spark

This is a big chapter. I want the conflict between Reggie wanting to be treated like an adult and his need for comfort to build in this chapter. Chapter 9: Dr. Olson Dr. Olson’s name still tightened something in my chest. She almost always sided with my mother, even when she dressed it up as medical advice. Going to her didn’t feel like help. It felt like the next step in something that was already going wrong. I knew this would be bad. I just couldn’t imagine what worse would look like. Mom led me to the car, opened the back door, and said, “Get in, honey. I need to buckle you into your seat.” I hated that seat. Being strapped into a child’s car seat was humiliating. I whined, “Do I have to? Can’t I just sit in the regular back seat?” “No. You know the rules. I’m tired of you whining about it. You’re too small, and the law says you need a car seat.” “That law is for kids under eight.” “So what? You’re not big enough for a regular seat.” “But I’m not eight.” Mom sighed. “Enough. Stop being fussy. The car doesn’t know how old you are, and I’m not arguing about this. Mommy says you’re riding in the car seat, so get in.” I wasn’t going to win, and the longer I dragged it out, the worse this would get. I climbed in and let Mom buckle me into the car seat. Then she slipped a pacifier into my mouth and said, “Since you’re fussy, suck on this until we get to Dr. Olson’s office. Mommy expects you to behave when we get there.” Dr. Olson’s practice was one suite in a larger medical complex, the kind of low-rise building with a row of offices and specialties under one roof. The whole complex was always busy, with people constantly coming and going. It was a long walk to Dr. Olson’s office, and I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. It got even worse when Mom unfolded the stroller. She let me out of the car seat, steered me toward it, and said in a sing-song voice, “Sit down. Mommy needs to take you to the doctor.” “Mom, I’m not a baby. I’m not sitting in that stroller.” Mom didn’t hesitate. “I’ll stop treating you like a baby when you stop acting like one. Mommy let you walk yesterday, and you went straight into the road. Get in the stroller.” I was losing, and I knew it. No matter what, nobody would see me as an adult. All they would see was a little boy in diapers throwing a tantrum on the way to the doctor. My mom would explain it away, and everyone would believe her. I reluctantly climbed into the stroller and whined, “People will see me.” “I don’t care. You can’t run into traffic from a stroller.” The closer we got to the building, the more I felt like I was on display. Some people noticed. We had to take the elevator to the second floor, and an older woman joined us. She looked at the stroller, then at me, and said, “He looks a little big for that, doesn’t he?” Mom barely reacted. “It’s for safety. He tends to run off, and this keeps him safe.” The woman nodded as if that proved her point. “Well, you do what you have to, I suppose. Young mothers today make everything so complicated. When my children acted up, they got one swat and learned not to do it again.” She looked at me again, then added, “Though I suppose grandmothers have to work with whatever rules the parents give them.” Mom gave her a polite little smile. “Something like that.” The woman glanced at the diaper bag hanging from the handles. “Honestly, I think half the problem these days is that people baby children too long. Big strollers, special snacks, diapers till kindergarten. Then everyone wonders why they don’t listen.” I stared at the elevator doors and said nothing. She went on, “My grandson tried running off exactly once. After that, he knew better. Children need firmness, not all this gentle-parenting nonsense.” Mom just smiled politely until the doors opened and let us out. Dr. Olson’s office was part of a large pediatric practice, with several other pediatricians working under her. The waiting room was bright and child-friendly, with little tables and toys for kids to play with. Since it was such a large practice, there were always lots of kids waiting to see a doctor. Most of them were preschoolers, or even younger, but some were elementary-school age. Even though the waiting room was busy, the stroller made me stand out. The little kids didn’t care, but a few mothers glanced over, and the bigger kids just kept staring at me. Stacy told me that some of her friends had been jealous when they saw me in my stroller. I couldn’t understand it, but maybe that was why they were staring. Mom checked us in. The receptionist glanced at the screen, then at me, and did a quick double take before handing my mother the paperwork. She said, “Dr. Olson will see you in a few minutes, just have a seat.” Mom found a seat and asked, “Do you want to stay where you are, or go play at the table?” I wasn’t about to sit at a children’s table, and I wasn’t in the mood to move. “I’ll stay here.” I stayed put and sucked on my pacifier until Dr. Olson called for us. When they finally called us back, Dr. Olson came out to the waiting room, which never happened before. Usually, a medical assistant took me back first. Mom stood up with me, but Dr. Olson stopped her. “Linda, I need to see Reggie privately. You’ll have to wait out here.” Mom looked startled. “What? I’d like to know what’s going on.” Dr. Olson explained, “I understand, but Reggie is technically an adult, and I need to see him alone, especially given the situation we’re dealing with.” My mom hesitated. “Okay, Debbie. Just let me know what you find.” Dr. Olson sighed. “Linda, you