, but second to that, lined plastic pants can make a disposable bank-vault secure. 

Well, I gently disagree with your definition of DL, but that's just me. While I'm personally very much into the age-play aspect, there are days when I wear just 'for comfort' and the feelings of 'security'. Those days, I'll often make it to the bathroom just fine and wear a dry diaper the whole day. But I still enjoy it for various reasons: knowing I don't have to 'trust a fart', or "it's there, just in case". Heck, in the winter when I have to shovel snow they keep my butt warm!!!  (BTW, don't try to stay outside when windchill is -5F and you have a wet diaper...  that's not fun. lol) But as I've recently mentioned to others, 'labels' that are ambiguous are not useful. If your idea of 'DL' isn't the same as others, then using/ not using it can lead to confusion. Best to spell it out with more words.  Something like, "I like wearing diapes for the emotional support/ comfort they give me." Or whatever feelings you have towards wearing them at the time. That's why I sometimes describe myself as AB with 'sissy tendencies'. That S-word is ill defined and so when I say 'tendencies', it helps the listener understand that, "Okay, some aspects, but not all??  So... not completely what I assume the word means, but..." Likewise you might say, 'DL in some ways....' or such. Helps the listener get an idea, but not jump too far in conclusions. And can open up a dialogue where more nuanced details can be explained if they're really interested.

Chapter 157: Powerless It is my personal and professional opinion, as a Little, that Littles are naturally adept at surfing. I’ve never been on a surfboard in my life, I hate saltwater, and I am a mediocre swimmer at best.  But I think I would be an excellent surfer. Surfing involves limited choice, luck, lack of agency, balance, and a degree of stubbornness and willingness to do something completely impractical.  You don’t create tasty waves, you have to find them.  You don’t command the surf, you just have to let the wave take you. You do not control the ocean, you can only hope to control your responses to the onslaught of saltwater it hurls at you. And if you do it right, you can look really, really, cool for a couple of minutes.  Also, swim diapers and water wings don’t impair you nearly as much as you’d think when compared to swimming.  The one bad part about surfing- if my limited knowledge garnered mostly from television and movies is to be believed- is that the places with the best waves are often home to the biggest sharks. It was that Friday, end of the first week after returning from Winter Break. Report cards and progress reports were going home.  Little did we suspect that the students weren’t the only ones being monitored and reported on.  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Brollish said, taking her seat at her desk. “Please close the door.” “Of course,” Janet said, balancing me on her hip. It’s not like she had a choice. The school day had just ended and Beouf had handed me over to my Mommy for a quick hug at the bus loop when the old witch materialized out of nowhere and asked to see us. Both of us. Uh oh.  What had I done now?  I searched my memory, but outside of calling Winters and Sosa out on their bullshit the other day, I had genuinely tried to be good; or at least not actively bad.  But Winters and Sosa wouldn’t go to Brollish, would they? Skinner, maybe, but I always had the feeling that the odd couple followed a kind of code where tattling to the Principal would be seen as giving up, (and both giantesses were particularly stubborn).  Had I been particularly difficult with Skinner this week?  Had I even had Speech this week?  Fuck. What did I do? Beouf offered to join us as a union representative as soon as the buses were loaded, but Janet declined. I was too caught off guard to try and change anybody’s mind.  It certainly didn’t make me feel any better when the old banshee smiled and said, “I’ve already sent you an email about it.”  The most unsettling part was that this time the smile actually reached her eyes.  Janet closed the office door and took a seat. I squished on her lap for only a millisecond when she said, “Whoops! Almost forgot. Mrs. B doesn’t usually change you until after the buses leave.”  She stood me up on her lap and lifted the hot pink sweater I’d been wearing all day up past my belly button so that she could pull back the waistband of my diaper.  The day was actually cold, the Wreck Room’s cleaning bot had destroyed my fleecy romper and all of the spare clothes were meant for warmer weather.  The only thing available in the front office Lost and Found was a sweater meant for an Amazon child.  