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Hey everyone! It's Sophie! Pudding and I have been writing a few short stories recently so I'm just going to post them all at once. If you like them and want to support our writing, please check out our Patreon: www.patreon.com/sophieandpudding This one actually comes from an ABDL web-zine we worked on, starring 22 talented writers and artists! You can download it for free at: https://princessmolly.gumroad.com/l/nursery-warp-2021 The illustration at the end of the story is by JuiceBox! Check him out on Patreon at: www.patreon.com/JuiceBoxArt -------------------------- Lost in Translation Written by Sophie & Pudding Translations by Lilyblax Illustration by JuiceBox Premise: Grace Gardener travels to France to visit her old crush, Violette. Resolute in her plans to tell Violette how she feels, Grace is constantly stymied by unexpected foreign customs. Will Grace be able to admit her feelings in time, or will she become Violette’s little girl instead? Disclaimers: diapers, wetting, messing, French -------------------------- "Here's you go, Miss Gardner." The flight attendant passed me a pillow with a bright smile. Every time she looked at me, she seemed particularly happy. Or maybe that's just what you pay for when you buy first class. I settled back in my chair and tucked the pillow under my head. Outside the little window, the sky was the darkest blue and the moon was the brightest white. I couldn't see the ocean beneath the clouds, but I knew it was there; there's not much else between New York and France. I'd never been outside the United States before, but I couldn't turn Violette down when she asked me to visit. Violette and I had been best friends all through high school, but she went back to Paris for college. After she graduated, she moved around a lot until she settled in a French city that I would embarrass myself trying to pronounce. In high school, I had a huge crush on Violette. She was unwavering in her optimism and unfettered in her confidence. She made me do things I would never do on my own, things I haven’t done since. But even as we said our goodbyes, I couldn't work up the courage to tell her how I felt. Somehow, this trip felt like a second chance. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. I closed my eyes and let the hum of the airplane lull me to sleep. When I woke up, the sun was pouring in through the little window and an overhead voice was addressing the cabin: "Nous allons commencer notre descente dans quelques instants." I rubbed my eyes and sat up in the seat just as the pretty flight attendant appeared at my side. "Good morning, Grace," she said with that same bright smile. "We will be landing shortly, so let's get you all buckled up." Unexpectedly, the flight attendant bent down on one knee - so we were the same height - and pulled the seat belt over my lap. She clicked it shut and pulled the strap tight. Then, as she stood back up, she patted me on the top of my head. I stared incredulously as she walked down the aisle. "That was weird," I muttered to myself. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Before I was fully awake, the plane began to lilt forward and dip into the clouds. I pressed my forehead to the window to see the vast, grassy hills as they emerged from the fog. A small city grew ever closer, until I could see cars on the streets and people on the sidewalks. With a jolt, the plane landed on the runway and I let out a sigh of relief. I didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath. People all around me started to get up and gather their bags. I pulled at the seat belt around my waist, but I couldn't figure out how to unlatch it. Maybe it had a lock or something? The cute flight attendant passed by and I reached out to get her attention. "Excuse me. How do I unbuckle this?" "Be patient, Grace," she smiled. "I'll help you after the rest of the passengers are through." "But..." I tried to protest, but the flight attendant was addressing the crowded aisle in French. I sunk into my seat and pouted. I guess I didn't have a choice, did I? I watched as families and businessmen walked past me. Sometimes they would look at me and smile. Sometimes they would wave. A few women would speak to me, but I didn't understand what they were saying, so I would smile and nod. I could have sworn most of the passengers spoke English before we left. While I waited, I fished around my bag for my English to French phrasebook. I'd been studying it all summer, but I suddenly couldn’t remember a single one. Maybe I just needed a quick refresher. "Grace?" I looked up from my book at the flight attendant. Everyone else had left the plane. "What are you reading, hm?" "I... uh. I'm just trying to remember some phrases," I stammered. "Oh? Do you have a favorite one?" I started to notice her sunny disposition could be taken as condescension. "No," I muttered, looking at the cover of