know I can’t do that. Just trust me.” Mom pressed her lips together, then looked at me. “All right. Reggie, be good for Dr. Olson. Don’t give her any trouble.” Dr. Olson led me through the doors and into the hall herself. For the first time since I got home, I felt a flicker of relief. She had sent my mother away. She was speaking to me, not over me. Maybe it would be different this time. She brought me into an exam room and shut the door behind us. She said, “Sit down, Reggie,” and for once it sounded like she meant me. Not my mother. Not the chart. Me. I sat on the paper-covered table and waited for her to say something reassuring, or at least ask what had happened in my own words. Then she pressed a hand against my diaper, frowned slightly, and asked, “Reggie, why didn’t you tell me you were wet?” Just like that, I felt like the same little boy my mother thought I was. I shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.” Dr. Olson sighed and turned to her assistant. “Let’s get him changed before we weigh him. I want an accurate weight.” Her assistant looked close to my age, maybe even younger. But she was 5’9”, which in my family might as well have been gigantic. I liked looking at her, though I wasn’t really sure why. A moment later, she came over and introduced herself. “Hi, Reggie. My name is Rachel. Let’s get you changed, and then we can get your weight.” She looked at me and added, “It’s hard to believe you’re really twenty-four. That’s older than me.” I blushed. “I know. I’ve dealt with it all my life.” Rachel winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.” I asked, “And none of this seemed strange to you? The diapers, all of it?” Rachel hesitated. “Dr. Olson warned me ahead of time.” “What did she tell you?” Rachel shifted her weight. “She said your mom has a... specific way of handling things. I’m not sure I understand all of it, but if Dr. Olson thinks it’s necessary, I guess there’s a reason.” I cried, “It’s not! I don’t need diapers.” Rachel didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, maybe Dr. Olson will agree with you.” I pulled back as she continued. “Please don’t, I don’t need this.” Rachel hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Reggie, but this is how we’re supposed to handle it. If you come in wearing one, I have to put a clean one on you.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I’m not trying to embarrass you.” She changed my diaper, and then I stepped onto the scale and watched it settle at sixty-five pounds. Rachel said, “Sixty-five pounds.” I remarked, “My mom weighed me last week, and I was sixty-two.” Rachel frowned slightly. “Home scales aren’t as accurate as this one, but either way, that’s still underweight.” Then she led me to a small waiting area and said, “Let’s wait here for Dr. Olson.” That part was strange. Usually, they left patients alone in the exam room, but Rachel stayed nearby, not exactly hovering, just lingering like she didn’t quite feel right walking away. A few minutes later, Dr. Olson came in, and Rachel gave me a small smile. “Okay, I’ll leave you with Dr. Olson, and thank you for being such a sweetie.” The door had barely closed behind her before I said, “She talks to me like I’m five.” Dr. Olson gave a small shrug. “I’m sorry, but I’m not surprised. Between your size and the diapers, it’s hard for people not to see you as a child.” I wanted to push back, but this wasn’t the moment. I needed Dr. Olson to understand that none of this was necessary. Rachel was only trying to be nice, and even though the maternal tone got on my nerves, I was grateful that she stayed. Dr. Olson asked, “All right, Reggie. Tell me what’s been going on. What made you come in today?” I replied, “I’m only here because my mom brought me. What did she tell you?” “She said you lost your job, came home in a pretty vulnerable state, and that she put you back in diapers because you weren’t using the toilet independently.” I protested, “That’s not true! She never gave me a chance. She started treating me like a baby the minute I got home.” Dr. Olson gave me a measured look. “Reggie, there’s no need to get upset.” She let that sit for a moment, then said, “Let’s start with the basics. Before you came home, were you still wetting yourself at all?” I hemmed, “Not really.” Dr. Olson gave me a steady look. “Reggie, don’t hedge with me. Your mother told me you arrived at her house wearing a wet Pull-up. Is that true?” I couldn’t make myself say it, but I nodded. Dr. Olson held my gaze. “All right. Then you were already wet before you got to your mother’s house. She also said your Pull-up was leaking when you got there. Is that true?” “No!” “Then someone is lying. Is it you or your mother?” I knew Dr. Olson would repeat anything I said to my mom, so I backed down. “It didn’t happen until she put me in timeout.” She frowned. “Why would that happen?” “I was mad, and I wet my pants.” “So, you still have accidents when you’re stressed.” I admitted, “Kind of, but I was doing better. Before last week, I’d gone almost six months without an accident.” It felt dumb saying it like that. Six months without an accident wasn’t much of an accomplishment for a twenty-four-year-old. Dr. Olson paused, studying me as if she’d already decided what mattered and was only sorting out the order. Then she said, “How many times this week?” I replied, “Three, I think. But that was on the plane. We were landing, and I didn’t want to use the bathroom.” I expected her to ask why. Instead, she said, “I see. Then why were you wearing one in the first place?” Heat