spark

I learned that lesson in about 5 minutes. That Deep Woods stuff is nasty. The regular Off is good enough for California bugs, but the Wisconsin bugs just laugh. FTR- Australian horseflies take the trophy. Not in sheer numbers, although that's bad, but they're nasty.

For me, minor characters are fine, but they can't be used in sexualized situations. For me, it's easier because I'm assexual and even my adult characters are asexual. IMO, because of the limits (and necessary limits) with minor characters, the stories tend to be better developed than having the protagonist be 18 years old. I chose 15 for Eddie for a purpose: it's a coming of age, and he had already finished the first year of high school. It was very much meant to be a transitional period, where he wasn't quite ready to take that step. I see the same type of transition at 12. For me, that transition ends at 18 or 19. By then they are settled into a young adult life. I prefer to have young adults be older, like 24. That's old enough to be out of college and out of that let's-party stage of life. By then, they are supposed to be fully functioning adults.

That really common, especially when there is nothing about how the characters interact with characters as though they are true babies. IE- a 19-year-old being carried as though he is an infant. That isn't realistic, and pulls me out of the story very quickly. We also have an awful lot of 18 year old characters, who for all other purposes, is a toddler, often with no explaination why that is true. For me: excess spanking doesn't work. I'm not a fan of sissy stories, especially when it's done as part of the infantalization. To me it sends the message that all forms of regression is feminine. It starts with regression, and then they make him wear a dress. A few days later, they give him a girl name, which sounds like that regression means you're a girl. In a lot of ways: it's extremely misogynistic. A third one is: excessive regression to the stage of infants. Maybe it's me, but making someone a full infant isn't as interesting as turning them into a little kid (+2 years old).

I went to visit my uncle in northern Wisconsin. We put that Deepwoods Off on, and it was awful. I didn't think it worked, and then I tried to go without. Yeah, it worked. There is an old joke from the guys who built the Alaska Highway. Two mosquitoes were debating what to do with one of their victims: #1: Should we take him into the trees before we get him? #2: No, if we do that, the big guys will get him.

I still have nightmares of being on deer patrol when we would drive to my grandma's house in central Wisconsin. It was always late at night. I was tired and my grandma wanted me to keep my eyes open for deer, who would jump out in the middle of the road. In Australia, I heard they put still bumpers on the front, just incase they hit a kangaroos. Are Wallabies less aggressive than kangaroos? i've heard kangaroos can be mean when they feel cornered.

I admit, I thrive on the feedback I get from stories, and it helps me know how other people are percieving my story. I think my current story is really good, and it is well recieved, but looking back and get almost need feedback on a chapter that I worked so hard to get just right is depressing. I feel like I'm the only who is reading the story.

I'm the opposite, because I know that it will attempt to be realistic. Mind you- Aliens is a big reach.

