spark

I'm doing the George R. Martin thing where there is an endless hook wait for the reveal. You'll have a pretty good what Mom did to Reggie at the end of the next section. It should be the next update, unless I get into too much detail about the flight home However, it is more than just what happens when he gets home. There is a reason that Reggie is writing the story 3 years after the fact, and that last bit is a bit of foreshadowing Thank you; All these comments mean a lot. I also use the comments to guide the story as I edit (main plot is mostly done). The family restroom reference in this chapter came directly from one of the comments about predictions what would happen when his mom flew with him from New York.

I debated whether I gave up too much on this chapter, but I want to set up the reminder of this story. Let me know what you think. Chapter 3: Choosing my battles Although my room was paid through the end of the month, I wanted to leave New York as soon as possible. While I knew that returning home meant living under my mom’s roof, she didn’t scare me anymore. Her bark was worse than her bite. It was easier just to go along with her punishments than it was to fight her. At worst, she would make me stand in the corner for a few minutes. I didn’t think she would do anything outrageous, since she hadn’t done anything like that since I left the nursery, when I was fourteen. Until I stopped wearing diapers, even just at night, my mom thought I was still a baby, and treated me that way. She didn’t hesitate to put me in a stroller or change my diaper in public. After I stopped wearing diapers, my mom no longer saw me as a baby and never used them as punishment. She wanted me to act like an adult, even though most adults couldn’t meet her standards. Whenever I failed to live up to these demands, she tried to shame me by using the same infantile punishments she used when I was in the nursery. However, I didn’t take my mom’s punishments seriously, so I didn’t feel ashamed when she gave me an early bedtime. The only punishment I truly considered a threat was something she called “the tether.” Unlike a timeout, the tether forced me to stay by her side for the entire day and accompany her everywhere she went. It was humiliating, but it was just as embarrassing for her, so she seldom used it. I knew that staying in New York would be miserable. Even if my dad sent me a bit of money, there wasn’t much I could do on my own. I don’t look old enough to wander the streets by myself, and nobody believes that I’m an adult. They don’t even trust my ID when I show it; they assume it’s fake. When I walked around town, I was constantly approached by well-meaning strangers who asked, in a sing-song voice, “Did you lose your mommy, or daddy?” It was almost always phrased like that, with a patronizing tone that made it that much worse. I tried different ways to get them to leave me alone, but it rarely worked. Most of the time, they took me to a police officer, convinced I needed help finding my family. This happened so much that local police officers knew who I was; most of the time they played along until the stranger left. I considered hiring an escort, just so people wouldn’t think I was a lost child. People often think I’m too young to be alone. Museums and restaurants won’t let me in without a guardian. When I order take out, the delivery person won’t give me my food; they think I’m a kid playing with my parents credit card, so I had to have it delivered at the door. Taking an Uber or taxi is nearly impossible because drivers assume I’m a child. Unless I have a guardian with me, they refuse to pick me up, which often leaves me stranded. Thankfully, I managed to avoid most of these issues by using public transportation. Despite occasional awkward glances, most people ignored me. After spending two years in New York, bus drivers recognized me, and once they did, the other passengers grew more comfortable. Flying on my own is always a hassle, and I’ve only done it a few times. Even with my ID, gate agents think I’m an unaccompanied minor. One time, I just went along with it. However, nobody was there to pick me up, and they wouldn’t let me leave. My mom never let me fly across the country alone, and honestly, I didn’t mind. It was easier to get through the airport, and I appreciated the company. At first she insisted on coming with me, and that sucked! She always made me use the bathroom before we boarded, and she tried to bring me into the family restroom with her. That was more than I could handle, and I threw a fit. Surprisingly, she relented and let me use the bathroom alone, but she waited right outside the door while I was inside. Later, my dad came with me, and he was much more relaxed. It was also one of the few times my dad and I got to spend time alone together. After a few years, I met other students at Dartmouth who also lived in Sacramento, and my mom trusted them to chaperone me on flights. At first, it was awkward because they weren’t sure how to treat me. However, once they realized their main responsibility was simply to get me on the plane, we relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company. I had to arrive in Sacramento early enough to catch a public bus from the airport to my sister’s apartment. Obviously, I couldn’t let my mom know that I was coming, and I didn’t want Charlotte to tell my mom, so I didn’t tell her know either. This was my first solo cross-country flight and the first time I handled a connection on my own. I could’ve taken a non-stop flight, but that got into