rushed into my face. “Because I had an accident at the airport.” “Why?” “They weren’t going to let me on the plane, and no one believed me when I told them I was an adult.” I meant to sound calm, but it sounded like I was whining about it. “Okay, so you had an accident because you were upset. You said you were doing better. Were there any others last week?” I didn’t want to tell her the truth, but she pressed, “Reggie, I need the truth.” I looked down. “I had one after they laid me off.” “Was that because you were afraid of what came next?” I nodded. “Was that the only one?” I shook my head. “There were a couple more that night.” Dr. Olson’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Reggie. That must have felt overwhelming.” Relief flickered through me, brief and foolish, before she added, “But why didn’t you change your Pull-up before you left for your mother’s house?” I just shrugged. I’m not sure I knew then, and I’m still not sure. I ask myself that question all the time. Maybe none of this would have happened if I had changed my Pull-up at Charlotte’s house. Maybe that was the moment Mom saw me as a helpless baby. But deep down, I don’t know if it would’ve changed anything. Personally, I think she planned this all along. She was going to do this, no matter what I did. Dr. Olson didn’t push. She just wrote something on her pad and asked, “Why do you think you wet your pants when you’re under stress?” I couldn’t stop the bitterness and snapped, “I don’t know, you’re the doctor. You tell me.” If she heard the edge in my voice, she didn’t react. She just kept going like I hadn’t said anything. “I’ve always thought there was a psychosomatic piece to this. Stress gets into the body. Sometimes it comes out in ways you can’t stop, no matter how hard you try.” She went on in the same matter-of-fact tone. “You’re sixty-five pounds. That’s about ten pounds below where I’d want you. I’m concerned about your eating habits. What were you eating in New York?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Mostly pizza, sometimes hot dogs.” She let out a quiet sigh. “So basically junk. What were you drinking?” “Soda.” “How much?” I was ashamed of how much soda I drank. I knew it was bad for me, but I liked it. “I don’t know, like two or three a day.” She gave me a look. “That’s too much for anyone, especially you. Any alcohol?” I shook my head. “No. I tried it a couple of times, but I don’t like it.” She nodded once. “That’s good. In your condition, alcohol is very dangerous.” I asked, “So, do you think my mom’s right? That I’m just supposed to let her do this? That this is what I’m supposed to be now, or something?” Dr. Olson didn’t answer right away. She just sat with it for a second. “No. I think your mother needs to remember that you’re an adult. And I think you need to remember that too.” She looked at me for a moment, like she was trying to see past what was right in front of her. “Why did you go back home?” I gave a small shrug. “Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I lost my job, and nobody takes me seriously. How am I supposed to get another one when everyone who sees me thinks I’m just a kid?” Dr. Olson nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I’ll admit, I hadn’t really thought that part through. From the outside, going back to your Mom felt like a strange choice, especially knowing the history there. I felt the same way when Charlotte moved back after Covid. But no; your mother should not be treating you like this.” I swallowed. “Can you tell her that? She’ll never believe me.” Saying it out loud made me feel small. Dr. Olson nodded. “Well, if it’s all right with you, I’ll have your mom come in and we can tell her.” I nodded, “Yeah, please do.” Dr. Olson left, and for the first time since any of this had happened, I was alone without being confined in my crib or highchair. I could have just gotten up and left. My mom might have tried to stop me, but that would have created a scene, which I knew she wanted to avoid. Part of me wanted to run, but I was afraid to make things worse. And underneath that, I felt a twinge of hope. I wasn’t sure my mom would listen to Dr. Olson, but it was the first real hope I’d had, and I couldn’t quite let go of it. A few minutes later, my mom returned with Dr. Olson. Dr. Olson told her, “Please, have a seat.” My mother sat beside me, close enough to make me uneasy. Dr. Olson folded her hands and spoke in a calm, measured voice. “I understand why you’ve been handling things this way, but I think it’s time to give Reggie more autonomy. Reggie is an adult, and he needs to be more independent. I don’t believe that will happen if you keep treating him like a child.” My mother’s expression barely changed. “Debbie, I gave him a shot. He was out there in New York on his own, and look what happened. He came home underweight, wet, and not taking care of himself. I’m sorry, but I’m not just going to hand him more freedom and hope for the best.” Dr. Olson sighed. “Linda, I understand why you’re worried. And to be frank, I’ve had concerns about Reggie’s maturity for a long time. I wish he’d stayed closer to home, because it would have been easier to keep track of him while he was in college. Fortunately, most of his doctors kept me informed, so I’ve been aware of some of the difficulties he’s had since he left. Some of what you’re seeing may be stress related. When people, especially children, get overwhelmed, they often regress to an earlier stage that makes them feel safe.” My mother frowned. “Are you saying Reggie wants this?” I blurted