Chapter 17: The Green Jacket The next anchor came when Dad watched The Masters in the living room instead of disappearing into his den. I’m still not sure why he did it. Watching sports was the only thing Dad and I ever really bonded over. I started watching sports with him in third grade. We didn’t talk much, but that wasn’t the point. I got to be with my dad, and even if we didn’t say anything, that was enough. We watched just about everything, but football was our favorite. Charlotte didn’t like football, but she liked golf, so she always watched The Masters with us. That made it special. Every spring, the three of us watched the final round together. Even when I wasn’t home, I’d FaceTime Dad and Charlotte while watching it. Maybe Dad just wanted to keep that family tradition going. But that only made me wonder: Dad knew I loved sports, and he knew Mom wouldn’t let me watch without him, so why did he watch in his den? For some reason, he made exceptions for The Masters and the Super Bowl. If he could make time for those, why not every weekend? In reality, Charlotte and I barely saw him. Dad was always in his den, and we weren’t allowed in that part of the house. Dad never came up to the playroom, or really anywhere near our side of the house. We would sometimes see him when he came home from work, but only as he passed through on his way to the den. Even then, he acted like we were furniture. We couldn’t watch the whole thing because we still had to take a nap. We only got to see the last few holes. For some reason, after we woke up, Mom let us come into the living room. I’d gotten in trouble, so I had to sit in the playpen, while Charlotte sat on the floor playing with a doll. I don’t know if Mom knew we were watching, and I didn’t want to find out. I stayed quiet and kept my airplane in front of me. Charlotte played quietly too. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing. I was still mad at my dad for what he said in January: that I wasn’t potty trained, and probably never would be. Those words stung when he said them, and they still stung while I sat beside him. What I hated most was: I couldn’t prove I was potty trained, nor did I know I would ever be again. I was happy that I got to watch The Masters, but those thoughts kept creeping into my head, and they were ruining it for me. As the tournament got closer to the end, I stopped worrying about all of that. Rory McIlroy is one of my favorite players, and I was happy that he defended his title. He’s Charlotte’s favorite player, and she was ecstatic. Her whole face lit up, and she bounced on the floor with her doll clutched against her chest. She squealed, “Daddy! Daddy, Rory won! Who puts the green jacket on him? Does he get to keep it forever and ever?” For once, Dad actually looked over and answered her question. I hated that Dad was still Daddy to Charlotte. I didn’t want to take that away from her; it just wasn’t true for me. Charlotte and I both called Mom “Mommy,” but that was out of fear, not love. Mom hadn’t been Mommy for a long time. But for Charlotte, Dad was always Daddy. In the end, I decided to let myself be happy for Charlotte. What mattered most was that I had an anchor: I knew what day it was. The Masters always ends on the second Sunday in April, which meant I had been in the nursery for three months. That surprised me, but I’d lost all sense of time. The only real measure I had was the week between the Super Bowl and my birthday, and that wasn’t much help. It had only been a week, but it felt endless, so I had no idea how long three months was supposed to feel. After Charlotte joined me in the nursery, time felt different. The days still blurred together, but they didn’t feel as long. I couldn’t explain it. I only knew that things felt different once she was there. I wasn’t sure how long she had been with me, but if I had to guess, I would have said close to a month. I hate admitting this, but Charlotte made things better. I don’t like thinking that; it feels like I’m glad this happened to her. I’m not. I wish she didn’t have to go through it. The fact was, Charlotte found ways to play, and that’s how we survived. She led the way. When we pretended, she decided what we were. When pretending wasn’t enough, she invented games out of whatever we could see. She gave it rules, gave us a goal, and somehow made time pass. She even made me laugh. It’s strange to say this, but I had fun with Charlotte. That didn’t make any of it right; nothing could do that. But I don’t think I could have survived it without her there. I didn’t know it then, but Charlotte was arrested on March 6. I know that date now, but it still doesn’t tell me what day I saw her in the playpen. I don’t know how long Mom left her in jail, and Charlotte doesn’t know either. She said she couldn’t call Mom right away, and even after she called, it took Mom a while to get her. I know Mom brought her home, took her straight upstairs, and swaddled her in the nursery. After that, Charlotte lost time the same way I did. She doesn’t know how long Mom kept her wrapped up, so she doesn’t know what day Mom put her in the playpen. By The Masters, the shock of seeing Charlotte in the playpen faded into routine. Seeing her in the nursery wasn’t strange; it was normal. Even Maya’s replacement wasn’t new, she was just part of our life. I don’t know where Mom was with the legal issues, but none of that mattered. We didn’t live in court. We lived in the nursery. Our world shrunk into the playroom, the crib, the highchair, and the playpen. Mom hired Anna soon after she put Charlotte in the nursery. It was right after both of us were swaddled; Mom never did that in front of our nannies. Nannies knew about the crib, the playpen, and the highchair, but not the bottles or the swaddling. Those were only for family. Even though Mom thought she was doing the right thing, she was careful what other people saw. From the outside, she looked like a devoted mother keeping a close eye on her children. Most people barely saw the diapers, and they never saw the nursery. Nannies saw more: the crib, the highchairs, the playpen. But Mom always had an excuse. Maya didn’t buy Mom’s excuse, but nobody else did either. It barely explained me, and it sure as hell didn’t explain Charlotte. Dr. Olson gave Mom a better excuse. Mom made sure we never heard everything Dr. Olson said, but we picked up pieces through conversations we overheard. The rest we learned after we escaped, when we saw the court order that conserved us. Dr. Olson used a lot of medical language for it, but what she was really saying was simple. Charlotte and I could earn degrees, but we weren’t really adults. With enough structure, we could memorize facts, follow routines, and pass tests. That didn’t make us adults. It made us well-trained children. It was impressive, but we were still children. Knowing the answers didn’t mean we understood the world. To back it