the book. I'd just reviewed ten different phrases, but I couldn’t remember any of them. "That's okay, honey," she said. "It's hard to learn new words." I sulked at the implication. Effortlessly, the flight attendant reached down, unbuckled my seat belt, and helped me to my feet. My legs felt a little wobbly after sitting for so long and she had to hold me up until I caught my balance. "Do you need a, um..." The flight attendant paused to think of the word, as though she didn't speak perfect English. "Push chair?" "No, I'm alright." I didn't want to be in a wheelchair the first time Violette saw me in five years. I was trying to make a good impression! "Okay then. Follow me." The attractive, condescending woman - was I just describing French women in general? - led me off the plane, holding me by the hand in a way that was altogether inappropriate. Was this a cultural thing? It had to be a cultural thing. But after we entered the airport and the flight attendant let go of my hand, I was overwhelmed with longing. My hand hadn’t been held like that in a while. “Vois-tu ta maman quelque part?" she asked. I stared blankly at the flight attendant. "Is someone meeting you?" she asked in English. "Oh, um. My friend Violette. She’s a little shorter than me, with blue-green hair." I looked around for signs of my friend, but the flight attendant took me by the hand once again. We were halfway down the terminal when I caught sight of Violette's teal tips. She always dyed the ends of her long, wavy hair. I thought she would get over it after high school, but she still sent me pictures each time she picked a new color. "Violette!" I shouted, waving my free arm. I managed to pull my hand out of the flight attendant's and run a dozen or so feet down until my arms were around Violette. She smelled like cinnamon and snowy mornings. I melted into her like chocolate fondue. "Gracie, je pensais que tu t'étais perdue!" she laughed. I didn't know what she said exactly, but it was wonderful to hear her voice. After the hug, I looked up at her with a touch of confusion. "You’re taller," I realized, at least a few inches taller than me. I checked her shoes, but she wasn’t wearing heels. "Ou alors tu as rétréci," Violette said. Then she turned to the flight attendant and started a conversation in French. I tried to wait my turn, but the longer it went on the sillier I felt. I couldn’t understand a single word… I tugged Violette’s sleeve to get her attention. "I'm so sorry, my darling," Violette apologized after looking at my expression. "I know those words are hard for you, and you must be oh-so-tired after your long trip.” She kissed the flight attendant on the cheek, which made me a little jealous. Then Violette took my hand in hers to led me to the baggage claim. "I slept on the flight," I explained as we walked. "And you don't have to..." Hold my hand? I'd longed for her to hold my hand for years, so why was I going to complain? I decided to stay quiet instead, a blush on my cheeks. "You're going to love it here," Violette said in a dreamy voice, pulling me along by the hand. I was having trouble keeping up with her and my legs still tingled from the flight. Every few sentences, Violette would slip into French and I would lose her train of thought. When we got to the baggage claim, there was only one bag left: a pink one with cartoons on the front. Violette went to grab it but I pulled her back. "My bag is green," I told her. "It's the same one we took on our camping trips." Violette tilted her head and said, "This is the one we took on our camping trips, you silly little sweetroll." "What? No, mine’s green…” Despite my protest, Violette grabbed the bag and read the tag out loud: "Petite Madame Gracie May Gardner." I narrowed my eyes and pushed in front of her to read the tag myself, but the words... they didn't make any sense. Maybe they were in French? That made sense, right? But why would my name be on a bag that wasn’t even mine? Unless... "Could the airline have switched my stuff to a different bag?" Maybe there was a problem with my suitcase and this was the only one available. But Violette didn’t seem to care about the luggage mystery. "Come now, Gracie." Violette pulled me along in one hand and pulled the rolling suitcase along in the other. I followed her halfway across the room before I was out of breath. I pulled on her hand until she stopped. "I need to sit down for a minute, Vi. My legs are killing me..." Thankfully, there was a bench only a few steps away. Airports were notorious for sitting space. "Je devrais peut-être trouver une poussette," Violette mused, looking around the open baggage lobby. I sat on the bench and pouted. "I can't understand you when you speak like that," I told her sharply, with as much assertiveness as I could muster. "And why are you calling me Gracie?" "Quel autre surnom pourrais-je te donner, princesse?" she said, still speaking French and glancing around the