Sacramento too late, and it left from JFK. I lived right next to Penn Station, so it was easier to get to Newark. I was a little bit nervous about the connection, but I had done that trip, so I was confident that I could handle it on my own. I couldn’t leave New York until Wednesday, which meant I had to get through an entire day before heading out. Most of my time was spent packing, though it didn’t take very long. It was mostly my work clothes and my most prized possession: my PS5. Everything fit neatly into a single box that I could easily carry to the store, and I was finished by noon. Since my PS5 was packed away, I didn’t have anything to do for the rest of the day. I watched some television, but daytime television is terrible. While packing, I noticed the Pull-ups on the bed. I kept them for anxious moments, though I hated wearing them. Seeing them brought back memories of being treated like a baby. I kept thinking about my twelfth birthday, when my mom took me to Marine World. She made me ride in a stroller, and then changed my diaper in the family restroom. I debated whether to bring them, or not. My mom reminded me that I had an accident the last time I flew to Sacramento, but there was turbulence, and I couldn’t get out of my seat. I was getting better at managing my anxiety, and before I was laid off, I went six months without an accident. I always made it to the bathroom, even when I was nervous. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what happened the day I was laid off. I was already nervous before the meeting, and getting laid off made me angry. Angry and nervous is never a good combination, and I peed my pants. Most of my accidents go unnoticed, but not this one. Once they noticed, people took pity on me, which only made it worse. It set up a vicious cycle, because I was mad that I didn’t wear Pull-ups, while also nervous about my future. Let’s just say, that wasn’t my only accident that day. Debating whether to wear Pull-ups was ultimately a futile exercise. I’m always anxious when I fly, especially when I can’t reach a bathroom. My stupid pride was the only reason I was reluctant to wear them. I would have had to wear Pull-ups at home anyway, because I couldn’t risk wetting my pants in front of my mom. Reflecting back, I have to ask myself, what would have happened had I just stayed in New York. Three years later, after a lot of reflection, I don’t think I could have changed the outcome. Staying in New York wasn't an option. I couldn’t make it in New York on my own, and I needed help finding a job. Unlike Chris, I couldn’t cut off all contact with my parents. Ultimately, I didn’t have a choice. My mom is like a lioness, who is ready to pounce at the slightest hint of weakness. I don’t think it would have made a difference if I waited; she would have grabbed control, no matter what I did. In some ways, standing up to her was my best chance to avoid her trap. Managing my mom was challenging; arguing over everything was pointless since she always outlasted me. Chris chose to fight her in a war of attrition. He managed to win, but only because he left at eighteen. And it wasn’t easy for him; he spent countless nights on friends’ couches and often had nothing more than ramen packets to eat. He didn’t have a stable place to live until I left for Dartmouth, which was three years after he left home. He’s doing well now, but his journey was long and difficult. I’m not like Chris. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man who looks eight years old, and there’s no way I could have beaten my mom through sheer persistence. Charlotte, in contrast, always let my mom win, especially on major decisions. Though her friend didn't change her diaper when she was sixteen, my mom still put her in one at 6:00 PM. This meant she had to eat dinner from a highchair, since babies aren't allowed to sit in regular chairs. Charlotte earned straight A’s, mostly out of fear. She wanted to go to UCLA, but she had to go to UC Davis. She wanted to be a pediatrician, but my mom steered her toward nursing. She wasn’t able to keep a job after she graduated because my mom took away any sense of independence. With my mom, choosing battles carefully is key; some just aren't worth it. I focused on the big issues, like school, major, and job, because if I gave way there, she'd end up controlling everything. I gave into timeouts and early bedtimes, because I wasn’t going to win those battles anyway. She would only become more strict, and ultimately, giving in made it easier to win the big ones. At the time, I was confident that I could win the important battles. Since leaving the nursery, I succeeded on several fronts. I went to a real high school, rather than being homeschooled at the virtual one. Instead of remaining at home and enrolling at UC Davis, I went to Dartmouth. When Covid hit, I stayed in New Hampshire rather than returning home. After graduation, instead of moving back, I moved to New York. Each of these decisions represented a victory in asserting my independence and resisting my mom’s attempts to control my life. I just never thought my mom would do what she did, but despite everything, I survived and came out stronger. For the first time, I’m in a good place. Chris and Charlotte are doing better as well. Before this happened, we didn’t have each other. Charlotte and I were close, but my mom controlled us. Now, we have each other, as well as supportive friends, which none of us had before. I know it’s strange to say, considering what she did, but we wouldn’t be where we are today if she didn’t.