up, she used our own lives against us. With Charlotte, it was the drinking, her job instability, her divorce, and finally Kristy. She treated all of it as proof that Charlotte couldn’t even be trusted around her own daughter. She was even more brutal with me. The medical jargon sugar-coated it, but not enough. Underneath all of it, she said I was a twenty-four-year-old man who couldn’t take care of himself and wasn’t even potty trained. Even our academic success was part of her argument. According to her, we only did well in school because Mom gave us structure, and treating us like younger children was proof that structure worked. That was the dangerous part. Dr. Olson didn’t need to make everything up. There were enough ugly facts for her to use, and she made them look worse by cherry-picking what helped her and ignoring what didn’t. She ignored that I lived on my own in Manhattan for two years. She also ignored the life Charlotte built: the home, the daughter she loved, and the marriage Mom destroyed. Dr. Olson’s theory explained everything just well enough to sound true. It was complete bullshit, but it came from a respected doctor, and our failures didn’t exactly help. That made it plausible. I think that’s why Mom hired Anna. She wasn’t just another girl out of high school. She was a real caregiver, someone with enough experience to make Mom’s story sound believable. Anna was the oldest nanny we had, closer to Charlotte’s age than mine. But Anna didn’t think her job was just to watch us. She thought she was supposed to help us get better. Mom saw it differently. Dr. Olson said Charlotte and I would never really be independent adults. For Mom, that meant we would always be little kids. She didn’t want us believing that would ever change. In her mind, that was just cruel. Diapers were the key. If we were potty trained, we would want privacy, choices, and freedom. Diapers made sure that never happened. My mom tried to hide her conflicts, but she was never good at it. She hated being challenged, especially by someone who didn’t treat her opinion as fact. Anna thought we should learn to do things for ourselves. She still treated us like children, but she thought her job was to help us, not just manage us. If Anna thought we could do something, she let us try. Mom hated that. Even a little independence was too much for her. That put her at odds with Mom almost immediately. Anna got frustrated with Mom’s rules and tried to prove they weren’t necessary. Mom saw that as defiance. More than that, she saw it as dangerous. Anna tried to move us forward. Mom made sure she didn’t get the chance to do it twice. After that, Mom only hired girls who were younger than us and just out of high school. While Anna didn’t accept all of Mom’s rules, I don’t think she ever saw Charlotte and me as true adults. She was always nearby, keeping a constant eye on us. In some ways, she watched us even closer than Mom. Mom could leave the room and do something else, because the monitor and gates kept us inside. Anna never did that; she was fully there. Sometimes she even joined us, and when she didn’t, she was still there, watching everything we did. It felt like she didn’t trust us out of her sight for even a few minutes. The worst part was: Anna wasn’t completely wrong. We acted like children. Not because we were, but because Mom trained us to act that way. Mom didn’t want us to grow up, and she did everything she could to stop it. When we finally did, neither of us really knew how to handle it. Once Mom put us back in the nursery, we slipped into the routine like it was normal. We liked Anna because she was actually there. Not just close. There. Like we mattered. She lasted longer than most of our other nannies. She might have lasted even longer if she hadn’t tried to potty train us. Anna saw it as a first step toward independence, and even a small step was worth the effort. To make her case, she told Mom about one of her former patients, a twenty-five-year-old man who couldn’t speak and still wore diapers. She never got him fully potty trained, but she taught him to signal when he needed to go, and that helped his whole family. When Mom heard that, she shook her head. “I know you mean well, but they’re calm, and I don’t want to disturb that. This isn’t a delay. It’s their new reality, and they need consistency more than anything else.” That was the point: Mom never wanted us to be potty trained. Potty training was the first step toward independence, and independence meant we needed her less. I already knew that. That’s why it took me so long to get out of diapers: Mom was nicer when I wore them, so I didn’t want to stop. When I was in diapers, I was her baby, and she was patient. Chris got another side of her. He got chores, criticism, and anger. I watched that firsthand, and I understood the lesson long before I could explain it. Being little was safer than being big. But that only explained why I stayed little. It didn’t explain why Mom wanted me that way. Mom liked taking care of little kids, and as long as we wore diapers, we were still little kids. For most parents, changing a child’s diaper is a chore, but it wasn’t for Mom. Even when someone else could handle it, she wanted to do it herself. No matter how bad it was, it didn’t bother her. If anything, she enjoyed it. For her, this was a bonding moment, and each one was a ritual: soft words, gentle hands, and constant reassurance. From the outside, it looked tender. But it was a trap. As long as we needed diapers, we needed her. She called it love, but it kept us from growing up. Mom didn’t want Anna trying at all, but Anna quickly learned to recognize our signals. Once she got to know us, she pointed them out whenever she noticed. I remember thinking that was strange. When we wore diapers, Mom didn’t want us worrying about any of that. That was the whole point. It wasn’t that we weren’t allowed to ask; asking just never worked. Mom ignored us whenever we said anything about it, but I could tell it annoyed her. Most of the time, that was enough. If we asked again, we got in trouble. Over time, we learned that feeling the urge didn’t matter. We were supposed to use our diapers and wait for someone to notice. At first, Anna didn’t take us to the potty. She just pointed it out when she thought we had to go. It started with poop, which was easy since our faces made it obvious. When she noticed, she would say, “Do you need to do a poopy? Okay, tell me when you’re done.” And then she praised us when we told her. Mom never did that. After that, Anna started watching for pee, which was harder. Charlotte was easier to read. Sometimes she shifted around and did a little pee-pee dance, and even I could tell she needed to go. With me, Anna never quite got it right. She would ask, but I never told her when I peed. Sometimes she asked if I was wet, and I said no, even when I was. I wasn’t lying. I just couldn’t tell the difference. Eventually, Anna decided it was time to do more than point it out. One afternoon, she saw Charlotte doing one of her little pee-pee dances, and asked, “Charlotte, baby, do you need to go potty?” Charlotte blushed and looked down. Anna held out her hand. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You’re not in trouble. Let’s try the potty.” Then she looked at me. “Reggie, you stay right here and be a good boy. I’m taking your sister to the potty.” Charlotte came back absolutely glowing. Anna hugged her and said, “Good job, honey!” Then she held up her hand. “High five.” Charlotte slapped Anna’s hand, beaming. “Reggie, guess what! I used the potty!” None of it seemed fake. She was genuinely proud of herself, even though a few weeks earlier she wouldn’t have thought twice about using the bathroom. For a moment, it seemed like she had forgotten she was an adult. Sometimes I still wonder if she did. Watching Charlotte act that way scared me, because it felt like part of her had disappeared. I didn’t want that to happen to me, and I didn’t know if Charlotte already thought I was already lost. I was jealous of her too, and not in a way I’m proud of. When Anna took Charlotte to the potty, there was a part of me that wanted her to fail. I hate thinking that, because Charlotte would never do that to me, but I didn’t know how to use the potty anymore. After she did it, I wanted to copy her; it was that simple. The problem was: I had no idea whether I had to go or not. At first, I hoped Anna would ask if I needed to go, but she didn’t. Then I realized it would be even better if I asked her to take me to the potty. Anna had to tell Charlotte to go potty. If I asked, I would be better than Charlotte. I tried to listen to my body, but I didn’t know what needing to pee felt like. I was afraid that Anna would think I was just copying Charlotte, so I waited. It felt like a really long time, but it wasn’t. The show hadn’t even looped before I said, “Anna, I need to go potty.” Anna looked back with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “You do? Okay, sweetheart. Let’s try the potty.” She sat me on the potty, but nothing happened. I tried anyway. I squinted my eyes and held my breath, but that didn’t work. Anna waited, and the longer I sat there, the more stupid I felt. Finally, she smiled and said, “That’s okay, honey. You tried.” If that had happened with Mom, I would have been in trouble. If we told Mom we had to use the potty, we’d better use it. Otherwise, we wasted her time, and that was never good. She would get mad, put us in timeout, and then declare that we weren’t ready to be potty trained. Anna didn’t do any of that. She wasn’t mad. She didn’t even seem disappointed. That should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. I was proud of Charlotte, but I was mad at myself. She used the potty, and I didn’t. That meant she was better than me. Charlotte was still proud of herself when Mom got home. As soon as she saw her, Charlotte beamed. “Mommy, I peed in the potty!” It was exactly the kind of thing Kristy would say, and for one second Charlotte looked just as proud. Then she saw Mom’s face. The pride disappeared all at once, and she went blank. Mom usually smiled when she saw that kind of exuberance, and we both knew how to use it. This time, she forced a smile. “You did? That’s nice, dear.” But we both knew she wasn’t happy. The smile disappeared as soon as she looked at Anna. I heard Mom say quietly, “I don’t think that was a good idea.” Anna replied, “I just thought it would help her.” Mom held up one hand. “Not here. Let’s get them settled upstairs, and then we’ll talk.” Mom and Anna took us upstairs, settled us in front of the television, and turned on a show. It wasn’t one of the baby shows we usually watched. It was an educational program, the kind that usually kept our attention. It wasn’t to entertain us; it was to keep us quiet while they talked downstairs. Charlotte was confused; in her mind, using the potty was a good thing. She looked at the television without really watching it and said, “Mommy seems upset.” Even though we were alone, we still had to be careful. Mom could hear us through the monitor. She always seemed to know what we talked about, even when she wasn’t home. I replied, “I know.” Charlotte asked, “Is it the potty?” I shrugged and nodded at the same time, which was the best way to talk with Charlotte. Mom wouldn’t know what we meant unless she was watching, and even then, she didn’t always pay attention. Charlotte understood what I meant: I don’t know, but I think so. Charlotte whispered, “I thought she wanted me to use the potty. Does she want to keep us here forever?” Honestly, I’d wondered the same thing since Mom took me to New York. Before then, I thought this was supposed to teach me a lesson. Afterward, I wondered if she wanted me to stay this way. She wasn’t trying to help me. She was making sure I could never leave her again. I just never imagined Mom doing this to Charlotte. Before Charlotte got there, I was lost. I was lonely, and I didn’t know how to get through the day. I wanted to run, but I didn’t know how to leave, and I had nowhere to go. After Charlotte came in the nursery, I stopped thinking about running away. At some point, I realized Mom wanted to do this forever. She wasn’t going to stop unless someone stopped her, and Dad was the only one who could. I knew Dad didn’t like this. He stayed away from the nursery, barely looked at us unless he had to, and hid in his den whenever he could. When he did see us, he played his part. He smiled, said something kind, and sometimes kissed Charlotte on the forehead. Then he was gone, like he was never there. That was what hurt most of all: Dad could have stopped it, but he didn’t. He knew how to make Mom back down. He did it before, when he talked her into letting me go to Dartmouth and when Charlotte finally got out of the nursery. He knew how to stop her when he really wanted to. This time, he didn’t even try. It made Mom happy, and she hadn’t been that happy in years. She loved keeping us this way, and Dad knew it. In the end, keeping Mom happy was more important than helping us. We didn’t talk out loud. Instead, we mouthed our words. I said, “I think so. Mommy doesn’t want us to leave.” “Maybe Daddy will stop her.” I replied, “I don’t think so. He always does what Mommy wants.” That was the last time we saw Anna. She was gone the next morning, and Mom never explained why. She didn’t have to. A little while later, Stacy came to babysit, and that told me everything I needed to know. Anna tried to give us something Mom didn’t want us to have, so Mom got rid of her. Until Mom got rid of Anna, being like this forever scared me, but it still didn’t feel real. It didn’t seem possible. Then Anna was gone, Stacy was back, and it became real. Mom wasn’t waiting for us to be ready. She was making sure we never would be.

