Baby Talk

Tom is on his way to see a pediatric urologist with his mother. Since Tom’s mother discovered that morning that he had hidden his wet pants and underwear under his bed, he has to wear a diaper for the entire day as a “punishment.” His mother’s reaction stems, on the one hand, from feeling overwhelmed by her son, and on the other hand, from the “parenting advice” she received from her sister.   To understand this part of the story, I need to tell you a little bit about myself. I remember a few instances of wetting my pants in elementary school. Of course, I had long since stopped wetting myself during the day. It was only at night that it happened more often—I’d wake up to find my bed wet.  At school, as far as I can remember, I wet myself twice because, although I raised my hand QUIETLY to go to the bathroom, the teacher often ignored me (questions disrupted the lesson). I was too shy to get her attention any other way…. After this first time, my teacher asked my mother to give me a bag with a change of clothes, which was then hung in our shared closet in front of the classroom, next to my gym clothes…… The idea of putting me back in diapers for a while because of my bedwetting and such accidents came partly from the family. But I think mainly from an acquaintance of my mother’s where I often had to stay overnight back then. This acquaintance was the first person who put me in diapers at age 6 because of the bedwetting. This apparently happened in consultation with my parents. Otherwise, this neighbor might not have looked after me. After some initial hesitation, my mother took over this routine at home as well. It was simply easier for her, between work and building a house, than washing my bedding several times a week. But when my bedwetting didn’t improve—and in fact became more frequent (thanks to the diaper)—this babysitter eventually started putting me in a diaper after every wet one, as a “disciplinary measure,” for the rest of the day. She’d take it off just before my parents picked me up. At first, my parents had no idea that I was being made to wear one during the day as well.   Once, when I was picked up earlier than agreed, I got into the car like that, and it wasn’t until we got home that this “measure” became apparent. My father then forbade the babysitter from doing that. But much later, when I started wetting the bed again and also had a few wet pants because I FELL ASLEEP on the sofa after school, while watching TV, or during a car ride, my mother, in her frustration, probably remembered these “recommendations” from many years ago. The fact that she then applied this “disciplinary measure” to me a few times was likely a spontaneous reaction to my behavior—which was unimaginable to her—and a sign that she felt overwhelmed by me.  Unlike Tom, I wasn’t an only child. I had a very, very good relationship with my brother, who was 1.5 years younger than me. The fact that my wet beds and all the measures took place right in front of him was very stressful for me. For me, my role as the “big brother” suffered massively as a result. But I couldn’t deny the wet beds, and I certainly couldn’t prevent them. Hiding my wet clothes was sometimes my first reaction. Simply out of embarrassment in front of my family, and especially my little brother. Visiting to doctors and being “found out” were my two biggest fears as a child. Being found out that I wet the bed (I never wanted to admit it to myself) and that I was wearing diapers because of it.         PART 26: “MAYBE THIS WAY YOU’LL REMEMBER FOR NEXT TIME” So, with the diapers under my pants, I finally walked into the dining room in front of my mother. My legs spread apart a little while I moved. Laura, of course, immediately recognized her old “training pants”, as the used to call them and blushed. Everyone remembered the occasion when she used to have to wear those pants.   No further explanations were needed. Laura and her mother realized: “Tom has been put in his diaper pants for today. So his mother is getting serious.”My mother saw their reactions. “Tom is glad you lent us those pants. We can really use them today.” No further words were spoken. Aunt Lisa had prepared everything for breakfast. On the short walk to the breakfast table, I had the impression that all eyes were on me. It felt as though, before I could even sit down, I was being discreetly but thoroughly inspected.  My aunt was visibly pleased. She had always believed that “the punishment must fit the ‘offense.’” For example, at my aunt’s house, Veronika was regularly tasked with taking out the trash. If she ever forgot, all the trash cans were placed in her room for a week. To her opinion my mother’s parenting methods, were never strict enough.  Once again, I blushed and felt my aunt’s gaze on me, though she was smiling gently. Laura looked down at the floor. “You and your mother—you two really are a well-oiled team,” my aunt remarked with a hint of teasing. “Laura sometimes needed to wear the pants, too. Right, Laura?” My cousin avoided any eye contact and didn’t respond in any other way. So my aunt pressed on. “Don’t you remember, Laura? It wasn’t that long ago!” Now she nodded quickly, hoping that would put an end to the subject for her.   And sure enough, for the rest of breakfast we talked about things like Mike’s birthday party, which I was invited to in a few days. Everyone knew Mike. We were in the same class, and he was my best friend. His parties were always a blast. Half an hour later, though, we were back on the “topic.” “Yes, we have an appointment today with Dr. Fink, the pediatric urologist. The office is in the pedestrian zone, so we’ll have to walk a bit.” My mother urged us to leave. “We should get going. The practice is a group of three pediatricians. Dr. Fink only sees the…,” she paused briefly, then gathered herself and continued. “…well, the bedwetters.” At that word, red color rushed to my face again. I looked up briefly and wanted to argue against it. It only “happens” rarely. They’re accidents. My mother looked at me sternly, and I knew I was just making things worse.   She was clearly ready to discuss my wet pants, which she’d just found under my bed. Laura looked over at me, too. She probably knew how embarrassing conversations like that were—and probably also how I must be feeling right now. “She squeezed us in specially. We’re supposed to be there at ten. She said we’ll probably have to wait a bit. But with some kids, the consultation goes faster, so there’ll be time for us then. She didn’t have any more appointments available on such short notice, but we will be in if someone canceled. It’s just an initial consultation anyway, not an exam yet. But she’s a true specialist. I think we’ll head over around nine,” my mom explained the day’s schedule.“Well then, we should hurry. Tomy, finish your milk,” my aunt said.   I tried to find a good moment to try again to convince my mother to take off my diaper pants. But I was also too embarrassed to bring it up again in front of Laura. Especially as no one seams to mention or even notice my ‚special pant‘.   A short while later, the table was cleared.   We went into the foyer together. Again, I could feel the thick “wrapping” my mother had put me in “for safety’s sake,” as she emphasized. You could also tell from the way I walked that “Tom is wearing his diaper pants.” I even thought you could hear the sound of the plastic pants, even through the thick fabric pants. But maybe I was just imagining that? For the others, it didn’t seem worth mentioning. It seemed to be a matter of course. The fact that it had apparently become so ordinary—that I was wearing a diaper today simply because my pants had gotten wet yesterday—made me feel even more ashamed.    