room. “English, please. I don't understand it when you—" "Ah!" Whatever Violette was looking for, she seemed to find it. She ran off with all the whimsy of a woodland sprite and I was left alone with the pink suitcase. I spoke quietly to myself: "I can't tell if this is going well or not..." I took a moment to look around the airport; I could hear the sounds of cars outside and the chatter of people, but none of them were saying words I could understand. Even the words written above the baggage claim or the signs at the help desk were gibberish to me. I felt like a stranger in this world, and when Violette came back pushing a giant stroller I was sure that was the case. "What the fuck is that?" I demanded. "C'est une poussette pour une princesse qui a fait un très long vol." I didn't understand her, but the question was rhetorical. It was a baby stroller, but it looked like it was sized for an adult. The metal was painted pink and the cushion was decorated with little cartoon princesses. Even the buckle and harness were bigger, easily enough to accommodate a fully grown woman. How did something like this even exist?! Then I realized why she had brought it over in the first place. "No," I said seriously. "No way." "Gracie." "No!" I shouted a little louder. "I’m not getting in a stroller!" A few people nearby turned their heads to look at me and I felt sick with embarrassment. "The car is parked very far away," Violette said. "At least twenty minutes walk." I hesitated. A twenty minute walk? I could barely make it to the baggage claim, and my legs weren't feeling any better. "Maintenant, sois une gentille petite fille—" Violette began, but I cut her off with one loud word: "English!" "You aren't going to learn any adult words if I keep speaking to you like a baby," Violette said harshly. A few more people turned to look at us and I sunk into the bench in shame. Violette had never spoken to me like that before… "I don't know what you're so upset about," Violette sighed, softening her tone. "Why do you think the airport has these? It's normal." I looked at the oversized stroller. Normal? I had never heard of adult strollers in France before... but why else would it be in the airport? I put my thumb to my mouth and bit nervously on my nail. "You're sure?" I muttered. "Tout à fait normal pour les filles de ton âge," Violette nodded. "Monte." With a bit of difficulty and a lot of reluctance, I climbed into the giant stroller. Violette buckled me in and I leaned back as far as I could to hide myself. This was so humiliating. Violette pushed the stroller through the baggage claim and outside to the parking lot. I kept waiting for someone to laugh or point at me, but even as dozens of people passed, no one gave me more than a cursory smile or a pleasant wave. Out of courtesy, I would sometimes wave back. Was this really normal? True to Violette's assessment, the car was parked a full twenty minutes walk away - a distance that now, in retrospect, I knew I couldn't have walked on my own. How ordinary was it to feel so weak after a long flight? What did people call it? Jetlag? Yeah, that had to be it. There was a brief flash as Violette took a surprise photo of me and I opened my mouth to protest. "Cela fera une belle couverture pour notre scrapbook!" she said. "Violette..." I actually sounded whiny. "This kind of thing may be normal in France, but you have to ask before you take my picture in a baby stroller." "Ne fais pas d'histoires. Je vais prendre plein de photos de toi et de tes nouveaux amis. Des amis français." I pouted. She wasn't going to stop this French nonsense, was she? But maybe she was right: maybe this was the best way I could learn the language. As Violette packed my suitcase into the trunk of her car, I fumbled with the buckle on the stroller. But no matter how I tugged or twisted or pulled, I couldn't seem to free myself. By the time Violette came over, I was red with irritation. "It's stuck! This stupid thing... I swear all the buckles in this stupid country—" Violette pushed my hands away and clicked open the buckle on her first try. I looked up at her with red cheeks as my frustration turned to embarrassment. How did she… but she lived here. Of course she had experience with this stuff. Right? "Monte, Gracie." Violette held open the door to the back of the car rather than the passenger seat, clicking her tongue impatiently. I rolled my eyes and climbed into the car. There was a car seat strapped in one of the seats. That was weird; Violette didn’t have any kids. I sat next to it and - before I could even find the seatbelt - Violette clicked her tongue again in disapproval. "In the car seat, silly," she explained in English. "I… what?" I stared dumbfounded. This had to be a joke… "It’s the law, Gracie," Violette said seriously, crossing her arms over her chest. No way that was true. Americans had to sit in car seats? She was taking this too far! "Vi, this is stupid…" I