I had to roll the sleeves up, but otherwise, it was a very warm smock dress on me. Honestly?  Not my thing, but I think I kind of pulled it off.  I could have thrown a tantrum, but my diaper was completely obscured without so much of an outline peeking through, it didn’t constrict so I was still able to run around on the playground,  I was warm and didn’t need a blanket for nap time, and when Billy tried to taunt me for wearing a dress he was left completely flabbergasted when I just nodded and said “Yes. And?”.  Like I said, I think I’d be pretty awesome at surfing. Good times. “That’s fine,” the demon purred. “This won’t take long.”  It was a Friday afternoon, and Brollish was likely eager to start her weekend routine of prowling cancer wards for bone marrow.  Or maybe not. She might have been on a diet. Janet didn’t let that stop her from checking me. “You’re soggy,” she told me as if I didn’t know, “but not stinky.  We can wait a while.” She pulled the borrowed sweater back down to my shins and sat me back on her lap.  I had the feeling Janet was playing her own game here; showing how unconcerned she was. That or she was afraid and going into a kind of autopilot to feel in control.  What was a private and unscheduled meeting with one’s boss if not the adult emotional equivalent of a sudden unsolicited diaper check? “So what’s up?” She asked the mummified eater of children’s foreskins and purveyor of misery.   Brollish folded her hands on her desk and sat up a little bit straighter.  “Ms. Grange,” she said. “I’ve decided to put you on a Professional Improvement Plan to help you improve your pedagogy.” All of the oxygen fled the room. I felt Janet’s grip on me go slack even as her heart quickened and thundered in the worst, most horrible way. For context, a Professional Improvement Plan is a fancy way of documenting complaints and professional failings of a given teacher. In a way, it’s a bit like how I.E.P.s are used for Littles. It’s supposedly a way to measure someone’s development and meet their needs; but really it’s just creating a paper trail to prove that they deserve to be treated poorly.  The school district insisted that Professional Improvement Plans were meant to aid struggling teachers through analysis and recommendations regarding best practices, but in ten years I’d never seen or heard of a teacher getting anything but fired for not meeting their plan. Brollish was calling my Mommy a bad teacher, and was initiating steps to fire her; steps that could be very difficult for even union contracts to work around or prevent. “Excuse me?” Janet finally found her voice.  “I haven’t even had a formal evaluation yet. And last year’s test scores were above average.”   Janet did not raise her voice, but Brollish still held one hand out in a defensive posture as if to tell my Mommy to calm down. “And those will be taken into consideration, too,” the gaslighting old crone pretended to assure us.  “And I know that you weren’t satisfied with your evaluation last year. That’s one of the reasons why we’re doing this plan together. That way maybe you can get a better one this year.” My whole body started to burn. I didn’t need the oversized sweater to keep warm anymore. If Brollish had thrown in talks about maturity or Maturosis or diapers she’d be talking to Janet like she was a Little.  I heard Janet’s teeth grinding in her skull.  “May I ask what specifically is leading you to starting this plan?” She was maintaining her composure but there was no hiding the edge of defensiveness in her voice.  “It’s just that if I was in need of help that badly I thought I would have heard about something earlier; not halfway through the school year.  It’s just…” she finished the sentence with “...confusing.” but I knew in my heart of hearts that she really meant ‘suspicious’. Brollish unfolded her hands and opened a drawer.   Uh oh. That was never good. On her desk she placed a spreadsheet on her desk and slid it over to Janet. “This is a printout of your students’ grades this year for the last two report cards.  Pay particular attention to their language arts and math scores.” Janet took the paper and scanned it. I looked up and saw her brow furrowing as though she were deciphering some ancient and unknowable text. Her eyes flitted from left to right the way you do when you’re trying to puzzle out the differences between two pictures.  “They…went up.” She sounded perturbed, sensing the trap but not certain where it was coming from.  Me too. “Correct,” Brollish agreed. “But their Science and Social Studies grades stayed mostly the same.” “Okay. And…?”  Janet shuddered and corrected herself. