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Peter’s Story He had no option, the river’s current was just too strong to swim against so he gave up and allowed himself to be carried along. Every now and then some flotsam or tree branch would float nearby but always seemingly just out of arms reach. He was way past panic; he was just waiting for the undercurrent to drag him to his watery doom. The rain continued to lash against him and the squalls whipped up the waves creating a sickening motion as he bobbed uselessly up and down. The storm was getting worse, the lightning scarily highlighting his plight and whilst he cried pitifully for help the thunder roared deafeningly in his ears… and then… A flash of light above him made him scream in terror but it was only his mother who’d turned on the bedroom light rushing to comfort her shrieking son. Peter hung tightly to her thankful that tonight at least he wasn’t to be swept away. His sobbing subsided but the realization that his bed was soaked dampened his slowly rising spirit. This was the fourth night in a week he’d wet the bed and no matter how much his mother loved and comforted her twelve year-old son, this couldn’t continue. Lying open on his bedside table was the culprit for the dream. Peter had been reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and had somehow got himself tangled up in the river and Huck’s troubles. It was strange how his own imagination had not only embellished the story but made it so real. The battle with the river, the hellish storm, the sheer terror he felt, meant he’d peed the bed, again. His mother drew back his bedclothes to see everything soaked; his PJs, briefs, blanket, sheet, pillow and mattress. The only thing that appeared to have escaped the deluge was his teddy, Franky, who must have ‘swum’ to safety fairly early on. His mom sighed at the amount of extra work that needed to be done before she could retire for the night herself but set about the chore in her usual, no nonsense manner. Stripping Peter in the bathroom she told him to take a shower whilst she cleaned up his room. Everything was thrown into the hamper and the single mattress flipped. Perhaps, oddly enough, she was prepared for this. Peter’s older brother Damian had also wet the bed when he was younger. In fact from the age of five until he was almost fifteen Damian had problems getting to the bathroom at night. Then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, it was dry night after dry night and the problem appeared to rectify itself. Despite there being almost eight years difference in the brother’s ages their mother had kept all the things she’d needed to make Damian comfortable and hoped now to do the same for Peter. Damian was away at university so there was only Peter and his mother at home, father having long fled the family home and abandoning his second but newly arrived son. Thankfully, Peter’s grandparents had rallied round and helped them through that difficult time and a godsend from a deceased uncle had meant that, financially at least, she was able to cope rearing her sons. Having such a long a gap between each child was quite a surprise (as was the fact of being pregnant with Peter) and the responsibility proved too huge a problem for her philandering husband who took it as a sign to make himself scarce, something he’d managed to do successfully for over twelve years. That abandonment had hardened Janice, Pete’s mother, and made her determined that she wouldn’t be reliant on a man again. She had immersed herself in her two son’s well-being and made sure that both were well looked after and wanted for nothing. As she coped with her new baby she was also coping with Damian who was also wetting the bed. Diapering one or both of them made no difference to Janice; she just got on with the job. Damian only needed his at night and soon settled into the regime and of course baby Peter needed his all the time. He was slow to potty train but she didn’t mind, all her efforts went into making sure her boys were the happiest and most contented kids around. Perhaps strangely, Peter was out of his diaper before Damian but the two boys got on reasonably well, considering their age difference, and diapers were never an issue. Once Damian was out of them she simply packed all the things away in the attic, not imagining that they just might be needed on a future occasion. * As her son showered she went up to the attic and retrieved the box with all the things she needed: The rubber sheet to cover the mattress, the selection of disposable and fabric diapers, plastic pants for added protection and the cartons of wipes, lotions and baby powder that she hoped would still have retained the smell that she’d loved so much. In fact, just handling all those things brought back happy memories for her from when her eldest son had relied on her. Now he was a grad student he was too independent to need her fussing. She was both proud and upset when Damian went off to University, proud of his achievements but sad he was growing up and would no doubt soon have a life on his own. Meanwhile, Peter was growing up far too quickly, he was nearly a teenager and she couldn’t understand how the time had suddenly shot by. However, here he was, her baby son (he’d always be the baby to her no matter how old he was) wetting himself, having nightmares and relying on his mommy to comfort and sort things out for him. She relished the opportunity to look after her baby’s needs. When he returned to his room from the shower Peter was greeted by his mom who had cleared away all the wet debris, put new sheets and blankets on his bed and had a further surprise for him. She told him to lie out on the bed, which, as he was naked, he was reluctant to do. She gently mocked him for being embarrassed around her. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t cleaned and powdered hundreds of times so there’s no point in being bashful now.” She smiled and patted the bed for him to come closer. He still seemed hesitant and the fact that she was holding a strange looking package made him a little nervous. “What’s that?” He nodded toward the item in her hand. “It’s a disposable diaper.” She fanned it open. “You’re not planning on putting me in that… are you?” He asked incredulously. “Only while you are having these nightmares and wetting the bed.” “But mom,” he tried to be brave but could already sense it was a done deal, “I won’t wet again, honest. I’m twelve… mom… I can’t wear a diaper.” “Yes, you are twelve and do twelve year olds wet the bed?” He couldn’t answer that simple question so stayed quiet. His mother pushed her advantage. “Do you think it’s fair all the extra washing that needs to be done, the mattress that’s almost ruined, your PJs that stink… do you think that’s OK?” He shuffled his 4 foot 8 inch body nervously still unable to bring himself to answer. “Come here then and let’s get you back to bed and then I can get some sleep myself.” She held out her hand and he unenthusiastically gave himself over to his mother’s tender ministrations. As she rechecked that he was totally dry in all his nooks and crannies, she spread the lotion and sprinkled baby powder, all the while knowing she needed to put his mind at rest. “I’m sure this will only be temporary and, it is only at night when there is only you and me here, so, no one else needs to know.” She smiled encouragingly as she pulled the diaper up between his legs and taped it into place. Peter wasn’t happy but had no choice. He knew that over the past couple of weeks he’d made so much extra work for her and in truth he felt a bit guilty about the whole bed-wetting business. He blamed Mark Twain for writing such a great book and vowed not to read any more, hoping that alone would put an end to his night time misfortunes. His mother was delighted to be able once again to baby her baby and took great pleasure in making sure every bit of his diaper area was swathed in protecting cream and powder and that the disposable fitted him perfectly. She wriggled a pair of cream coloured plastic pants in place, much to Peter’s disgust, but a resigned sigh was all he could muster and the action passed off with no further argument. She pulled a t-shirt over his head, his mop of still damp thick brown hair bursting through the head-hole like a surprised little flower; it made her smile. She then drew back the bed clothes. He was going to ask for his PJs but thought he might get too hot with another layer of clothing on top so yawning he just crawled into bed. His mother gave him a gentle pat on his padded tush, told him to budge up, lay herself down and gently cuddled her son. She whispered that she was just making sure he had no more bad dreams and lightly stroked his hair and wrapped her arm around his waist; the slickness of the plastic pants giving her a wonderful sensation and reviving happy memories of when he was an actual baby. *tbc*