muttered, looking at the huge car seat beside me. It was definitely big enough to fit an adult and I was starting to notice a trend. I didn’t remember reading anything about this online, and I’d done a lot of research on French customs. But all those people we walked past in the airport… there was no way they were acting. "We can’t leave until you get in," Violette said. "So unless you want to live in this parking lot…" I glared up at her, but her confidence was unshakable. I knew Violette; she would wait here until the end of time if she was trying to prove a point. At least the car seat was in the privacy of her car - it was much less embarrassing than the stroller. "I still think this is stupid," I muttered, lifting myself into the carseat with deep annoyance. "You're American," Violette giggled. "You think everything is stupid." Violette wasted no time reaching down into the car and strapping me in. Another buckle I didn't understand. Once again, I was trapped. Violette put the car in Drive and turned to look at me. A warm smile spread across her face. "Tu vas être si mignonne quand nous rentrerons à la maison. Une jolie couche, une jolie robe, des nattes. Mon Dieu." "Based on your tone," I muttered, trying to close my legs with the buckle pulled between them, "it sounds like you’re flirting with me." "Very good, Gracie!" I stared incredulously into her rear-view mirror, catching sight of her smile as she said those words. Violette was actually flirting with me? I bit my lip and sunk into the carseat. Maybe not everything was stupid. The car ride was predictably dull, but the view was gorgeous. Outside the windows, the city buildings were never more than three stories tall and the rolling hills made a beautiful backdrop. All the streets were only two-lanes, and we even drove on the correct side of the road. I kicked my feet idly, nowhere near touching the floor, and let my imagination take me to Violette's house. Did she have a room for me? Or was I staying in her room? I never asked. Then a strange feeling pulled me back to reality. Out of nowhere, I really had to pee! I hadn't gone even once on the plane; I hated public bathrooms more than I hated anything! But it never mattered - I had an iron bladder - until that very moment. "Hey, um. How much longer until we're there?" I wiggled awkwardly in my carseat, shifting side to side. "A little while yet, Gracie sweetie." That was not the answer I was hoping for. "Like... five minutes?" I was kicking my legs a little faster now, and I'd have crossed them if I could. "Tu vas finir par faire pipi dans ma voiture, n'est-ce pas ? J'aurais dû te changer à l'aéroport." "Hey! I don't know what you're saying but you sound annoyed." "Let's play the alphabet game, Gracie, would you like that?" "Umm..." I really had to pee, but maybe the distraction would help. "I guess..." It was a lot harder to play the alphabet game when you can't read any of the words! All the street signs and storefronts were in French, and I didn't know how to pronounce any of it. Even if I saw the right letter, I didn't know how to say the word. And there weren't any billboards like there were in the States. I only made it to letter D before I felt a heat pool between my legs, soaking into the denim of my jeans and pooling under my butt. At first I didn't understand what was happening, and then I realized I didn't have to pee anymore. Before I could figure out what to do, tears filled my eyes and my lip started to tremble. I couldn't let Violette see me like this! If she did, she'd never like me! "Oh tu as eu un petit accident?" Violette cooed from the driver's seat. "N-no, I'm fine!" I answered, not understanding the question. "I'm just... just tired! Um..." I fumbled for the buckle as tears spilled down my cheeks. I had to get out of this thing before we got to her house. I kept wiping the water from my cheeks but it wasn't doing me any good. I couldn't hide my tears no more than I could hide the accident I had. Within minutes, we were pulling in a small stone driveway in front of a cute two-story condo. Violette got out of the car and opened my door. "No, go away!" I shouted, shoving at her hands, but small slaps on the tops of them shut me up. She reached forward, unbuckled my seatbelt, and lifted me up out of the seat. I cried as she sat me on my feet and took a look at my jeans. "Pauvre chou, allez, on va rentrer à l'intérieur et te changer." I turned to face away from her so she couldn’t see, but the back was even worse than the front. My butt was completely soaked and I couldn’t look up from the gravel driveway. "Je vais te retirer de ces guenilles et te donner des vêtements plus appropriés." "Please stop talking in French. Please, I—" My words were interrupted when Violette pushed my thumb between my lips. In the span of two heartbeats, my anxiety began to trickle away. I wanted to pull my thumb out of my mouth, but it was the first time since I'd wet myself