In my case, the parallel story is more about setting up the background to minor characters, but they play a role at the end of the story. You don't need to the background to understand the motives, but it helps.

Assuming that I can finish it (and finishing it is more important to me than anybody else) it will end with Reggie in a good place. At that point, Reggie and Charlotte become a part of a universe that I've created in my mind. However, their part is secure, so I can't imagine doing a sequel. Maybe one for Charlotte, but after Luke killed Darth Vader, what else is there to tell? I've talked myself in and out of changing the title a few times, which is probably a sign it should stay. I titled the story before I had the full story visualized, especially the part of Charlotte joining Reggie in the nursery. Right now, Coming Home works. but it's abstract.

I've thought about changing the title of this story to Back to Nursery, but I keep going around in circles. I talk myself into changing the title, and then talk myself out of it. I named it Coming Home because that's what started the story. Reggie is literally coming home, and home has multiple meanings in this story. But the theme is closer to Reggie falling into a trap. Plus: Back to Nursery feels more generic than Coming Home in Diaper Genre, but not in horror genre. Any advice is appreciated. As for my update: the chapter I was working on was so big that it ended up at 6000 words. I've decided to split it up, and the first part is close. Unfortunately, the 2nd part is the one I'm most excited to post. No promises, but maybe I can get it out tomorrow.

This is the cover photo I'm thinking about using:

Thank you Yeah. Imagine a rich and powerful family pulling strings to get their child out of serious legal trouble. That never happens. 😁 I honestly don't think the DUI is unrealistic. It might shock you, but sometimes rich and powerful people don't face the same consequences that the rest of us (that first comment was sarcasm). It's a first offense with a minor in the car. There is a mandatory 48-hour jail sentence. The rest is fines and a suspended license, which basically happened anyway. I’m deliberately vague about how long it took for Mom to bail Charlotte out, so that could be the 48 hours. Mom basically has her under house arrest. It would be a very messy case, and based Dr. Olson’s assessment, it would likely end up getting complicated. Especially because Charlotte would have very strong legal support. Honestly, I needed a reason to put Charlotte in the nursery, and I needed it to be a real. I didn’t want it to be she wet her pants, and Mom puts her diapers. I needed to write Kristy out, because I don’t want that kind of story. The DUI works, because it puts some blame on Charlotte. The conservatorship is sketchy, especially because it happened without a judge speaking to either Charlotte, or Reggie. It puts a lot of faith in Dr. Olson’s opinion, even though there’s evidence that both Charlotte and Reggie can function as adults. That said, there’s also plenty of anecdotal evidence that they can’t always function independently under stress, which is exactly the kind of gray area Linda exploits. Mind you, the sketchiness of the conservatorship will be addressed later on in the story.