out, “I don’t want this. I’m not a baby!” My mother turned sharply toward me. “Reggie, hush!” Dr. Olson met my mother’s eyes. “I don’t think this is deliberate on Reggie’s part. It’s not that different from what we see in young children after a major change, such as a divorce, a move, or a new sibling. They may start wetting the bed, or lose ground in other areas. For Reggie, losing his job and coming home were major disruptions. Given his history, I can understand why he regressed, but the severity of it is extremely concerning.” Dr. Olson was comparing me to a child, and it felt like she agreed that I should be treated like one. Before I could stop myself, I shouted loud enough for the whole office to hear, “I’m not a baby!” Mom snapped back, “Then stop acting like one.” She turned to Dr. Olson. “Debbie, I’m so sorry about that.” Dr. Olson sighed. “It’s all right. In some ways, that proves my point. This kind of reaction is understandable in a child, but Reggie is not a child. He’s an adult, and he needs to start acting like one.” My mother drew a slow breath. “Debbie, I’m just trying to keep him safe. If I step back too fast, who do you think will end up dealing with it? Look at him. He’s a rail, and he can’t even make it to the bathroom by himself.” Dr. Olson nodded. “I know. And I understand that this has always been your approach.” Mom nodded. “Yep. In my house, if you act like a baby, I’ll treat you like one.” Dr. Olson gave a small, restrained smile. “And under different circumstances, that might eventually work. But we don’t have that kind of time. Keeping him safe is not the same as keeping him small. The more you treat him like a child, the harder it is for him to become an adult.” “So, what should I do?” Dr. Olson replied, “Ideally, he would already be living on his own, completely independent of you and Chuck. But I don’t think that’s realistic.” My mom chuckled and nodded in agreement. “What is realistic is a different kind of relationship. If you can shift away from a parent-child dynamic and toward something more like landlord and tenant, Reggie can start living more independently, with you and Chuck close enough to keep an eye on things if they start to go off the rails.” My mother sighed. “That’s what Chuck says too, but I’m just not comfortable pushing him out of the nest.” Dr. Olson nodded. “Linda, I hate to say it, but Chuck is right. He’s been right about this for a while. It’s time for Reggie to leave the nest.” My mom sighed. “I guess I’ll give it a try.” She turned to me, and her tone went flat. “Come on, Reggie. Let’s go.” The shift in my mother’s tone was so abrupt it took me a second to process. She was sharper, colder, and more distant. She folded up the stroller and headed for the car without even looking back. I had to jog to catch up. At the car, I headed for the front seat, thinking maybe she really was going to treat me like an adult. She said coldly, “Get in the back.” “But Mom, Dr. Olson said I should be treated like an adult.” “I know, but it’s my car. You’re too small for the front seat. Get in the car seat.” “But—” She cut me off. “But what? I’m not having this argument. You can sit in the car seat or walk home. I don’t care which one you choose, but you’ve got one minute to decide.” There wasn’t really a choice. I couldn’t take a bus or an Uber, and it was too far to walk. I climbed into the car seat, and Mom said flatly, “Buckle up.” Mom didn’t say anything on the way home. The silence was deafening. After we got home, she parked the car and went inside without even waiting for me. Unsure what to do, I unbuckled myself and went in after her. A few minutes later, Mom came downstairs, handed back my wallet and phone, and said, “Sit down. We need to talk about the rules for our new arrangement.” The word rules put me on edge. Rules were never good in our house; they were always cold and unforgiving. I sat at the table, and my mom stood nearby, towering over me. “Sit down. We need to be clear about how this is going to work. Dr. Olson wants me to treat you like an adult, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. From now on, you are living here as a tenant, not as my child.” She said it calmly, like she was explaining office policy. “I’m giving you two months without rent so you can get yourself situated. After that, it’s five hundred dollars a month. You’ll stay in the guest room, and I expect you to keep it clean. If you use the kitchen, you clean up after yourself. If you use the washer and dryer, you do your own laundry. After eleven o’clock, I expect the house to be quiet.” She folded her arms. “You’ll have space in the refrigerator and pantry for your own food. I will not be shopping for you, cooking for you, or reminding you to do basic things. You are too old for that. As long as you follow the rules, I won’t interfere in your life.” I looked at her. “You’re really not going to cook for me?” She shook her head. “No. Tenants buy their own groceries and cook for themselves. But you can still have dinner with us on Sunday, when Charlotte and Kristy come over.” I realized Mom wasn’t going to feed me anymore, and I had mixed feelings about that. It meant she wasn’t going to treat me like a baby, but it made me nervous. I didn’t know how to cook, and I liked my mom’s cooking. I also didn’t have any way to get to the store. I don’t drive, and I can’t take an Uber. I pleaded, “Can’t you just take me to the store so I can get groceries?” Mom replied coldly, “I’m not a chauffeur. If you need groceries, you’ll have to figure out how to get there yourself.”