that I felt like I had some level of control. Everything around me was so new and scary: the country, the customs, and then my accident. Even Violette was acting strange. But with my thumb in my mouth, it felt slower. Manageable. Was this why babies suck their thumbs? I couldn't even remember the last time... Violette took my hand and led me up the stoop and in the front door. I felt like a two year old following her mommy around: soaked pants on display for the whole neighborhood. But somehow, with my hand in hers, I felt safe too. When we were both inside, Violette closed the door behind us and I took three steps into her foyer. The house wasn’t particularly big, but the open living room and kitchen made it seem gigantic. I mustered every ounce of willpower to pull my thumb from my lips and turned to look at my best friend. "I'm so sorry," I told her. "So sorry about your car, and... and I didn't mean to... I promise it will never happen again. I promise..." "Ne t'inquiète pas, je ferai en sorte que cela ne se reproduise plus," Violette said with a warm smile. She walked up the stairs with my hand in hers and I followed a step behind. With my free hand, I kept rubbing my eyes. I felt so foolish. The whole day had been a terrible disaster. How was I ever supposed to ask Violette out now? I would be lucky if she was still my friend after all this... At the top of the stairs, there was a small landing with a toy chest in the corner and a soft looking rug in the center of the room. In the corner, there was a rocking chair. Then there were two doors. As I was led past the first one, I peered in to see a bathroom. So then... Violette and I were sharing a room? But when she opened the door, I could never have expected what I saw. It was like any adult's room: a dresser, a queen-sized bed, a full-length mirror, and a closet. But on the far wall, there was an alcove maybe a quarter the size of the room itself. It was set into the wall, trimmed with white moulding, and a small butterfly nameplate above it - near the ceiling - reading "Gracie". The alcove itself was painted pink - a stark contrast to the neutrality of the room itself - and decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. Against the back wall was a huge white, wooden crib. On the other wall, there was a table with a thin mat on top of it, like a changing table. And lastly, a set of ten square shelves were stocked with stacks and stacks of diapers. I stared dumbfounded at the dichotomy of Violette's room - of our room - and shook my head in disbelief. This was... no way. "What the hell is this?!" I shouted, anger and confusion filling the space where my embarrassment was only a moment ago. How could she do this?! "This is your home, Gracie,” Violette said simply. If she was intimidated by my display of ferocity, she certainly didn’t show it. She nudged me inside the room and closed the door behind us with a little click. "I mean it, Vi! What... what is... what the hell? You think I don't see how big those things are? You think 'oh Grace will just think they're for some kid' - I'm not even staying here! I'm going home on... on... um..." Why couldn't I remember...? "Oh mon Dieu, quelle crise de colère!" "I can tell when you're being condescending!" "Le français sonne comme ça," Violette laughed, but I wasn't amused. I shoved past her and twisted the door handle. It didn't open. Then, faster than I could blink, Violette spun me around and pinned my back to the door. She stepped closer to me and cradled my cheek in her hand, rubbing her thumb across my face ever so softly. She leaned in so our lips were only a few inches apart and I felt my heart race in my chest. Then she tilted her head and kissed me once on the forehead. The warmth spread through that spot on my skin like the wetness through my jeans, filling me up with emotions. But rather than fear and shame, I felt... safe. "I'm so happy you're here, Gracie," Violette whispered, tracing her free hand down my side and to the hip of my wet pants. I had to remind myself to breathe. "Moving to France was the hardest thing I've ever done... I've worked for years to make a life for you here. For us. I never wanted to leave my little girl behind..." I had no idea what she was talking about. I was never her little girl before! Right...? But the more I thought about it, the less sure I was. Her optimism was unwavering; she always told me things would be okay, no matter how scary they seemed. Her confidence was unfettered; she always told me I was safe with her, no matter how unlikely that was. She made me do things I would never do on my own - she made me hang out with the other kids, talk about my feelings, and accept everything that I am - things I hadn't done since. But even as we said our goodbyes - a forehead kiss at the airport and a final crinkle of her hand on my hip - I couldn't work up the courage to tell her how I felt. Somehow, this trip felt like a second