Chapter 16: A New Playmate A few days after the party, Mom finally let me use a spoon. It was a toddler spoon, but it felt like progress. After weeks of being fed or made to eat with my hands, I almost felt like an adult while holding it. Mom told me, “Forks are dangerous, but you can use a spoon. If you do well with that, I’ll give you a fork when you’re ready.” I thought I earned something, and for a few minutes, I was genuinely proud of myself. Then I tried to use it. The spoon was too small, and I could only get a little food with each bite. I couldn’t eat very fast; I was quicker with my hands. Mom watched me for a few minutes and then announced, “Okay, since you’re just playing with your food, I guess I have to feed you.” Just like that, the privilege was gone. I didn’t disobey or throw a tantrum. I just couldn’t use the spoon well enough for her. After that, Mom went back to feeding me, and it was months before I got to use utensils again. Losing the spoon hit harder than it should have. I didn’t resist; I just stopped cooperating. However, this wasn’t adult defiance. I was a cranky toddler who couldn’t talk to anybody. Even when I had the words, nobody listened. The problem was simple: Mom was always there, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She fed me, changed me, and told me what to do, but she rarely noticed what I was trying to say. Being ignored and lonely made me act out. Mom just thought I was fussy and treated me that way. She didn’t swaddle me; she used firm corrections, timeouts, and soothing. She held me tight against her chest and rocked me until my breathing slowed. I hated how well it worked, but I was still alone. That was the real problem, and I still hate being alone. It makes me anxious in ways I can’t fully explain. I did better with Maya, mostly because she was really there. She didn’t always give me what I wanted, but at least she listened. Sometimes she even told me why I couldn’t have it. That was better than being ignored, even when she said no. But even Maya had limits. One day, I threw a tantrum. I don’t remember why, but it doesn’t matter. Mom wouldn’t have raised her voice. She would have used the same calm voice she used for everything: a warning, a timeout, and then the playpen. Maya was different. She huffed, “Why are you being such a brat? Go to the corner!” It was the only time she ever raised her voice. I remember the way she sounded more than anything else. Mom rarely shouted; she used cold, controlled warnings, and she always knew what needed to happen. Maya sounded human: annoyed and frustrated. I pushed too far, and I hurt someone who was just trying to be kind. Usually, after a timeout, Mom explained what I did wrong and praised me when it was over. But acting up in front of Maya was worse than acting up with Mom, because Maya wasn’t family. Mom expected us to be extra well behaved around strangers, since it reflected on her parenting. When Mom found out, she put me in my crib for a few days. She never swaddled me, but she didn’t let me out of the crib, even for meals. She fed me, but I didn’t get solid food. Instead, she gave me a bottle, turning normal eating into another privilege she could take away. I only saw Maya a few times after that. I don’t remember exactly when she left, and Mom never told me what happened. That was how it was with all of our nannies. One day they were part of the routine, and the next day they were gone. Mom never explained why they left, and we weren’t supposed to ask. Some of them we loved; others we were glad to see leave. But it didn’t matter either way. We were babies, and babies don’t get explanations. At first, I didn’t realize Maya was gone. I thought it was just her day off. But after a while, too many days passed without seeing her. Finally, I asked, “Mommy, where is Maya?” By that point, calling her Mom felt strange. She loved it when I called her Mommy, and hated it when I called her Mom. Mom gave me a sad little look. “I’m sorry, honey. Maya went bye-bye.” “Why, Mommy?” Mom explained it the way she would to a small child. “Maya had to go bye-bye. She isn’t coming back, but that’s okay. Mommy’s here.” That wasn’t enough. I asked again, “But why, Mommy?” Mom gritted her teeth. “Baby, Mommy said Maya went bye-bye. And that’s all you need to know.” I didn’t know why Maya left. Part of me reacted to it like a child. Was she mad at me? Had I been bad? Maybe she was upset about the timeout. Maybe she quit because I was too much trouble. I knew that was childish, but childish thoughts came easily. But a few days later, I saw the bigger reason. Just before lunch, I saw someone sitting in the playpen. At first, I thought Mom was babysitting a little girl. She was in the playpen with a pacifier in her mouth. Her hair was parted into two neat pigtails, each tied with a ribbon. She wore pink sweatpants and a pastel sweatshirt, with white socks that had tiny bows at the ankles. I wondered whose child she was. Then she turned, and I saw her eyes. It was Charlotte! Until that moment, I didn’t think Mom would do this to someone else. At least I looked like a kid. Charlotte was thirty-one. She was a mother. But that didn’t matter. Mom still put her in the nursery. Mom lifted me into the highchair like nothing changed. She fastened the tray, set my lunch in front of me, and went back to the stove. Across the open room, Charlotte sat in the playpen. We looked at each other, but that was it. I hesitantly asked, “Mommy… why is Charlotte here?” Mom didn’t even look at me. “Don’t worry about it. Just eat.” “But why, Mommy?” Mom’s voice sharpened. “She’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry about it. Mommy will take care of both of you.” I asked, “Mommy, is that why Maya is gone?” That was exactly the kind of question my mom didn’t want me asking. It wasn’t something a little kid would ask. I connected Maya leaving to Charlotte’s appearance, which meant I knew that all of this was wrong. Her tone shifted, but that didn’t mean she lost control. Mom never wasted anger. She used it when she wanted a reaction. “Baby! I said don’t worry about it! Maya went bye-bye, and Mommy is going to find somebody better for both of you.” At first, I thought Maya left because of me. Maybe I was too difficult, too