I've had a really hard time finding diapers in city centers. A lot of stores in city centers are smaller, and don't have adult diapers (or even baby diapers) That's the order that I'm travelling, so Hamburg is at the end. I need to refill either in Genoa or Munich.

Remind me again, how old is Tom at this point in the story? I'm sure the idea of going to a urologist for bedwetting would be horrifying for me.

I was thrown off by diaper change in the women's room. When I write those scenes, I always try to make it sound realistic. I don't think an adult male would ever be allowed to be changed in women's restroom

This is interesting. I feel sorry for Grace, but I wonder where you're taking this. Right now it seems like both grandmothers infantalize their grandchildren due to their accidents

thank you I keep calling him an 8-year-old, but the size is closer to a 9 or 10-year-old. However, his mother sees him more as toddler than a school-aged kid. The thing is: Mom understands that Reggie is too big for the stroller, but she doesn't care. She wants to keep her children as toddlers and will do anything in her power to keep them that way.

There is medical evidence, though. He has a growth defect. Reggie essentially has the body of an 8-year-old. Charlotte is physically closer to a 12 or 14-year-old. Think like some of the olympic gymnast who are both pysically small and underdeveloped. She is viewed as an expert in that growth defect, which she thinks makes him mentally the same age as his physical body. In the context of this story, her treating Reggie is totally appropriate. Mom treating Reggie like a toddler for 12 years isn't, and it's definitely not appropriate to treat him that way right now.