The next chapter is going to be his flight home. I'm going to give you a little foreshadowing, Reggie will not follow his mom's order to stay in New York until she can take him home, so a lot of that first meeting will be how his mom reacts to him defying her orders (mom doesn't like it when somebody doesn't do what she told them to do). I'm struggling with the right tense to write this story in. When I originally planned the story, it was supposed to in a journal style, so the events unfold at the same rate as I write it. That what I did with Eddie's Potty Training Journal, so Eddie wrote as it happened. In this story, Reggie is writing this after the fact, but it's set in the current year. Reggie was laid off in January 2026. Kristy would have been born in 2023, so she would be three years old when this was happening. Unfortunately, I can't promise when I can update this story. My process is very tedious, so it can take a while to get the final editing done. I don't mind doing it, because the process is engaging. I spent more than 10 hours going through each paragraph word for word. I can usually knock out a couple of thousand words in just a few hours, so my rough drafts go really quickly, but the rough draft is fairly rough and clunky. It's enough that you lose the characters, so I have to get right before I'm willing to publish it. It's okay, because I love the process. I see it as a sculpture that starts with big chunks, and eventually shines the eyeballs. I completely lost track when I was editing this chapter. I had to go to bed with it unfinished, and then come back this morning for about two more hours..... I'm on spring break now, but I usually do that on the weekends. So maybe next weekend, but probably not. It's usually about every 3 weeks.

I haven't named her yet, but I may have to in few chapters. Reggie will be taken to his doctor, and depending on how I write, I may use the mom's name. Mom is definitely a Karen. One thing that makes her different than most of my strong female characters is that her maternal drive is more about control. It is why she wanted to keep Reggie a baby as long as possible, and played mind tricks on him his entire childhood. Both Charlotte and Chris will have roles as this story progresses. He definitely fell into that temptation when he was younger. For Reggie, getting out of diapers meant growing up, and that facing his mom's expectations. At this point, he's been out of the home for six years. He is definitely afraid of his mom, and but he thinks he's seen her worst. By this point, it's been nearly 10 years since he slept in the nursery, which was the last time he had to wear a diaper. Right now, he's more worried about his mom putting him in timeout, but he doesn't care about that. He thinks he knows how to deal with her, and her bark is worse than her bite.