embarrassing, or just too much work. But looking back, I don’t think that was it. When it was just me, I think Maya could make herself believe Mom’s story, or at least pretend she did. Maya was already gone by the time Charlotte was put in the nursery, but I can’t imagine her going along with treating Charlotte this way. She knew Charlotte as an adult: a mother and a nurse. Maya also hated changing diapers. She never said it outright, but I could tell. Changing a little kid was bad enough, but it was worse with me. I was older than her, and we both knew it. Maybe that was why she quit. Maybe one adult in diapers was already too much, and she couldn’t face another. The diapers were only part of it. Mom said I was basically just like a three-year-old, but that didn’t make any sense. I didn’t act like a toddler, at least not all the time. And even when I did, I was too self-aware to be one. Toddlers might cry and fuss, but they don’t feel shame the way I did. Mom’s story only worked if you already wanted it to be true. Maya wasn’t just paid to babysit; she was paid to participate, and Mom watched everything. Most of the time, Mom worked from home, but even when she didn’t, she always knew what happened while she was away. That meant Maya had to do what Mom wanted, even when she knew it was wrong. She tried to hide how conflicted she was, but I could tell. One time, while Maya was changing my diaper, she sighed, “I wish you could use the potty.” I cried, “I want to, but Mommy won’t let me.” Maya stopped for a second. Not long. Just long enough that I knew she understood. Then she finished taping the diaper and whispered, “I know, honey.” I don’t know if Maya quit, or if Mom fired her. All I knew then was that she was gone, and Charlotte was sitting in a playpen. I tried to let it go. I really did. I looked down at my lunch and kept my hands still. But the question lingered: why was Charlotte in the playpen, and why was Maya gone? I asked again, “But why, Mommy? What happened?” Mom didn’t answer. “Baby, Don’t worry about it. Just be nice to your sister.” That wasn’t an answer, and the more she shut the door, the more I needed to know. I waited a few seconds, like I was being good. Then I tried again, softer. “But why, Mommy?” She glared, “Because Mommy said so.” I knew I should stop. That’s what a good little boy would do. But I couldn’t. The adult part of me needed an answer. “Did Charlotte do something bad?” Mom’s mouth tightened. “That’s enough!” She put the pacifier in my mouth before I could ask again. From the playpen, Charlotte watched her do it. Her eyes filled, and she gave Mom a small, devastated look. Around her own pacifier, it sounded like, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” Mom looked back at her coldly. “Don’t give me that look.” Charlotte flinched. “You knew exactly what would happen if you ever did this again.” Mom’s voice stayed low and hard. “You did it anyway, and this time your daughter was in that car.” Charlotte’s face crumpled. The words landed like daggers, and tears gathered in her eyes, but Mom only watched her break. Then, after letting the cut sit, she added, “You’re lucky I’m taking care of this.” I usually took my nap after lunch, but this time Mom let me stay in the living room while she worked in the kitchen. Charlotte was in the playpen nearby, watching everything. I waited until Mom turned away, pulled the pacifier from my mouth, and whispered, “What happened?” Charlotte’s eyes widened. She shook her head and pointed at my pacifier, warning me to put it back. But I didn’t move fast enough. Mom snapped, “Reggie! Put your binky back in your mouth. No talking.” I shoved the pacifier back in, hoping that would be enough, but it wasn’t. “Don’t talk to your sister.” Then, Mom pointed toward the corner. “Go to the corner. Now!” Once I was there, her voice changed completely. It became soft and gentle. “That’s better. Good listening. Stay there. Mommy will get you in a little while.” I guess Mom took Charlotte back to her nursery, because the playpen was empty when I was let out of the corner. I was still sucking on my pacifier, and Mom didn’t take it out. Instead, she pulled me close and held me gently, like she was comforting me. Mom’s voice was eerily calm and gentle, but still firm. “I know you want to know what happened to Charlotte, but don’t worry about it. Just be a good boy and be nice to your sister.” She let that sit for a moment, then asked, “Can you do that for Mommy?” I nodded. Mom hugged me. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Now come on. It’s time for your nap.” Mom led me up to the nursery, helped me into my crib, and kissed my forehead before pulling up the rails. “Remember, Mommy loves you very, very much.” After a while, Mom let me out of the crib and put me in the playroom. I played in there with the same show on a loop, barely paying attention. Eventually, she called, “Baby, it’s dinner time!” I came downstairs and saw Charlotte sitting in another highchair right beside mine. Mom put my plate on my tray, then sat next to Charlotte. Her dinner was mashed into a paste, almost like baby food, but Mom’s version was always better than anything from a jar. After dinner, Mom took both of us to the couch, put us on either side of her, gave me a bottle, and held another one to Charlotte’s mouth. When we were done, Mom took us upstairs to our nurseries. She put me in my crib first, then said, “Baby, I’ll be back in just a little bit.” I guess she swaddled Charlotte before coming back to tuck me in, because she returned before I fell asleep. The next morning, Mom adjusted the playpen panels, and both of us fit inside. It was one of the few times we were ever in there together. Usually, when one of us was inside, the other sat on the floor. We both had pacifiers in our mouths, but somehow that didn’t stop us. I don’t know how, but we played together. That always made Mom happy. She knew we might collaborate, but she loved watching us play together, especially when we giggled. Every once in a while, she reminded us to use our inside voices, but she said it with a smile, so it felt more like praise than correction. After a little while, Mom decided we had earned it. She said, “Since you two are playing so nice, I’m going to take