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this ma’am. My students are improving.” Brollish returned her hands to their folded position on her desk. She was a cobra swaying at her food, mesmerising it, playing perhaps, before she struck. “Yes, and that’s odd, don’t you think?” She stopped just long enough to let the insult land but not long enough to give Janet time to reply. “We both know that the leap from second to third grade math is a much bigger leap than first to second. If they’re not getting the basics at the beginning, how likely is it that they’re keeping up with more complex operations?” I squeezed Janet’s hand, warning her to hold her temper.  I needn’t have though.  “I agree,” Janet replied. “This group was very difficult initially. That’s why I remediated them until I saw improvement. Don’t you think their overall improvement is a sign that the remediation was effective?” The haggard bitch did not smile, but her eyes twinkled; a cat playing with her mouse. “Ordinarily, yes,” she said.  She opened the drawer behind her again and took out a whole stack of papers.  They were black and white with an unnatural grayish hue. They were printer copies, likely from the mailroom printer just down the hall. “Take a look at these, please.” Janet took the stack and started riffling through them, handing each one to me in her laps as she went on to the next. It took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at, but when it clicked my face sagged more than my Monkeez.  These were all copies of student papers. Spelling tests and math worksheets mostly.  Every one had been graded and scored in smudgy crayon that resembled chalk or charcoal thanks to the grayscale glaze from the copier. Except down in the corner, or on the back, circled in bright red pen were my initials.  “C.G.” Oh no! I’d been caught! Brollish had come into Janet’s classroom after hours and noticed the cocky little signature I put on all of my papers! After Ambrose had been fired and Forrest driven off she’d been looking for a way to get back at us and had finally found it.  All of my tampering and tantruming had finally blown up in my face! Worse, it was blowing up in Janet’s!  I’d taken out my frustrations on a bunch of kids and now my Mommy was paying the price for it! Except something was off… I looked at the scores I’d written on the papers: 98, 95, 99, 100, 100, 97, 95, 100, and so on.  These were all really good. I’d graded these fairly!  I double checked the dates (where the kids could be bothered to write it), and realized that these were all fairly recent. The space between Unification and Solstice.  Not even a month!  I hadn’t tampered with any of these! “What’s the problem?” Janet asked, just as confused as I was. “You let your Little boy grade papers?” It was a question that sounded like an accusation.  Janet’s arms wrapped protectively around me. “He helps me for fun. I always go back and double check his work. Those scores are accurate.”  “Nevertheless it implies a level of…” I swear I was ready for a forked tongue to flicker out of her mouth “...irresponsibility on your part. There are testing items that are considered secure materials and can’t fall into the hands of children.” “Mrs. Brollish,” Janet said, measuring her words carefully. “I don’t think worksheets and notebook paper are the same things as federally mandated testing materials.  Clark would never even see any secure materials. I never bring them home and keep them locked away at all times.” “I know,” Brollish flashed a hollow smile. “I checked. But I just wanted to make sure that you understood that that would not be acceptable. Hence why we’re making this improvement-” “Bullshit!” I scoffed. The fucking nerve of this decrepit old witch to equate me grading homework and spelling tests to me stealing official test papers. And then when she couldn’t find any evidence to support that offense she decided to pre-emptively punish Janet because she might hypothetically fuck up.  I was shaking my head and preparing myself to stand up and give her a piece of my mind.  It’s not like her wrinkly old ass could fire me. “That’s just so fuckin typical-!”  “Clark! Gibson! Grange!” Janet barked at me.  My blood ran cold. “Language, mister! Now hush. Grown-ups are talking.” My blood ran cold. My knees and elbows locked. My lips locked shut but my jaw still stretched as far as they would allow, and my tongue retreated to the gumline of my bottom teeth. My eyes refused to shut and my nostrils flared with an inhale so sharp it burned the insides of my nose.  My heart beat into hummingbird speed.  My arms, knees, and elbows locked up. My biceps tensed, my shoulders lurched forward while my head reeled back.   What kind of mindfuckery was this?! “Sorry, Mommy,” I whimpered.  