For what, though? So far, the only thing she could be reported is ignoring her mandated reporter requirements, but would be the expert witness were to testify that mom's treatment is justified. Mom is smart enough to give Dr. Olson plausible deniability. Dr. Olson knows about the diaper, but probably doesn't know about the nursery. Right now, Reggie is an adult, and he has a Ivy League degree, so it's hard to claim that he is a dependent adult, even if he really is. His toileting issues are legit, and he doesn't manage them on his own. I would say that he needs diapers right now, and he won't change himself I apologize for making you feel sad, but this is supposed to be a dark story. This is written in the past, and he's free from his mother's influence. i intend to include a lot of detail about his and Charlotte's recovery, because I think somebody can't go through this without some serious long-term issues, but he is a good place. Reggie's mom is completely diabolical. She has so much control, and she is psychologically manipulative. She actively discouraged her children from being potty-trained, but it's partly on Reggie as well. He had no desire to become potty-trained because he saw how his mother treated his brother. However, I'm not sure if mom would be charged with any crime. She definitely wouldn't in the environment she's in because she has the power to bury it. With this treatment, she could be charged with false imprisonment. It's emotional abuse, and that's a hard one to define in a legal sense. Reggie is an adult, but there is some thing to Dr. Olson's belief that he's not a typical adult. His thoughts are more child-like and he's more reactionary than a typical adult. Part of that is environmental, and would be true even if Reggie had functional parents. The entire world see's him as child, and it would be hard to mature emotionally in that enviroment.. It's made worse by his mom's treatment, so right now- Reggie doesn't know what his place is. A lot of posters have speculated that Reggie likes the maternal care. I'm directly including that in my descriptions or dialogue, but I'm alluding to it with some of his actions.

FYI- I want to include a case where mom calls on Charlotte, but it has to be a last resort. It hasn't been established in the story, but Mom is supposed to be a high-level employee at the California AG. Dad is a judge on the California Supreme Court. Both parents are nearing 60; not quite old enough to retire. I'm going to include Charlotte and Reggie having sibling-level conversations, but the idea of Charlotte being a big sister has already been debunked (to a certain extent). For my narrative to work, any interaction where Charlotte is the caregiver has to screw up, but I don't know how to make that happen. PS- I know how Charlotte messes it with her mom.

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

Reggie’s mom is most effective as a controlling figure who feels completely justified. She cannot tolerate her children growing up, so she keeps redefining one of them as the dependent child, creating a family pattern where dependence is rewarded and maturity feels like betrayal. The next chapter should clarify that this is not just Reggie’s story, but Reggie and Charlotte’s shared escape story, which makes the mother’s role too central to keep hidden. Going forward, Kristy functions mostly as background contrast, while the emotional core of the story is Reggie and Charlotte as siblings. A brief babysitting beat could work, but it should reinforce that Mom still refuses to see Charlotte as fully grown or trustworthy.

e story I’m writing has this constant switch between mom, mommy, and mother. For the record, dad, daddy, and father have the same connotations, but I rarely use them when I write. When I refer to a father figure, it’s almost always dad, except in dialogue from female characters speaking to their father. I use mom for a familiar but still respectful tone. Mommy is the diminutive term, and it is always powerful. Mother is a cold and distant term. A lot of this is personal. I lost my mom when I was 16, and I always say that I lost my mom, not my mommy, and definitely not my mother. In our stories, when the connotation really matters, how do you code-switch between the three terms? In my current story, it’s hard because I need to keep track of those three terms. In his dialogue, especially when he is trying to win her over, he uses mommy. When he is talking about her, his default is mom, and when he wants distance, it’s mother. There is also the added layer of what happens when the possessive my is included.

I visited the site and still have no idea what they sell

It's time for my annual question: How do I get diapers while I'm on my summer trip? Here's the gist: I'm going to Europe for 17 days (fly on a Monday afternoon and fly home on a Thursday. For me to be fully protected, I'll need about 32 diapers on my trip, but I've got a Eurail pass, so I don't have unlimited room. What I've learned is that you can't find diapers in retail stores in city centers, so I have to have them delivered to a hotel, which I can do. It's 2 nights in each city: London, Paris, Genoa, Munich, Prague, Krakow, Berlin, Hamburg. Looking at it, I'll probably need to reload in either Munich, or Prague. What is the best way to order diapers in Germany?