your binkies out. But remember, talk nice.” Finally, we could talk, but not about anything important. Talk nice didn’t just mean don’t argue; it meant don’t ask too many questions. I knew Charlotte wasn’t going to tell me why she was there, especially while Mom was watching. If I wanted to know, I had to ask her myself. I waited until Mom seemed far enough away, then lowered my voice and asked, “What happened?” Unfortunately, Mom wasn’t far enough away. She heard me and said, “This is all too much for you.” My stomach dropped before she finished the sentence. “You’re overstimulated.” I cried, “No, Mommy, please. I’m fine. I’ll be good. I won’t ask anymore.” But it was too late. I’d asked too many times. Mom got both hands on me and steered me toward the nursery. “You need to rest.” A few minutes later, I was swaddled so tightly I couldn’t move. She kept me that way for days. I lost track of how many. By the time she finally let me out, Charlotte didn’t have to sit in the playpen, so it was just me. Even though Charlotte didn’t have to suck on a pacifier, she kept one in her mouth. It seemed to soothe her, and it made Mom happy. I still wasn’t allowed to talk, and Charlotte wasn’t allowed to talk to me, so for a long time, she didn’t. But she knew I still wanted an answer. One afternoon, she glanced toward the kitchen and whispered, “I got in trouble—” Mom cut her off before she could say anything else. “Charlotte. Reggie has his binky in. Don’t talk to him!” Charlotte lowered her eyes and sucked on her pacifier. I still didn’t know what happened, but at least she tried. I don’t know exactly how long it took, but I eventually found out. I already knew Charlotte drank, and I knew she drank alone. I didn’t like it, but I looked past it. She had been through a lot, and that was how she coped. What I didn’t know was that she drank during the day, even while she was working. One Friday, a few weeks after my birthday, Charlotte was pulled over while driving Kristy to Dennis’s house. I’m not making excuses, but she was only a little over the legal limit. It was still too high. And Kristy was in the car. That part was hard to accept. I love Charlotte more than anybody else in the world. I know she has flaws, but I never thought she would put Kristy in danger. She’s my big sister, my hero, and the person I trust more than anyone. Knowing she did that hurt more than I wanted to admit. That caused two other things to happen. First, Charlotte lost her job. She was drinking at work, which is never allowed in any job, especially nursing. Second, she gave Dennis full custody of Kristy. That was her choice. She didn’t want Kristy anywhere near Mom. The real punishment came after Mom brought Charlotte home. After Covid, when Mom let her out of the nursery, she warned her what would happen if she ever did it again. This time, Mom followed through. She took her straight upstairs to her old room, which became her nursery. The bed already had rails, so all Mom had to do was pull them up. In seconds, it became a crib. Since Charlotte’s room was separate from my nursery, I didn’t know what happened until I saw her in the playpen. Charlotte was already crushed over Kristy, and Mom moved so fast she barely had time to process anything else. The longer she thought about it, the more ashamed she became. She was so ashamed of herself that she thought Mom was right. She had acted irresponsibly, and being treated like a baby was better than jail. Mom used her connections with the DA’s office to keep Charlotte out of jail. It was a first offense, but Kristy was in the car, and that complicated everything. Mom didn’t go through regular channels. She had known the district attorney since he was in law school, so before she even bailed Charlotte out, she called him directly. That pushed the case forward much faster than normal, and Mom made sure no one treated it like a typical DUI. She used Dr. Olson’s theory: our disorder affected our emotional development. Dr. Olson backed her up, explaining that Charlotte functioned like a child when she was under stress. That let Mom frame it as a family matter, not a legal one. Mom argued that since Kristy was with her dad, and Charlotte was under Mom’s direct supervision, there was no longer any danger. Since nobody wanted to pursue a messy case, especially against Linda Brown’s daughter, the case was deferred and eventually dismissed. That gave Mom the opening she needed, the one she’d been waiting for. She argued that we weren’t capable of living as independent adults, using my regression, Charlotte’s DUI, and Dr. Olson’s assessment as proof. Somehow, a judge agreed to conserve us without ever speaking to Charlotte or me. Mom knew she could never let us speak to a judge, because no one would believe her if we did. We were confused and humiliated, but we were smart. If a judge had spoken to us, they would have known Mom was wrong. I didn’t know most of this until we were rescued. At the time, we didn’t even know Mom had conserved us. She told us only what served her, and only when it helped her keep us under control. I learned later that the judge wanted to speak to us, but Dr. Olson said we were too fragile. She claimed that putting us through that kind of stress could cause irreparable harm. Mom argued that speaking to us wouldn’t give the judge an accurate picture, because we knew how to mask our challenges. We could answer questions, follow conversations, and pass as capable for short periods of time, especially in front of strangers. But that was a performance. No one would see how poorly we functioned under pressure. Because the judge trusted Mom, and Dr. Olson was so respected, the judge agreed not to speak to us. I don’t know all the conditions, and I don’t want to. None of it mattered. All that mattered was that Charlotte and I were legally minors, and Mom was our guardian.

I think her talent was so strong that it would be recognized on it's own. Coat of Many Colors is one of my favorite stories sung to song. Jolene is such a good song. On other, her character blew that all away. I think I'm a pretty decent person, but I wish i could be as good as she was. I don't have her platform, but even if I did, I don't I would have done what she did with it. She truly one of the saints.