Sorry about the delay, In this chapter you get to know his mom a little better. For some reason, when I asked AI to summarized his mom, it described as nurturing. Chapter 2: My mother It’s not just me; everybody in my family is short. My dad is only 5’2”, and my mom is just an inch taller. My older sister Charlotte, who is six years older than me, has the same disorder, but her case is less severe. In high school, she looked a lot younger than her peers, and even her friends treated her like a child. She didn’t get her first period until she was nineteen, and her breasts didn’t develop until her daughter was born. However, she is five inches taller than me, and doesn’t look like a child. Our brother, Chris, is right between the two of us. He is three years older than me, and three years younger than Charlotte. He wasn’t as affected by the disorder. He’s still relatively short compared to most people, but at 5’7”, he towers over the rest of us. He also didn’t look that much younger than his actual age, and fit in better with his peers. I'm not sure if it was the disorder or something else, but my mom has always been overprotective and controlling, especially with Charlotte and me. We couldn't do things other kids considered normal, like biking in the neighborhood or staying home alone without a babysitter. Even though she never spanked us, she used infantile punishments; saying, “If you act like a baby, I’m going to treat you like one.” I was frequently put in time-out, even as a teenager, and once that was served, she sometimes put me in a playpen for the rest of the day. Whenever we talked back, swore, or whined, we had to keep a pacifier in our mouth until my mom took it out. I had one put in my mouth when I was sixteen, and it happened to Charlotte when she was in college. Growing up, we wore diapers much longer than most children. At home, our mom had a strict rule: any accident meant that we would be put back into Pull-ups. We had to stay in Pull-ups until we went three days without any accidents. If she felt we weren’t making enough progress, she didn’t hesitate to pause potty training altogether. During those times, we stayed in diapers until she was ready to try again, which could be a couple of weeks. When I was five years old, my family went on a vacation, and my mom kept all three of us in diapers the entire trip. Since I wasn't completely potty trained, it was typical for me. Charlotte was eleven and Chris was eight, and they thought they were too old for diapers, especially during the day. However, both of them had accidents before the trip, and they were still wearing Pull-ups. Since my mom didn’t want to deal with potty training while we were away, she put both of them in diapers. Back then, I didn’t question it. I knew kids my age used the potty, but I didn't think I was a big kid. I was still a little kid, and little kids wear diapers. I didn’t want to be a big kid, anyway. Charlotte and Chris got in trouble when they peed their pants, but not when they wet their diaper. Regardless of our age, whenever we wore a diaper during the day, we restarted potty training from the very beginning. There were no exceptions or shortcuts, even when we were eleven years old. After our family trip, my mom started by taking Charlotte to the potty, and watching while she used it. If we did it correctly, we put a star on our chart. After five stars, we were allowed to use the potty on our own. Since big kids don’t wear diapers, mom treated us like we were little kids when we wore them. We weren’t allowed to open any doors. Instead, we had to stay close to an adult, or remain within range of a baby monitor. We ate in highchairs, and sometimes we rode in a stroller. Drinking from sippy cups was another rule, but that wasn’t just when we were in diapers. If we spilled something, we switched to sippy cups until mom let us go back to a regular one, which usually took a week, but sometimes it took a whole month. In truth, until I was fourteen, the only time I used a regular cup was at school. At home, I almost always had to use a sippy cup. We didn’t get to move to a real bed, or have our own room until we stayed dry for five consecutive nights. Until then, we slept in the same nursery that we used as babies, with cribs, mobiles, a changing table, and plenty of diapers. While my mom viewed us as little kids when we wore diapers, her expectations changed dramatically when we weren’t. When we weren’t wearing a diaper, she expected us to be mature and responsible. She didn’t think we should ever need to be told what to do; instead, we were expected to anticipate what needed to be done and do it independently. Even the slightest lapse, such as forgetting to complete a chore, was met with a sharp and stern reprimand. She simply did not tolerate carelessness, or forgetfulness. When we missed a chore, we were scolded for forgetting about it, and then we had to do it under her supervision. After completing the chore, she scolded us once again, because we wasted her time. My mom used the same infantile punishments regardless of whether we were in diapers or not, but delivered them in a different way. When we were in diapers, Mom explained punishments without shaming us. However, when we weren’t, she shamed us for acting like a baby. She never explained our punishment, since we were expected to know the reason. For bedwetters, who still slept in the nursery, those high expectations ended immediately after dinner. After dinner, it was time for our baths, and we became babies again. When we were older, and Mom trusted us, she would let us shower on our own. I always treasured those last few minutes of independence, because once that was over, I was a baby. Unfortunately, even as teens, if she was upset or thought we weren't bathing properly, she'd put us in the tub and bathe us herself, just like when we were little. Regardless of our age, as soon as the bedtime routine began, my mom saw us as little kids and treated us that way. At eight, my mom still bathed me, but Charlotte showered by herself. One evening, she was upset and told Charlotte, “You haven't been cleaning yourself properly, so I’m bathing you and Reggie together.” Charlotte rarely argued with my mom about these things, but this time, she tearfully protested. “But Mom! You can’t, I’m too old for this.” She pointed at me, “I can’t take a bath with him.” Mom looked genuinely surprised and asked, “Why not?” “Mommy! I’m fourteen. I’m too old to take baths with my brother.” Mom scoffed, “If you want to be treated like you're fourteen, start acting like it. You’ve been acting like a toddler, and you still look like a little girl, so why shouldn’t I treat you that way? Besides, you used to love taking baths with Christopher.” Charlotte stomped her foot in frustration and pleaded, “Mommy! I’m not little anymore. I’m in high school.” Mom put a pacifier in Charlotte’s mouth and curtly said, “Stop your whining! I’m going to treat you like this until you’re ready to act like a big girl.” After we finished our bath, my mom would wrap us in towels and parade us into the living room. There, she would diaper us and dress us in the pajamas that she chose for the evening. Once we were ready for bed, we sat on the floor, because we weren’t allowed to sit on furniture when we wore diapers. We watched whatever my parents had on TV, which was usually