When I bent down to put on my shoes, I felt my pants tighten. Once again, it was clearly evident that I was wearing diapers underneath like a toddler.  I felt hot, and my face was surely bright red again. Laura saw it in the mirror too and gave me a “motherly” smile—or was it encouraging? It dawned on me that there would be no more opportunity, without Laura and Aunt Lisa, to discuss whether I could cancel the appointment after all, or at least not have to go there in diapers. My aunt had gone back into the living room to get her bag.   My mother handed Laura the car keys, as if she would be the older one, the more mature one. “Okay, you two go ahead to the car,” she said, giving me a pat on the bottom that produced that typical muffled diaper sound. Dchhhh. “I’ll just pack up a few more things.” Still feeling out of place, I walked out alongside Laura. She unlocked the car and we sat down in the back seat. I had my head down. The thick diaper was visible between my legs. “Laura must see it too,” I thought, and squeezed my thighs tightly together. I sat there next to her like a little three-year-old boy. She broke the silence.  “Hey, Tomy, you can hardly see it at all.” I looked up at her questioningly, as if I didn’t understand what she meant. I couldn’t think of anything better to do. “I mean the diaper,” she said, leaning toward me, tucking the edge of my plastic pants—which was sticking out above my waistband in some places—back under my pants, and taking my hand. “Look, it’s really not that bad. If you’re a little careful, nobody won’t even notice it.” Just then, my aunt and my mother got in.  Shortly after, we dropped them off at their house and drove on toward downtown. We found a parking spot outside the pedestrian zone.   Once again, I wondered if I might still be able to convince my mom to let me take off the diapers. But I didn’t think I stood much of a chance. Still, I tried one last time as we got out of the car. “Mom, do I really have to…” My mom cut me off immediately. “YES, Tom! You MUST see Dr. Fink today. You’re wetting the bed, and we want to figure out how to help you.  And YES, that’s why you MUST wear diapers at night as long as you keep wetting the bed.   And YES, Tom, because you’ve often lied to me about going to the bathroom before bed we'll keep making you sit on the potty in the evening. We need to discuss that with the doctor, too.   And YES, Tom, because you’re wetting your pants again and then hiding them like a two-year-old, we’re going to try wearing a diaper during the day again today. No arguing!”   But then she relented a little. She put her arm around my waist. „You’re glad too when you don’t have to worry about wetting your pants. There’s no school today, and you don’t have to be embarrassed at the doctor’s office. I’m sure other kids who wet their pants wear diapers there, too.”   She paused briefly and let her words sink in. I looked down at the floor in shame. My mom was right about everything.   I knew from that school day earlier in the week how uncomfortable it is to walk around in a pull-up with plastic pants over them. But that was nothing compared to my now “usual” nighttime setup.  “Maybe this way you’ll remember for next time,” was her final summary. I walked carefully beside my mother. I knew that quick steps amplified the sound of my diaper pants. There were many people out and about here in front of the many shops. It was about a 10-minute walk to the doctor’s office. My pace was too slow for my mother. After several requests for me to hurry up, she took me by the hand and we walked on much faster. Now my diaper-clad bottom wiggled back and forth, and the sound of the plastic pants was now audible too. Because of the quick pace, I was also forced to keep my legs closer together, which made the diaper bulge out noticeably in the front. I don’t even reach my mother’s shoulder.  I probably looked more like a preschooler holding his mother’s hand than a teenager. But people didn’t seem to pay much attention to it. Still, I was glad when we finally arrived at the doctor’s office. At the door, my mom asked, “So, Tom. Is everything still dry?” “Of course!” was my shocked reply. Does my mom really think I wet my pants during the day? “Very good. Once we’re inside with Dr. Fink, I want you to be completely honest. Understand?” I nodded.  There were three names on the door, above which read  “Joint Practice for Pediatric Urology and Psychological and Psychotherapeutic Support for Enuresis,” with a colorful symbol below it. My mother took my hand again. “See, other kids who wet the bed just like you are treated here, too.” I blushed, and just then my mother opened the office door and I followed her by the hand into the waiting room. This was followed by the usual friendly greeting from the receptionist. “Hello! So you’re big Tom. You’re here to see Dr. Fink.” I was startled. “The doctor is looking forward to seeing you.” Embarrassed, I looked down at the floor in front of the desk. ‚Of course everyone knows why I am here’, ashamed I thought to myself. I stood there feeling “caught.” The lady at the reception desk had to laugh. “Don’t worry. Dr. Fink has helped many bedwetters.” I turned pale. She called me a bedwetter as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She even smiled kindly as she said it. “Just sit over there in the waiting room.  When your name is called, go into the room with the bunny on the door. Your mom still has to sign a few forms.”  Feeling uncertain, I left my mom’s side and found a spot among all the others… I mean, the other kids here. I made sure to leave a space next to me for my mom. Hopefully she’ll be here soon.  “...So you’re big Tom...,” the statement and the simultaneous sensation of a diaper between my legs felt like mockery. But it was true—here in the waiting room, I was the oldest. Most of the children were elementary schoolers. There were even a few younger ones there. I felt “out of place.” The other mothers seemed to be discreetly sizing me up. I found this extremely uncomfortable and kept my head down. The other children also seemed quieter than usual. They, too, must have been embarrassed to be sitting here this morning. Again and again, one of the doors to the treatment rooms opened. Children came out, mostly led by their mothers’ hands. So far, they had all been boys. All younger than me. There was a single girl sitting in the waiting room. She, too, was being scrutinized just like me. By the other mothers and by us boys. The mothers looked on with interest. We “wild boys” were ashamed in front of her, and she was ashamed in front of us. When her name was called, she seemed almost glad to finally get out of the room.  I kept staring at “my” door. It hadn’t been opened yet. The bunny on the door, which was meant to help small children find their way, reminded me of my “bunny book.” The chubby bottom with the stubby tail seemed to me like a reference to the diaper I’d been made to wear as a “disciplinary measure” and was now trying to hide under my baggy pants by squeezing my legs tightly together. “If only I hadn’t hidden the wet pants…,” kept running through my head. It would have been very embarrassing to tell my mother that I’d wet myself, but after all, it was because of a stupid dream again. Of course, my mother would have scolded me and probably made me sit on the potty for a week again, out of anger. But I would have spared myself that situation.  As I was thinking about this, the door opened after all. I quickly looked down. Whoever came out, I wanted to avoid eye contact as much as possible. Even so, I could tell it was a girl with her mother. And an older girl, about my age. The two of them suddenly stopped. At the same time I instinctively looked up. It occurred to me that I had wanted to avoid making eye contact with everyone here. But it was too late.