She gave me a kiss and popped a pacifier into my mouth and I instantly started to feel better. Had something happened over Solstice and some kind of trigger phrase had been implanted in me? Or more likely, I was so broken and entangled in Janet that hearing her shout all three of my names with such angry disappointment shocked me into regret and submission.  Janet petted my hair.  She softly cooed,  “I forgive you, baby,” and that made me feel better too.  I was powerless. Brollish versus Janet wasn’t a fight I could directly help in. If I tried to thrash against the wave, I’d drown or get eaten by a shark.  Best to let the wave carry me and surf it out.   My outraged thoughts from before magically transmitted themselves through Janet’s infinitely more diplomatic filter.  “I still don’t understand why I need an improvement plan,” she replied to Brollish. “That’s like giving me a traffic ticket because I might speed.” “Be that as it may,” Brollish droned, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I think there’s evidence to suggest that Clark has been tampering with your students’ grades, and that’s a concern with regards to professional conduct, grading integrity, and testing security.” “I already told you,” Janet said, a bit of growling ire starting to flash through from the back of her throat, “I check his work. Those grades are accurate.” I bit my tongue and waited for another set of papers, much older than the last to appear on the desk next. As improbable as it might be, it wouldn’t surprise me for Brollish to have called Janet’s entire student roster and asked their parents to supply her with any and all graded papers that they hadn’t thrown out.  If she’d still had Forrest to kick around, she might have raided their trash cans, but the new Tweener receptionist had quickly developed a reputation for weaponized incompetence regarding anything that wasn’t strictly in her job description. Brollish didn’t need them, however.  “Do you see how some of the answers seem…altered to you?”  Every paper had at least one other circle in red ink highlighting a supposed discrepancy.  “Like they’re not in someone else’s handwriting?” I sucked on my pacifier so hard in surprise it’s a wonder I didn’t swallow it. I was being accused of cheating to help Janet’s students?!  Janet squinted at the paper with me. My handwriting wasn’t the best to begin with. The unwieldy and uneven crayons took it down a notch in legibility. The off and faded nature of the copy took it down another half notch. Throw in the smudges, scribbles, and crossouts from a bunch of 9 year olds trying to correct a mistake and an argument could be made that it looked like I’d done more than just mark an answer right or wrong.  Add to that my habit of giving correct responses next to the ones I marked wrong and the argument that I skipped a step or forgot to make a distinction got stronger.  “You think my baby is cheating?”  Janet’s tone took on an almost amused tone.  “Not on purpose, no.”  Brollish smirked. “Clark has always been fond of children. He was like a younger brother to them and they always wanted to do well for him to make him happy.”  Janet’s arms constricted more tightly around me, rightly anticipating my desire to thrash. Brollish tapped her fingernail on the spreadsheet she’d brought out.  “I think your clever Little boy saw that Mommy was struggling and mistakenly decided that he’d help by boosting her student’s grades behind her back.” Mommy gasped in disbelief. Brollish’s words had slapped her in the face. Both of us had been in a way.  She’d been accused of being an ineffective teacher who carelessly let her materials be doctored by her perma-toddler, and I was being accused of doing essentially the exact thing that I’d actually done but in a completely fabricated context and instance!   “Clark’s not even in third gra-...” Janet stammered and tried to correct herself. “He’s still in dia…” Again she faltered.  It was hard to argue that I was too incompetent to cheat while still justifying letting me grade papers. “He’d never do a thing like that, and I monitor his materials. He only uses crayons.” “Are you sure?” Brollish asked in a way that wasn’t asking. “He’s been very crafty before.”  Phantom whiffs of weaponized cinnamon flooded my synapses. “But…there’s no…evidence…” I felt her sigh and slump over me. She was finally beginning to realize that evidence wasn’t needed to convict her. Contracts and unions provided protection, but at the end of the day the boss’s perception mattered more than anything else.  Maybe that’s why I’d lasted as long as I had as a teacher; it wasn’t that different from any other aspect of my life. The monster in a pantsuit forced a bit of fake compassion into her voice. It was the difference between talking to an employee and talking to a parent.  “I think Clark is very clever, and even though his Maturosis is certainly affecting his overall capabilities, I suspect third grade math and reading are still well within his grasp. When my daughter was three she memorized a song that had all the countries and their capitals. Little ones can still be very good at rote memorization, can’t they?”  She chuckled- a hollow thing that sounded more like a frog’s croak after swallowing a juicy fly- and said, “They love all their facts at that level of development, don’t they?” The preposterous nature of her comment felt like a couple of rusty screws being drilled into my temples.  Janet couldn’t bring herself to say that I was both incompetent and capable in the same breath. Brollish had no problem arguing that the third grade curriculum was too hard for a bunch of nine year olds to rapidly improve on and yet at the same time me cheating was chalked up to a more advanced version of children memorizing a trivia song. Caring about hypocrisy requires a soul, I suppose. Typical.  Goddamn fucking mother fucking sonofabitch twat waffle asshat donkey dildo dunking typical!   “I just don’t want you to get a nasty surprise in a few months if their test scores don’t reflect their grades in your class.”  Brollish was sitting back in her chair, now. Content at having dealt a crippling blow. “If this was objectionable,” Janet tried, “Why didn’t you inform me of this sooner?” Brollish rolled her head around slightly, casually stretching her stiff neck, unconcerned. “I wanted to see if you’d submit the grades as written and let it affect their report cards or not.” She looked at me point blank and condescendingly said, “I don’t have a problem if you give your Little boy scrap paper to scribble on.  I just don’t want it interfering with student achievement. You understand.” There was a long, drawn out pause while the two giantesses quietly stared at each other across the heavy oak desk between them.  “What would you like me to do?” The gargoyle steepled her fingers together.  I guess she missed her perch and was feeling homesick.  “I want you to emphasize material and academic security from here on out, Ms. Grange. I suggest you keep all your student papers from here on out on campus and only grade them here.” A beat as her eyes flicked over to me. “That way we can protect Clark and put him above suspicion.”  “I believe that that goes against my contract and I would like union representation at this time.”  Janet said; a soldier spouting out her name rank and serial number to an enemy interrogator.  Brollish closed her eyes and held her hands up slightly in a gesture of mock surrender. “Please don’t misunderstand.  I’ve already informed your union representative of this course of action. You don’t have to keep your student work here, that was only a suggestion.  But I do think it would be prudent if you found your child something else to do to bide his time while Mommy grades the papers.”   I hooked under Janet’s arms and squeezed them harder than I would have even tried with Lion. This petty bitch of a witch was literally trying to take away one of the few somewhat adult scraps that I had left just because she didn’t have any other way to hurt me.  But talking wasn’t my play here.  I kept riding the wave. “That can be done,” Janet agreed. “What else?”  Because there had to be more. The documentation required for something like a Professional Improvement Plan had to be predicated on a positive and not the absence of a negative.  If this was just a matter of not letting me play teacher’s helper anymore, she’d just write Janet up with a warning, document it, and be done. The fake parent friendly persona melted away entirely, leaving only the reptilian countenance of a machine-like administrator. “I’m going to be auditing all your lesson plans this reporting period. I want you to include extra remediation for your students in reading and math, just in case things aren’t going as smoothly as they seem.” “I’ve got to cover new stuff, too,” Janet said, “Where do I find the time in the day?” “You’ll manage something,” Brollish droned and I swore I heard a snake’s rattle chitter in the background. “Get creative. Incorporate it into your Science and Social Studies lessons. Perhaps make it a part of Recess.” “I see.” Janet said. Her voice becoming decidedly brisk.  “Any questions?” “Do I need to include those in my plans for this week?” Janet asked. Another pseudo laugh hopped out of Brollish’s throat.  “Of course not. This arrangement isn’t retroactive. I wouldn’t want to falsify documentation.” The Principal without principles produced a final sheet of paper and slid it across the desk, rattling off her words like the disclaimer on a pharmaceutical ad.  “This is documentation saying that we had this meeting and that we have initiated putting you on a Professional Improvement Plan.  It is not an admission of guilt or that you are accepting this as an evaluation, it is just acknowledging that you were here and we had this talk together.  As you can see, the listed criteria does not include keeping student assignments on campus at all times.”   She paused and looked Janet directly in the eye. Much more slowly, she said, “You’ll also notice that maturity monitoring isn’t recommended…”  Translation: ‘I’m not making you wear diapers to work…yet.” Janet leaned over me and sighed with defeat.  She put her signature and rose up from the chair, shifting me back onto her hip. “Thank you for your time,” Brollish said. “Have a good weekend. I’ll make sure there’s a copy of this in your mailbox come Monday. Please make sure to email me your lesson plans by then.” ****************************************************************************************************** Not five minutes later, Janet was ranting to Beouf in her classroom.  She was pacing around like a caged animal.  I was sitting at Beouf’s activity table, feeling awful and trying not to wail. My bottle of coffee lay untouched.  My remained unchanged and I dared not bring it up.  Again, I had rebelled and someone I loved was paying the price for it.  For every bit of responsibility that I’d been freed of an equal amount had been foisted onto my caregivers. I had caused this.  This was my fault.  If I hadn’t graded the papers in the first place, Janet wouldn’t be in this position.  All I ever seemed to do was give bad people ammunition and cause to hurt good people.  I didn’t deserve a clean diaper. Beouf was standing with her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, Janet, but I tried to warn you.”   “I know!”  Janet was so stressed out that she let her hair all the way down, letting her raven locks shake out down past her shoulders.  She was a horse chomping at the bit looking to jump the fence.  “But it still pisses me off!”   “I know,” Beouf said, her voice quiet and calming. “Brollish is being a bitch. It’s not fair.”  She took a deep breath. “If it makes you feel any better you can probably appeal it, even if it will take time. The test security thing is pretty flimsy and there’s no solid documentation or evidence that will stick. She’s doing this to rattle your chain.” “Yeah…” Janet growled, “Well it’s fffffff….working!”  She stopped pacing and composed herself. “My kids worked really hard to learn that material and now she’s having me cram it into my day again like they failed!” “It’s not like you have to actually teach to your lesson plan,” Beouf reminded her. “Unless she’s watching, you just have to write down that you did it.  She gave you extra paperwork. That’s it.” “That’s not the point!” Janet stomped her foot. “She did it because she doesn’t want Clark helping me out. She doesn’t want him to be able to do anything teacher-like. If it were any other kid, this wouldn’t be an issue! I know Mrs. Springfield has a couple of middle schoolers that help her out from time to time! Where’s her plan?!”  Her rant built up to a crescendo. “But she’s not coming after Springfield, she’s coming after me and my kid!” “Okay, okay.” Beouf whispered like she was trying to calm down a classmate on the verge of a tantrum.  “You’re right. You’re right. Just try to keep it down. We don’t know who is around and who might be listening…” She sniffled and rubbed unformed tears out of her eyes.  “I know he’s not perfect, but he shouldn’t get in trouble for something he didn’t do,” she squeaked. The guilt got to be too much.  My heart broke. “Mommy,” I said. “Janet,” I corrected myself. I wasn’t trying to manipulate her. She deserved to be angry at me. But it didn’t feel right, saying her name like we were equals after I’d fucked so much up.  “Mommy, I have a confession.” Janet straightened up and strode over to me.  She took a knee beside me, her presence oppressive and smothering.  “What’s wrong, baby?”  Oh how I wish she’d stayed on the other side of the classroom.  It would’ve made this so much easier if there were just a few meters of distance between us.  “Your students didn’t need the remediation this first quarter.  