the news. At 8 o’clock, my mom would hand each of us a bottle to help us settle down for the night. We were allowed to hold the bottle ourselves, but only if we actually drank from it; otherwise, she would hold it to our mouths until we did. On most nights, if my dad was home, he would read us a story while we sucked on our bottle. After our story, we were tucked in our crib, and we stayed there until the morning. If we woke up dry, mom gave us some underwear, and we ate breakfast from a regular seat. If not, we ate breakfast from the highchair, and waited until my mom changed us out of the wet diaper. Chris was the first to leave the nursery, when he was nine years old. At the time, I was too young to understand, but I remember Charlotte being upset about it. Chris resisted my mom the most, and therefore, faced the worst of her wrath. Since Charlotte and I were considered babies, and babies don’t have chores, he had to clear the table after dinner, which included loading the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. If he didn’t work quickly enough, my mom would yell at him. Worse still, if the job wasn’t done to her satisfaction, she would make him redo it, standing nearby and watching to ensure he did it properly. Usually, it was while my dad was reading the bedtime story to me and Charlotte. As Chris grew older, his clashes with Mom grew more intense, and he separated himself from the family. My parents wanted all of us to go to college, and they were willing to pay for it. However, after he finished high school, Chris didn’t want anything to do with them. Although he had the grades to go, he didn’t go to college. He got a job in construction, and left home as soon as he could. I still talked to him, but he won’t talk to my parents, and he never came back. Charlotte was, and remains, much more of a rule follower than the rest of us. She rarely challenged Mom's rules, and as a result my mom thinks she still a baby. Even when Charlotte was sixteen and I was ten, whenever my parents left for the evening, my mom insisted on hiring a babysitter. Chris refused to cooperate, so he was left alone. At the time, our regular babysitter was Charlotte’s friend’s older sister, who was just three years older than her. Fortunately, the babysitter and her friend already knew about the diapers, and she was by far the kindest and most understanding babysitter we ever had. However, Charlotte refused to be changed by someone that she considered a peer, so my mom got us ready for bed before she left. Charlotte left the nursery when she was in 11th grade, but she was still under my mother’s control. She wanted to go to UCLA, but my mom made her go to UC Davis. She wanted to become a doctor, but my mom pushed her towards nursing. During the Covid pandemic, Charlotte moved back home, and even though she was 24 years old, she was subjected to bedtimes and curfews. After Charlotte moved out of the nursery, I became the only baby left in the family. With no other child to baby, my mom quickly put me back in diapers and treated me even more like a toddler. Honestly, there was little motivation for me to act like a big kid. My mom always yelled at Chris, and Charlotte was criticized for every decision she made. In contrast, whenever I was in diapers, I escaped most criticism and harsh treatment. However, when I attempted to act like a big kid, she was just as strict and mean to me as she was to Chris and Charlotte. My mom usually sent me to school in Pull-ups, knowing diapers weren't appropriate for a seven-year-old. Every day after I got home, she checked if I was dry. If so, I could keep my Pull-up on until bedtime, but she never acknowledged my effort. Most of the time, she just told me to move on to my next task, like my homework. On the other hand, she was far more attentive when my Pull-up was wet. When that happened, she brought me to the living room, and enthusiastically changed my diaper. I was a good student, but socially and emotionally, I struggled with school. As I grew up, the gap between me and my classmates increased; I was always the smallest, looked younger, and I struggled to fit in. Although I was in 5th grade, I still looked and felt like a little boy. Because of all of that, my mom enrolled me into an online school that I could do from home. Without the need to attend a physical school, my mom no longer had to alternate between Pull-ups and diapers. Instead, she simply kept me in diapers all the time, and I got the full baby treatment whenever I wore them. I wore diapers nearly every day when I was in fifth grade, and with the exception of a few months, I wore them almost every day in sixth grade as well. I also had to wear diapers for parts of seventh and eighth grade, but I was mostly potty trained by then. To be honest, I was partly responsible for this. Even though my mom treated me like a toddler when I wore diapers, she was kind. She rarely got mad at me, and she stayed calm when she corrected my behavior. On the other hand, she was very harsh to Chris, and frequently yelled at him. My mom was also critical of Charlotte, even when she still slept in the nursery. Unlike me, Charlotte rarely needed diapers during the day. Because of this, whenever she wasn’t wearing a diaper, my mom expected her to behave like an adult. These expectations only increased after she left the nursery, which led to a lot of conflict. However, Charlotte is more compliant than Chris, so my mom wasn’t as harsh with her. While there was a part of me that wanted to grow up, I watched my brother and sister get scolded for almost everything they did. In my mind, it was better to stay in diapers, and be a little kid. I finally moved out of the nursery when I was fourteen years old; just before I started high school. A week before school started, I stayed dry for five nights, stopped wearing diapers, and got a real bed. With my dad's help, I convinced my mom to let me go to a regular high school, freeing me from her constant supervision. I learned to manage my anxiety, so I had fewer accidents. Taking matters into my own hands, I started buying Pull-ups, hoping my mom wouldn’t know when I peed my pants. Even though I suspect she knew about the Pull-ups, she never mentioned it. Overtime, I became more independent, and avoided the worst of my mother’s wrath. I found it easier to ask for forgiveness, rather than to seek permission. Accepting the consequences is easier than negotiating with my mom, even if it means endless hours in the corner. My mom wanted me to go to UC Davis, just like Charlotte, but I wanted more independence, so I chose Dartmouth. When the Covid Lockdown started in 2020, my mom demanded I come home. However, I stayed in Hannover, and after some resistance, she reluctantly accepted my decision. At that same time, Charlotte had just finished at UC Davis. She moved back home during the lockdown, and found herself subjected to the same juvenile bedtimes and rules that we had as children. In 2022, Charlotte finally broke free from my mom’s control, got married and welcomed her daughter. Once Kristy, Charlotte’s daughter, arrived, my mother shifted much of her attention to her granddaughter. This allowed Charlotte and me some respite from her constant scrutiny. However, my mom continued to meddle in Charlotte’s marriage, which eventually caused her and Dennis to get divorced.

