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When I started reading this chapter I thought there was a good chance the girls might have an accident during the day. I didn’t expect them to be in a nappy when it did happen. I was glad to see a new chapter here. This continues to be one of my favorite stories. Glad I could give it a like. 

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Thank you.  The intention was to show that the girls were developing a DL streak as well.  I think the next episode should show Amelia getting a bit worried about it.  Being twins, the girls will be inclined to conspire, but Amelia has been there and knows what can happen.  She might wish to try to counter the developing fetish.  Now I just have to put it into words!

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  • 2 months later...
  • 2 months later...
  • 3 weeks later...

Thank you Fyunch - I've been busy.

The Laundry Room

A party at Pembroke with Percy and Clare was always a pleasure - and for Matt and me at least - it was a chance to get out of suburbia and make an easy journey up the motorway in time for lunch. Today was a bit special; it was Mum's birthday and her delight was to see her grandchildren scrubbed up and looking their best and hopefully on their best behaviour. My twin daughters were less enthusiastic; although the journey took less than an hour, it was still classed as a nappy trip, mostly in order to avoid having our very civilised afternoon spoilt by an avoidable accident - or two.

To be fair, they were making some progress on that front.  They could get through the school day without problems provided they remembered to go between each class, their bladders had learned to reflect the gentle rhythm of the school day, and I wondered if they now had a Pavlovian reaction to the sound of the electric bell.

Weekends were another matter.  I had given our nanny the weekend off in order to visit her parents and had looked forward to reconnecting with my daughters.  So much for my motherly virtue signalling, they had lost no opportunity to play me up.  Normally weekends were liberty hall, and the girls were expected to use the toilet like any other child; I didn't want to have to keep on at them to go, they were as entitled to relax just as we were. The cost might be the occasional accident, and they were usually wet in the mornings, but I felt it was worthwhile to see if they could control their bladders at least at weekends.

As we were getting ready to leave, Kate and Liz made themselves scarce.  I knew the ritual, they were hoping that we would end up in too much of a hurry to see they had their nappies on, it was a game they played quite regularly.  I wasn't having it.  Liz had had an accident while playing in the garden yesterday afternoon, and, as usual, Kate had "come out in sympathy".  They had been in the doghouse ever since, and I was not in the mood to take any nonsense from them.

I found them in their bedroom, on the floor on the far side of their beds, and keeping very quiet.  They were indeed dressed ready to go; Parties at Pembroke always had a whiff of formality about them and so they were wearing summer dresses.  I wasn't fooled for a moment.  Although they could usually be trusted to put their own nappies on when needed, which had been Matt's innovation, it was a custom that was often honoured in the breach when they were in a fractious mood.  A pat on Kate's bottom revealed the omission, and I didn't need to confirm it by lifting the hem of her dress.

"All Right!  Come On!" I ordered, and moved to the cupboard in corner where such things were stored out of sight of the casual guest.  It was time for that old salesman's trick: the Alternative Close. "Which kind would you like this afternoon?" Liz rolled over her bed, heading for the door.  I fielded her and led the reluctant child back to the cupboard.  Kate took the hint.  It was an old game, and it had its rituals.  It had been used on me, too, in my time, and I never quite worked out if it was a privilege or a humiliation; it was a bit like choosing the method of your own execution, in the certain knowledge that, unless you were quick, the choice would be made for you and it would always be the least satisfactory option.

I upped the ante.  I drew out one of the large terry nappies which were usually reserved for night-time, and long winter nights at that.  "Frilly pants?" I offered, and saw both the girls recoil.  I couldn't blame them.  Cute as hell under a short summer dress, but bulky and sweaty and impossible to conceal, the pillow dangling under the skirt hem and the frills at the back shouting "Baby in Nappies" to all around.  Difficult to walk in, forcing a stagger and waddle which underlined the point, they were the safest option, and could take several wettings before the Dreaded Droop required the indignity and inconvenience of a change.

Kate stepped forward, and indicated the pull-ups.   I considered for a moment.  Yes, they were easily concealed, which may or may not be a good thing.  I knew that when we got there, if the eagle-eyed Aunt Clare couldn't see the girls were safely nappied, would ask the awkward question in fear of damage to her precious carpets and soft furnishings.  A bit of a rustle or a waddle at the right moment could save a lot of embarrassment.  Alas, pull-ups were only good for one small accident, and Clare's generosity with the lemonade was legendary, especially on warm summer afternoons in the garden.