I was fucking with their papers!” I heard Beouf gasp as I took a breath to steady myself. “I’m sorry! I was angry and it was wrong and they didn’t do anything to deserve that!” “Clark!” Beouf said. “I’m ashamed-!” “Hold on, Mel.” Janet interrupted. Beouf covered her mouth and took a deliberate step back. Janet repositioned herself and turned me in my chair so that she was still kneeling but now we were facing across from one another instead of beside each other. “Tell me the truth, Clark. Did you change those grades?” My face spasmed as I fought myself to keep from screaming in humiliation and indignity. “Not those papers!” I promised. “I stopped doing it! I didn’t want to hurt a bunch of kids just to get to you!” I stopped and held my breath for a second so I didn’t choke on my words. “And I don’t want to get to you anymore, Mommy. I’m sorry!”   I slammed my eyes shut, but I still heard Janet ask me, “What should the consequences for this be?” Trapped in my own personal darkness I whimpered. “I dunno. Whatever you feel is appropriate. Don’t let me grade papers. Take away my tablet. Put the mittens back on. Add in some booties. Remove my teeth like Helena did to Amy.” “Did to Amy…?” Beouf echoed in clear and obvious confusion. I felt Mommy’s hand lift up my chin.  “Open your eyes,” she said softly. I obeyed and I saw her looking at me, her smile sad, but present. “Hey. C’mere.”  She opened her arms and I spilled myself out of the chair and into her arms. “You did a bad thing but you stopped doing it without anyone forcing you to,” she whispered soothingly to me, gently rubbing my back.  “And you owned up to it even though you wouldn’t have been caught.  That’s a very Grown-Up thing to do.  I don’t think you need a punishment or a change in routine this time. I’m very proud of you.” Beouf had gotten over her outrage by the time Janet was picking me up and rocking me in her arms.  “If Clark marked those papers fairly, that means Brollish thinks she made it all up. This is that essay crap all over again.” “Tell me about it,” Janet said. “But what can we do?”   “Same thing we did last time,” Beouf shrugged resignedly. “Be better than perfect. For about two months.” “Guess so,” Janet echoed Beouf’s resignation. Sometimes even Amazons are powerless.  She adjusted me on her hip again and then gasped in realization. “Ooops! I forgot to change you!” ************************************************************************************************** “Come here Clark,” Janet called for me after dinner that night. “I want to show you something.” I toddled back into the kitchen, the comfort and relaxation of the play mat abandoned out of guilt and a desire to self flagellate. Forgiven or not, relevant or not, I still felt guilty as anything and translated that into being overeager to please Janet. The kitchen table had been cleared off of dishes and placemats. On top of it a stack of student papers remained.  It was our usual setup for grading papers.  “Mommy?” Janet picked me up and plopped me into my highchair. She clicked the tray into place and handed me a blank piece of paper and a green crayon. “This is your answer key.”  She told me. “It’s blank.” I said, dumbly. She took a child’s spelling test and placed it next to the blank paper.  “You’re going to make it for me by writing all the spelling words correctly onto your paper.  Then you’re going to scan every answer and tell me which ones to mark for correction.” “You’re having me grade papers but with extra steps,” I frowned.  “Pretty much,” she smiled. “You can help me grade as long as there’s no proof.” “Buuuuut isn’t that just making more work for you?” Janet reached out and brushed a bit of my hair off my forehead. “Yeah, but I like it. It’s a special way for us to bond and play together. I get to spend time with you, y’know.” My face warmed as if I’d just taken a shot of whiskey and Mommy’s milk.  “Yeah. I do.” Her eyes shifted around conspiratorially and she leaned in to whisper, “And I’m not letting that self-righteous bitch, Karen Brollish, tell me what I can and can’t do with my own damn kid in my own damn home.” We laughed together, long and loud. We were powerless but as ever, there were degrees of rebellion in powerlessness.  Waves to be caught and surfed.  Sharks to be punched in the nose. Papers to be graded in acts of quiet spite just so we could feel like we’d accomplished something. “Can I get out of this stupid sweater first?” I asked. “I was wondering when you were gonna ask,” she snickered.  

Magda: I sighed when I realized Jo didn’t understand. I had to be direct but didn’t have any idea how to explain it to her. The language barrier was the easier part, but the word ‘Diapers’ would sound terribly. I’d found it in the dictionary but was worried to say it. Maybe I could try to say it in a gentler way. “Les enfants ont des accidents, “ I started the explanation and made a short break, “Les enfants ont besoin de protection,” I waited if she gets the message. I desperately wanted to avoid using that word.