I don't understand what their point is. What exactly are they protesting? And, why are the diapers being worn that way?

Depending on my weekend plans, I may get the next chapter over the weekend. I was going out of town, but I'm sick. If I'm still sick, I'm staying home, which strangely gives me time to work on the next chapter.

Becky is a monster. Hopefully, she gets hers. It would be hard to hide his displeasure with the dress, even under duress. Sometimes, the threat of disclosure is not as bad as what Becky will do to him. His mom will get mad, but it will better than what Becky does to him. I know it's only my issue, but I'm never a big fan of sissy humiliation. It makes this connection that diapers and regression is automatically feminine. I like stories where the boys are little boys. They like to get messy and can be rambunctious.

With this story, that scene wouldn't look out of place. I debated how big to make Reggie. I originally had him at 4'9" and 90 pounds, because that's just under the size that children are supposed to sit in a booster. Not to give too much away, but there is regression in this story, and there will be a carseat included in this story. I ended up going with 4'5" and 70 pounds, because that's the median size for an 8-year-old boy. Having a protagonist in a body that small has been done, and often hard to make it believable. I provided a reason for it, and I did it look it up. There is a genetic disorder that prevents puberty from occurring, and that obviously limits growth. However, based on the pictures that I've seen, they don't necessarily look like children. I'm pushing more for an extreme example of Julie Krone She has a small body, and could realistically pass for a 10 or 12 year-old. I think of some of the Chinese Gymnasts, who were like 14, but looked like they were 7. In this case, Reggie is written very much as an adult. I'm visualizing a typical 24-year-old male,but he's lonely because he has such a hard time socializing with his peers. One of the key points I wanted to get across is just how scared Reggie is of his mother. He's scared to death of her. There was a reason that I chose Dartmouth. It's an Ivy League School, but most of the other Ivy League School are near major cities. I've never been to Ithaca, but Dartmouth seems to be an extra hard airport. He's supposed to be in the class 2019, which would have made him a college Freshman and Sophomore during Covid. Remember, he's 3,000 miles away,doesn't want to spend a week in New York while he's completely broke. How would his mom react if he defied her orders, and flew home by himself. Interestingly, I asked copilot to describe Reggie's mother, and it described her as caring, loving, and a little controlling. Yeah, that's not right.