I pursed my lips and frowned - an expression which the photographers should never see, and mitigated my demand slightly. I put the terry nappy back and moved my hand to the disposable nappies.  These were the bulkiest I could get - my girls were heavy wetters at night - but still covered with a babyish print of cuddly bunnies and teddy bears.  It was the girls turn to frown.  They were very bulky and they knew they would be waddling and have to sit with their legs splayed - not very grown up.  There was also the custom that they stayed on until wet: waste not, want not.  Although the tapes could be resealed, they were still not very satisfactory.  They, too could be seen very clearly between the legs and if the girls bent down.  

It was their turn.  Kate leaned over and indicated the PUL one-piece nappies that Helen had made.  I gave what appeared to be a moment's consideration, then nodded.  They were the closest thing to normal underwear, apart from the pull-ups, and were plain coloured, comfortable, and could be removed and replaced in the rare event that the girls remembered to go to the lavatory in time.  They were also washable, which chimed with Aunt Clare's pronounced Greenie views.  

Then I played my hand.  I fitted each one with two booster pads.  I knew from experience that they would normally go the distance of the five or six hours that would pass before we returned home, and the need for changes would be minimised.  There was also the point that they would be visible to Clare's trained eye and so no awkward questions would be asked.  The girls frowned, but shrugged - it was too late now to object to the additional bulkiness, and I laid one open on each bed.

Reluctantly the girls removed their underpants, hitched up their dresses and sat down in the appropriate places.  I pulled the front up between Liz's legs and began to fasten the snaps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Kate was putting her own nappy on, but I still made a point of checking it once she had finished; I wasn't going to risk any leaks.  These were of course, "free ones";  I insisted they wear them, they agreed without demur, and if they wetted them there would be no repercussions, no scolding and above all, no sarcasm.  Such was the Common Law of the family, set by long precedent and recognised by both sides as fair and just.

As I ushered the girls out of the room, I scooped up a handful of PUL covers and pads, and slipped them in the changing bag - just in case.  I knew my daughters, and it was going to be a long afternoon with plenty of refreshments.  With the two girls' carrying the presents we walked out to the car, and I left it up to them to get into the back seats and strap themselves in safely.

As we joined the motorway I looked back to check the girls were secure.  They were both sitting splay legged in their seats, and their dresses had ridden up to show the pillow of nappies between their legs. Liz had her hand there, so I asked her if she needed the lavatory or if she was wet.  She replied that she was all right but that these PUL nappies felt very nice - much better than plastic pants or disposables.  She said she did mind wearing them and wished she could wear them at night too.  I answered noncommittally; the girls were both inclined to sleep on their sides and unlike the traditional terries and pants they wore, there was almost no side protection against leakage.  There was also the effect that the terry nappies were very bulky between their legs and encouraged them to sleep on their backs, in fact I knew that if they were on their sides it meant they had already wet their nappies and thus could close their legs more easily.

Our welcome at Pembroke was, as usual kept fairly brief.  The girls were ushered into the downstairs loo for the obligatory nappy check, which they both - sort of - passed. I found that the two boosters in each had somehow been transformed into one each.  I couldn't blame them, but I couldn't figure out how it had been done.  Then I remembered; getting out of Mother's sight and doing you own thing was one of the basic skills of childhood, and it was so much easier if you had a twin sister to provide a diversion for you.  I tut-tutted and shrugged; this was not a moment to make a big thing of it. We rejoined the throng.