Bonjour. Concernant ce sujet abdl, je dirais ne pas porter de couche, bien que j'ai été asse tard à faire pipi au lit, jusqu'à environ treize, quatorze ans au plus tard encore, bien que cela fut le fait d'un souci de santé d'incontinence si peux dire et non pas du fait de développement mental pour ainsi dire. Egalement, j'ai connu de m'être fait en tous cas, par bien d'autres femmes surtout que ma propre maman, traiter en véritable petit de bas âge, ou presque comme réel bébé de deux trois ans d'âge même jusqu'à très loin dans mon âge d'ado puisque jusqu'à mes saisir ans et même à âge adulte, voir dans mes plus de vingt ans, là aussi, traité comme un véritable bambin ou garçon de bas âge, toujours assisté et non pas que pendant mes toilettes en plus. Si humiliant fut mes vécus d'assisté, de ma situation je dirais de bébé ou petit garçon de bas âge, même de me faire materner, complètement infantilisé par des femmes autres que ma vraie maman, malgré des situation que je dirais abaissantes, humiliantes, de me faire en effet aussi régresser, infantiliser, materner, assister en bien des domaines de ma vie, même les plus intimes, j'aimais laisser faire, dire et penser de moi que je n'étais qu'un Bébé, presque conçu pour rester un petit garçon, conçu que pour des femmes aimantes maternelles, assistant par des femmes maternantes.

Great story! Sad to see it end 

Yes, it’s very normal in the morning. I’ll always make my first big load of turd in my diaper. It’s comfortable and always well formed and solid and not messy. I’m even comfortable enough to just be talking to my girlfriend and at the same time start making in my diaper, but she could always tell from my face when I’m starting to make. She will sometimes make a sour type of look on her face, but she’s used to it by now as I make turd in my diaper in the morning and in the late afternoon into the evening, usually two or three times a day when we’re hanging out or I’m by myself. 

PeekABU Husky