Chapter 1: Coming home After graduating and starting my career, I found myself living in a tiny room in downtown Manhattan. At first, I had a steady job, working as a data analyst at a financial services company. Unfortunately, my company was bought out, and since they already had people doing the same thing, I was laid off. I suddenly was twenty-four, with no job, and no prospects for a new one. As it was, my job barely covered expenses, and it was impossible to live in New York without one. I either had to return home or hope for a break. Returning home was clearly the safest option, but it meant going back to my mom, and living under her rules. It had been six years since I left Sacramento, right after graduating from high school. I deliberately chose Dartmouth because it was as far away from Sacramento as possible. Because it was so remote, my mom couldn’t just drop by unexpectedly, which gave me the independence I’d always wanted. If I returned, she would be in control. I’d have to live by her rules, with her dictating what I could and couldn’t do. Despite what movies might suggest, my life in New York was far from glamorous. I rented a cramped room that had only the bare essentials: a bed, a small counter, and a television mounted high in the corner. The sole window was positioned so high on the wall that it barely let in any natural light or fresh air. That was the only place I could afford in Manhattan, and my mother insisted that I live there. As a result, I ended up in what was essentially a boarding house. Although it wasn’t much, there were a few comforts: meals were provided, and the landlord was always close by in case I needed help. While New York can be a wonderful city, my daily life was monotonous. I spent 10 to 12 hours working in a windowless cubicle, only to return to another windowless room for the rest of the day. Weekends were worse; I couldn’t afford to go out, so I stayed in my room. The routine was unbearable, and I needed a change. I decided to leave New York, hoping that returning home might be an improvement. Maybe my mom wouldn’t be so bad, now that she had a granddaughter. Hopefully, she’d let me live my own life and grant me some independence. I called home to let them know. My mom picked up the phone, which she always did. I only talked with my dad for greetings and simple updates; any serious discussion was always with my mom. With a little bit of trepidation, I explained, “Mom, my company was bought out, and they laid me off.” Her response was sympathetic, but I could tell she was relieved. “Oh, Reggie. That’s too bad. What are you going to do?” She sounded eager, and I confirmed her hopes: “I'm heading back home. There is nothing for me here. I'll look for a new job and leave you in peace. Ideally, it won't take more than one or two months.” “Oh honey, don’t worry about that. I’m glad that my baby is coming home, and you need some of your mommy’s love right now. You can stay here as long as you need.” Her words made me wince, but I knew better than to complain about it. Instead, I kept my response simple and direct. "I'll fly home Wednesday," “Honey, I can’t get to New York that quickly. You’ll have to wait until next week.” I protested, “Why do you need to fly to New York? I’m an adult. I don’t need my mom to fly with me.” She wouldn’t budge. “Honey, I can’t let you do that. It’s dangerous, and I don’t want you to get lost.” My mom still thought I was five years old, but that’s because my body thinks it’s eight. I was born with a growth-defect, so I only grew half as fast as everybody else, and then it stopped when I was sixteen. I’m only 4’5”; I weigh just 70 pounds, and I skipped through puberty. Biologically, I’m a Ken Doll, with no body hair, and skin as smooth as a baby. People see me as a child, even when they know my age. My mom was adamant, and I was determined to reclaim a sense of dignity. I wanted her to see that, despite my appearance, I wasn’t a helpless child. I was an adult, and fully capable of handling myself. I let out a frustrated sigh, and huffed. “Mom! I’ll be fine. I’m not going to get lost. It’s only one connection, and that’s in Denver. It’s in the same concourse, so I just have to walk down a few gates.” Using that tone with my mom was never a good idea. If I did that at home, I’d end up in the corner for twenty minutes, only to be forced to apologize when she let me out of timeout. However, I was 3,000 miles away, so she couldn’t put me in time out. She still didn’t let it slide. She scolded me, “Don’t use that tone with me! I’m sorry, but Denver is a big airport. It’s too big for somebody like you. And just how do you plan to get to the airport in the first place?” I responded, trying to keep my frustration in check, “I’m taking the PATH to Newark. It’s easy. Don’t worry about it.” But she was still uneasy. “I don’t like that, honey. It’s just too dangerous for somebody like you.” “I’ll be fine, mom!” I insisted, but my frustration was starting to show. That was never good, especially when dealing with my mom. She wasn’t having it. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, young man!” I knew better than to keep pushing. “I’m sorry.” It was always best to apologize to my mom. If I tried to argue, she would only dig her heels in more. My mom’s tone softened just a little after my apology. “That’s better. But what if you have an accident?” Somehow, my mom always managed to bring up the one thing that made me feel even worse. For reasons no one, not even the doctors, can fully explain, my bladder sometimes releases automatically when I’m under emotional stress or feel threatened. It is as if my body goes into fight-or-flight mode, and my bladder responds on its own. This meant that, in addition to looking like a child, I still peed my pants. Most days, I managed to keep it under control as long as I stayed calm. But when I got nervous, I took precautions and wore Pull-ups; not even the ones made for older kids, but the actual toddler Pull-ups. They were cheaper, and fit me better. I hated it when my mom brought it up, turning my not-so-secret shame into the center of our conversations. “Mom, I won’t have an accident!” I tried to mask my embarrassment with a touch of defiance, and it was hard not to let my frustration show. Mom snapped, “Do not use that tone with me! Don’t you remember what happened last time?” I sighed, and tried to calm myself. “Mom, that wasn’t my fault. There was a lot of turbulence, and I couldn’t leave my seat.” “Yes, but you stayed in the same clothes until you got home.” I let out an exasperated cry. “Mom! I’m not a baby. I’m twenty-four years old! Can you please stop treating me like I’m a kid?” Mom quickly retorted, “Listen here, Reginald.” She only used my proper name when she was really mad. Her voice was sharp and unwavering, leaving no room for argument. “For the last time, do not use that tone with me! I’ll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one.” She paused for emphasis, making sure her words landed. “You know full well that you are too small to travel alone. You may be an adult, but the world will never see you that way. Maybe, if you were more like Alex, and not so tiny, I could trust you to travel by yourself. But you’re not! I’m afraid that you’ll just have to wait until I can come to get you. I can help you pack up; make sure you don’t forget anything, and we can fly home together.” I protested, “Mom, I don’t have that much stuff. I’ll ship a box home, and the rest can go in my carry-on.” Despite my reassurance, Mom was unconvinced. She replied, “I’m afraid that I just don’t trust you with that. You always leave something behind. I’ll fly out next week, so just hang tight. I’ll have Daddy send you some money.” Her insistence made it clear she wasn’t going to budge, no matter how much I argued. I couldn’t help but respond with sarcasm. “Yes Mommy.” However, it was wasted. My mom thought I was being polite.

