I experienced exactly this, and often as not, in something from Rearz, although to be fair, when it gets to this point, I've usually pushed my luck. I don't remember trying to stop myself from peeing very often in the "before times" - no sane person enjoys doing that - but I recall being able to do that, such as when we were stone drunk coming back from a concert and we peed almost as soon as we stumbled out of the car, into my friend's mom's garden, but then his mom came out to say hi. I stopped peeing on a dime, like jamming on the brakes in a Porsche 911. Now, that is impossible. 

Not movie, but I just watched a MacGyver episode called Rush To Judgment 

Act 5: The Dawn of Resolution Chapter 19: Shattered dreams The world came back to me slowly, consciousness filtering through the haze of a deep slumber. I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of white bars – an Emerson hospital crib, to be exact. A soggy diaper clung to my skin, an uncomfortable but not unexpected sensation. After all the madness, it seemed almost routine. I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps before a nurse, one of the Bigs, appeared beside my crib. Her voice held a note of sympathy that almost sounded genuine. "You've been asleep for two days, Bixente," she said. "We needed to make sure you healed properly." Two days? The thought rattled in my mind as I processed the information. Two whole days gone just like that. She began changing my diaper, and I could feel the fresh air against my skin as she replaced it with a pull-up. "The dean wants to see you," she informed me as she worked. My heart sank; I knew this wasn't going to be good. "Thanks, but I can take it from here," I muttered, my pride kicking in. I wasn't about to let her baby me more than she already had. Dressed in my school uniform, which felt stiff and foreign after so long in a hospital gown and less dignified attire, I stood up on unsteady legs. The nurse eyed me as if expecting me to topple over any second, but I held my ground. "Merci for your help," I said as I buttoned up my shirt, keeping my tone polite but distant. "I can manage now." I could tell she wanted to offer more assistance – perhaps it was her job or maybe there was some genuine concern there – but I couldn't afford any more hand-holding. Not when I was about to face the dean and answer for everything that had happened. As I tied my shoes and adjusted the collar of my shirt, a cold sense of dread settled in my stomach. This meeting with the dean... it could mean the end of everything… The nurse, towering above me, unfolded a stroller that seemed ridiculously small for my size. With practiced hands, she maneuvered me into it, pulling straps over my shoulders and between my legs. I let out a soft protest as she tightened the five-point harness, ensuring I couldn't move much more than my fingers and toes. She even secured my feet and hands to the stroller's frame, leaving me helplessly ensconced within its confines. My mind raced with the humiliation of it all, but deep down, I knew any struggle would be futile. I was caught in the web of Emerson's rules, and with everything that had transpired, I had no bravado left to fuel a rebellion. Instead, I felt a weary acceptance settle over me as the nurse produced a pacigag. "You'll need this for our little journey," she said softly. The corners of her mouth lifted in a kind smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Without argument, I opened my mouth and allowed her to insert the inflatable device. A click sounded as she locked it in place; a seal on my fate as much as on my silence. Her hands patted my head in a motherly fashion that only added to the infantilization of the moment. "There we go, all set," she cooed, her voice carrying that sing-song quality Bigs often used when addressing Littles like me. "You're doing very well." She began pushing the stroller through the hallways of Emerson University's medical facility. My cheeks burned with shame as students and staff turned to watch us pass by. Some faces showed pity, others amusement, but all I could do was look forward and focus on the vibrations of the stroller's wheels against the floor. I tested the straps subtly, pulling at them with a weak hope they might give way. They held firm – sturdy restraints for an unsteady mind trying to grasp how everything had gone so wrong. The journey seemed endless, each turn and each doorway an echo of my shrinking dignity. By the time we reached the dean's office, all pretense of self-assuredness had drained from me. I was just Bixente Echavoyen – a Little at Emerson University – about to face whatever judgment awaited me behind those imposing doors.     * * * The wheels of the stroller squeaked slightly as they rolled over the pristine floors of Emerson University, each turn a reminder of the binds that kept me from even the simple dignity of walking. My heart pounded, a trapped rhythm against the tight straps and the pacigag that forced my silence. I had faced many things since arriving here, but none quite like this—a meeting with the dean. As we entered Dean Norris's office, her towering figure dominated the room. Her presence alone was enough to still any protest I might have considered. The nurse maneuvered the stroller beside her desk, and with a gentle hand on my shoulder, she signaled for me to stay put. Dean Norris looked down at me, her eyes betraying a spark of amusement that felt out of place given my dire circumstances. "Bixente Echavoyen," she began, her voice deep and commanding yet laced with an unexpected warmth. "I must admit, your little escapade at the library was quite the surprise. A heist! In my university! It's almost... commendable." Her words sent a chill through me. She knew everything—every detail of our failed mission—and yet here she was, almost praising us for it. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk, and continued, "To think you had the audacity to attempt such a thing. It's unprecedented." My mind raced as I tried to gauge her angle. Was this some sort of twisted respect? Or was she mocking us? The pacigag prevented any words from escaping my lips, but in truth, I wasn't sure what I would have said even if I could speak. The dean's gaze softened ever so slightly as she delivered her verdict. "However," she said with a sigh, "rules are rules, and your actions cannot go without consequence." She paused for effect before dropping the bombshell. "You are to be sent to 'tippy toes' etiquette school." The sentence hung in the air like a death knell. Tippy toes—a one-way ticket to full toddlerhood at best for the rest of my life. My mind reeled at the thought of it; all my dreams and aspirations dashed in an instant. I nodded feebly in acknowledgment; what else could I do? Then, as if my body finally understood what my future held, tears began to well up in my eyes. My head dropped forward as sobs wracked through me—a silent cry muffled by the gag. Dean Norris watched me with an unreadable expression before motioning to the nurse. "Take him to Happy Griffins' facility," she ordered briskly. "They will prepare him accordingly." The journey to Happy Griffins' adoption center loomed before me—a place where they claimed to care for Littles like myself and find us good parents without heavy modifications or regression. But after what had transpired, such promises seemed hollow. Through tear-streaked eyes, I saw students milling about their day—unaware or indifferent to my plight—and realized that my time among them had come to an abrupt end. In that moment, I knew: this was no longer just about being small in stature; it was about being made small in every way imaginable. The stroller's motion ceased, and the nurse gently unstrapped me. Her hands were steady, her expression neutral, as if she had done this a thousand times before. My legs, weak from the emotional toll, barely supported me as I stood before the entrance of Happy Griffins' adoption center. I looked up at the facade, its cheerfulness a stark contrast to the dread knotting my stomach. Inside my head, I screamed apologies to Eric, my little brother. I had promised him stories of adventure and success, not this humiliating defeat. I was supposed to be his hero, his role model, not an example of failure. "I'm sorry, Eric," I pleaded silently, over and over again. "I tried to be strong for you." The nurse led me through corridors adorned with colorful murals depicting scenes of play and laughter—a cruel irony for the impending loss of my autonomy. Each step felt like a betrayal of the promises I made to Eric. He looked up to me, always saw me as someone great—someone who could fix anything. But I couldn't fix this. We arrived at a room that was designed to look welcoming but felt more like a gilded cage. Soft toys and pastel colors filled the space; it was a child's haven but a Little's nightmare. As they sat me down on a cushioned chair that seemed too small and yet too big for me at the same time, I felt the tears welling up again. "I let you down," I whispered inwardly to Eric, feeling the weight of my unspoken words heavy in my chest. "I should have been smarter, should have been better." I remembered how he would run into my arms after waking from a nightmare or when thunder shook our home in the Pyrenees. How he trusted me implicitly to protect him from anything life threw our way. And here I was—unable to protect even myself. The nurse removed the pacigag with practiced ease, and finally free from its confines, my first instinct was to speak out—to protest or plead—but resignation silenced me before words could form. What could I say that would change anything now? All I could think about was Eric's face when he would realize his big brother wasn't coming back—not as he knew him. "Eric," I cried out within the silent fortress of my mind, "forgive me for breaking my promise." My heart clenched at the thought of him waking up each morning to find only silence where once there were our shared laughs and plans for the day. I was supposed to teach him about cars and how to stand up for himself—to guide him