chance. "Do you really wanna be a big girl, Gracie?" she asked, a nervous smile on her beautiful lips. But somewhere in me, I knew she deserved an adult. That's what I'd been trying to be for so long. So I nodded my head. "I am a big girl," I said assertively, or as assertively as any girl in pee-soaked jeans could manage. "Then you'll say it with big girl words," Violette said, then took a step back. “Veux-tu que je te remette des couches pour le restant de ta vie? Veux-tu être ma petite fille? Je sais que tu l'es déjà." I stared dumbfounded at the girl of my dreams. She'd asked me a question, and it was clear she wanted an answer. But I had no idea what she was asking. I knew, without a doubt, if I told her to try to speak English, that I would always be a baby-babbling little girl to Violette. But if I answered wrong... I couldn't come back from that, could I? I tried to read Violette's face. She stood with a smile and excited eyes... eager? Curious? Or did she know that even if I answered correctly, I could never know for sure. She could pretend she asked a different question and I would never know the difference. In truth, I wasn't answering Violette's question. I was letting her decide my future. My choice didn't matter: only hers did. In that way, I really was just her little girl. "Yes," I said, with the utmost confidence, not knowing to what I was agreeing. "Tu es sûr?" she asked. I didn't know what it meant, but I could read the intent. She was asking for confirmation. "Yes," I said again. "Okay," Violette said, speaking my baby-talk language for the last time. I felt like I had crossed a threshold, like I was taking a step I couldn’t come back from, and the feeling was literal when Violette led me by the hand into the nursery nook. My cheeks were red as I looked at the changing table, at the crib, at the diapers. "On va te changer, ma petite fontaine. Tu dois être tellement mal à l'aise dans ce pantalon mouillé." Her voice and cadence were so melodic as she unbuckled my jeans and peeled them down my legs. Next went my panties; she prompted me to step out of them as they reached my ankles. I'd daydreamed about Violette undressing me countless times, but never like this. I could never have imagined it would be like this… naked from the waist down, soaked in my own pee, and standing adjacent to an adult-sized changing table, in an adult-sized nursery nook, filled with adult-sized diapers and an adult-sized crib. Next to Violette, I felt the very opposite of adult-sized. Violette reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it up over my head. Instinctively, my arms raised and I was standing in just my bra. She took a step closer and leaned in; my heart raced as our lips closed in on each other, but she turned her head and our cheeks touched. Her arms wrapped around me and unsnapped my bra, pulling the straps down off my arms and leaving me as naked as the day I was born. I looked up in her eyes with tears in mine, overwhelmed with shame and fear. But her smile seemed to take it all away. "Violette..." I muttered, a plea for her to stop all this. I couldn't be a baby. I wasn't a baby! "Maman," she corrected, a stern look in her eye. A felt a rush of heat in my face and electricity up my spine. "Maman," I repeated... the first and only French word I knew. The only one that mattered. "Gentille fille," Violette smiled, and though I didn’t know what she said in words, the pride of her sentiment made me warm inside. She pushed me back ever so slightly until my bare butt hit the changing table. I looked up at her, biting my lip, and she gave me a supportive nod. "Lève." I didn't need a translation for that one. I slid back on to the changing table, like it was a doctor's table, but Violette wasn't having any of it. She spun me by the ankles and pushed me gently onto my back. I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars - unbearably dim in the afternoon sunlight - and knew that my cheeks were shining much brighter. I felt Violette's hand on my thigh, trailing her fingers up to my knee, and pulling my legs apart. I had imagined this moment so many times, but never like this. I felt something cool and wet against my thigh. It made me jump, but Violette hushed me. "Du calme, ma petite princesse. Maman est juste en train de te nettoyer." I shivered in place as I figured out she was wiping me clean with a baby wipe from the changing table. She moved slowly and deliberately, rubbing the insides of my thighs and then between my legs. She was cleaning me up because I pissed my pants like a... like a… As Violette stepped across the nook to the cube shelves and I heard the crinkling of plastic. She turned the simple act of a diaper change into something sacred, like it was a ceremony. In a way, it was. She unfolded the diaper in front of me, standing at the side of the changing table. In my peripherals, I could see the plastic unfurl, crinkling sounds filling the air. I