It's literally my go to diaper. I have a subscription with them, and get a case of month. I've never had an issue with For me, it just seems to work best. RearZ works well, but they are harder to get.

I've been following this story since the beginning. I know it's based on your story, which is a little shocking. It's almost like the mom doesn't want Tom to become dry. He isn't rewarded for dry nights, but he is quickly punished when he wets his bed. It's one thing to shame him for wetting the bed, but she barely acknowledged his 3 consecutive dry nights.

I love the dynamic of this story. I reread both parts on Amazon tonight. It is one of my favorite stories from Little Writer.

I grew up on the cusp between cloth diapers and disposable diapers. i think my mom used primarily cloth diaper, but started using disposable diapers at some point when I was close to 4. I remember having accidents when I was around 4. My dad was temporarily out of the country when I was four. I have a vague memory of wearing a diaper when I took a bus to my grandparents house while he was away, and then again when he came back for a few weeks in March 1974. At that time, i would have been 4 1/2, and I think that's the last time I ever wore diapers as a child. I remember having an accident a few months later, in October, which was after my birthday. I felt the urge, and realized I hadn't had an accident in a long time, so I ended up doing it in my pants. Whatever I was hoping for didn't seem to work, because I don't remember there being much of a reaction, and I never did it again.

I've wondered what would happen if you followed it to the letter. Some of the key points are never using and using your diaper whenever you need to go (even #2). I think it would be quicker, especially if there was a caregiver involved, so you don't even have the responsibility of changing your diaper. I never tried to follow it to the letter, but I did try some of the methods. I think I skipped the most important part, since I use the potty monster for #2 almost all the time. I also will use it for pee when I know I have to go, and don't trust my diaper to hold without a leak. I also want to extend my diapers. As a result, I could use the toilet most of the time, but I'm not good at holding it anymore.