into adulthood with all the wisdom our mother entrusted me with. Instead, he'd learn about my downfall—a cautionary tale whispered among Littles who dared dream too big in a world that wanted them small. The straps of the stroller fell away, and I was suddenly adrift, my arms free yet feeling more trapped than ever. The nurse, a different one this time, had a practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was the smile of someone who'd seen too many like me pass through these halls, resigned to their fates. She helped me to my feet, her grip firm yet not unkind. Every part of me wanted to resist, to rage against the injustice of it all, but I was broken. My spirit, once fierce and defiant, had crumbled under the weight of reality. She led me down a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever, each step taking me further from the life I knew. My eyes lingered on every detail—the soft lighting, the murmur of voices in the distance—clinging to them like a drowning man to a lifeline. We arrived at a room that looked more like a nursery than anything else. The nurse ushered me inside with a gentle nudge. I could see her lips moving, words meant to comfort or perhaps explain what was happening next, but they were lost to me. My ears rang with the silence of my own despair. A sippy cup was placed in my hands, its contents sweet and cold against my lips. It was meant to soothe me, I suppose—a small kindness in a world that had shown me little enough of it. But it felt like another link in the chain binding me to this new life I hadn't chosen. As I drank mechanically from the cup, I caught sight of Emerson's through the window—a fleeting glimpse of freedom now out of reach. My heart lurched with longing for its hallways and classrooms, for the dreams I'd dared to dream within its walls. The door swung shut with an air of finality, and with it closed any last hope I had clung to. In that moment, everything that made me who I was—the pride in my Basque heritage, my love for mechanics, my role as Eric's protector—all seemed like distant memories from someone else's life. I stood there alone in the quiet room as realization settled in. This was no temporary setback; this was a complete erasure of who I once was. My identity wasn't just being stripped away; it was being rewritten without my consent. I felt hollowed out and discarded—just another Little lost in a system designed to erase us. The sippy cup slipped from my numb fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud that echoed through the empty space. "Eric," I whispered into the silence, "I'm sorry." It wasn't just an apology; it was a farewell to everything we were supposed to be together—brothers navigating life's storms side by side. Now there would be no more adventures shared between us—no more challenges conquered or stories exchanged under starlit skies. There would only be this place that promised care but delivered captivity. The taste of artificial sweetness lingered on my tongue as tears threatened once again. In those last moments before surrendering completely to despair, I allowed myself one final indulgence—the memory of home and all its unfulfilled promises Eric's face swam before my eyes—his deep blue eyes that mirrored my own. His trust in me had been absolute; he believed I could conquer any challenge. Yet here I was, defeated and broken by a world that saw us as nothing more than playthings. I clutched the sippy cup tighter as if it were a lifeline rather than another shackle binding me to this new reality. "I'm sorry," I whispered into the void left by the closing door—the only eulogy I could offer for the life I once knew. "I'm so sorry »

Not that I ever doubted this, but I discovered today that there is a phenomenon called "Daily Diaper withdrawal", at least for me. My browser went crazy and wouldn't let me post anything here for the last 24 hours - I could read anything I wanted to, and log in, and the chat worked, but this field I'm currently writing this in didn't exist on any of the threads, nor in the mail function - I couldn't even write to tech support for help. It was like a blind guy searching for his glasses, or needed a phone to call the phone company to fix my phone.  @DailyDishould have a 1-888 number, is what I'm saying. I even downloaded Firefox, thinking it was a Chrome issue, and knowing that Edge also runs the same backend, Edge doing it too didn't surprise me. In the end, I cleared my cache, and I *think* that fixed it? Not sure. Maybe @oznlwould have a theory - I'm not technical in this regard. If you need to unload bitumen from a railcar, I'm your guy. Troubleshoot a web browser... this is why my wife and kids have Apple computers. Because they require very little tech support.

The swaddle, now constantly pressing her squishy diaper against her to remind her of what she did, made poor Katherine cry even louder. Surely this matter could be solved if she used her big girl words, but that was too much to ask of a baby like her! Instead, she lied there, crying her little heart out.