watched the wings as she pulled them apart, huge and wide like the arms of a hug. And the print on the front was so infantile, with baby blocks and teddy bears. How had she gotten them in my size? How had she gotten this table, or that crib, or that stroller at the airport? Why was everyone - from the flight attendant to the people in the parking lot - so comfortable with seeing me as an oversized baby? The only reason I could think of was the obvious: this was normal. Violette lifted my legs by the ankles. She raised them high in the air so my butt was off the table, and then - when it came back down - it rested on the soft padding of the diaper. The scent of baby powder filled the air and I sunk deeper into the changing table. I felt so fresh. Clean. Pure. Any parent could tape on a diaper in two seconds flat. Practice makes perfect, right? But the way Violette did it was perfect in a totally different way. She took her time, adjusting every little part of the plastic to be symmetrical. She pulled the thick center between my legs and pressed it to my hips. She folded and creased the wings so that each tape was pulled tight and snug across my body. She drew lines with her fingers around the legbands, checking for anywhere I might leak. And when she was satisfied, she patted the front two times, sending a shiver up my spine. By the time Violette pulled me up to sit on the table, my head was swirling with things I'd never felt before. Important. Adorable. Protected. Loved. Why would I ever want to be an adult, when I could be her little girl? If I had an answer at one point, I certainly didn't anymore. "Tu as été une si gentille petite fille. Maman est si fière de toi. Allons choisir une de tes plus belles robes." I was oblivious to her words, but the tone of her praise melted me from the inside out. She picked up the suitcase she had brought up with us and laid it down on the changing table. As I moved, even a little bit, I crinkled; I harmonized with the zipper of the case opening. When she pulled out the pretty sundress that was too short to cover my diaper, I anxiously put my thumb to my lips. "That's not mine, Maman..." "C'est dans ta valise, Gracie. Cela signifie que c'est la tienne. N'est-ce pas?" I nodded, agreeing to something I didn’t understand, although I knew what would happen next. She would put me in that dress and it would be mine. Sure enough, after a word of praise, Violette pulled the dress over my head and lifted me onto my feet. She took me across the room to see myself in her full-length mirror. As she tied my hair into pigtails, I stared at the hem of my pink sundress and the diaper it failed to conceal. There was no going back now... Once my hair was done, Maman clipped a ribbon to my dress. She took the pacifier hanging off the end of it and popped it in my mouth. The girl in the mirror was nothing but a baby, through and through. So when I felt my tummy gurgle, I knew the was no point in asking. But what little adulthood I had left demanded I ask anyway. "Maman," I muttered, turning to face her. I spoke with a lisp around my pacifier. "I gotta go potty…" "C'est à ça que servent tes couches, mon ange. Nous le savons toutes les deux." I looked up at Maman with resignation. I didn’t know what she said, but it didn’t matter; I knew my fate. Just in case I forgot, my tummy gurgled again to remind me. It was unavoidable, inescapable, and approaching inevitable. Long ago, maybe a lifetime ago, I knew when I needed to use the potty and I could make it there in time. Now, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to. I did my due diligence; I did what my adulthood demanded of me. I asked, even though Maman and I both knew it was all for show. I had to ask, because she had to say no. It was performative. Distantly, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear the echoes of shame and humiliation begging me to defy Maman. As those pleas fell on deaf ears, I watched the girl in the mirror. I saw a blush on her cheeks and the way her teary eyes shined with longing, a longing for things to be easy. She wasn’t happy with what she was about to do, but she was happy for the praise that would surely follow in words she couldn’t possibly understand. Maman wrapped her arms around me, rubbing my tummy through my dress, and whispered softly in my ear: "Je t'aime, Gracie." Though my dumb baby brain couldn't translate her words, my dumb baby heart could feel them more clearly than anything I'd ever known. I stared at Maman in the mirror and bit my pacifier. I didn’t want to hold it, even if I could. So with my Maman’s arms around me, I bent forward just a bit and began to push. At first, nothing happened; I thought maybe I wasn’t a baby after all. Then, with a second push, I felt the seat of my diaper expand and fill. It was so easy. Nothing in my life had ever been as easy as messing my diaper, and that's how I knew I was never meant to be an adult. [END]