Juliet and Peter were there with their youngest, Sally.  Her two elder children, Holly and Jack, were both at college now and so eleven-year-old Sally was the only one at home to keep Juliet company when Peter was off somewhere on his duties. Fortunately that was a bit less often now - he had four rings on his sleeve and was tipped for a flag any day soon.  Once the first flurry of gossip and news-swopping had died down and the men had drifted away to talk man-things, Juliet broached the perennial problem, beating me to it by a few seconds.  Sally, it appeared was drying up nicely, although she was till subjected to Pembroke Rules, and resented it sharply.  Juliet had expressed the hope this would be the last occasion, and Sally had tried to believe her.  That would explain the long dress Sally was wearing, which was a bit too much for the heat of the day.  My two were in short dresses, at nine years old they were getting a bit long in the tooth for them, but they were more appropriate for the weather, and made nappy-checks and changes that much easier.  Juliet admired Liz's and Kate's all-in-ones which could occasionally be seen beneath the hems of their skirts, but confessed to me that she didn't think Sally would be needing them long enough for them to be a worthwhile investment.  She was in pull-ups today, and damn Aunt Claire's Greenie views, but they were all that was needed to catch the small chance of an accident.

Mum joined the conversation with the observation that nappies today were not what they had been when Juliet and I were small.  Our sudden mutual silence didn't stop her, and she continued. She told us how they needed so much washing, but that it was worth it to see us safely nappied in thick, soft terry-towelling with white plastic pants giving us nice rounded bottoms and making us waddle so cutely, while ensuring we were going to be safe and dry and comfortable for the whole long night.  Well, safe and comfortable anyway.  I thought back for a moment.  Yes, safe and sometimes difficult to realise I was wet until Mum pulled them down in the morning and the cold air hit my wet loins.  Sometimes I still yearned for the soft bulk between my legs, the smooth plastic, and the knowledge that I wouldn't be in trouble if I wet my nappy.  That was a part of the unspoken deal; I wouldn't object (very much) to having to wear them and in return she would never scold me for wetting them.  Such are the little privileges of childhood that we give up in exchange for the imperative of growing up.

I might sound a little crazy that two sisters should meet for the first time in months, and their subject of conversation should be their daughter's nappies, but then it was a rare problem, and we seldom had the chance to discuss it with someone "in the know", and it was good to get the general frustrations off our chests. 

At that moment Sally came wandering back in with Percy's son Haldane in tow.  Hal was now thirteen, and just beginning to realise what girls were really for, a subject that was not yet entirely clear to Sally, but she was enjoying the attention just the same. Juliet rather abruptly asked if she had remembered to use the toilet, which got a frown from Sally and a slight smirk from Hal, who should have known better.  I saw his mouth open to make some sarcastic comment to the fact that Sally's nappy was still dry, but I managed to silence him with a Number Three Frown, a useful attribute that I had learned in business.  Sally didn't miss the exchange, and went on her way grinning.

At that moment luncheon was called, so I called after Sally and asked her where my two had got to. She told me they were in the laundry room searching for Black Jack Sinclair's hidden treasure, a legend which had kept the children of the household enthralled for generations.  That was not good news - the laundry room conjured memories - memories of heaps of terry nappies to wash, washed or drying, and all intended ultimately for my own bottom, not to mention rows of plastic pants pegged out where everybody could see them and not doubt their purpose.  They would all be my intimate companions in the long watches of the night, spreading my legs and wrapping my bottom close and tight, giving me deep unworried sleep at the cost of a brief discomfort and humiliation when they were removed in the morning.  The thought warmed me, and I went to recover my twins before they knocked the laundry room down.

The Laundry room was separate from the main building, as it had been the original kitchen for the ancient house.  It had long been used as a laundry room and store room, but the huge chimneybreast was still there at one end.  It was there that I found my offspring. No dollies for them today, no princess dresses, no bows - they were up a stepladder thumping the walls of the chimneybreast. I called to them to come down immediately - they were getting dusty and dirty and would need cleaning up - and possibly changing - before they would be presentable at the luncheon table.

"Mum!" We've found a hollow bit!" Liz protested, "It might be the treasure!"
"Chimneys do tend to be hollow, dear, it helps the smoke go up!"
"But Muuum!..."
I wasn't having it. "Come on, lunchtime!"
"But Muuuuum, It might be Black Jack's Treasure!"
"Did you remember to go?  Come on, let's have a look at you!"
"They went." I hadn't noticed Alice, Claire's younger daughter, standing in the corner, arms folded and obviously enjoying the scene.  "I made them.  On the hour.  Every hour."  The ancient formula still held true.  It kept them dry at school, but at weekends or playtime there was sometimes a lapse.  I thanked Alice, and took a look at her.  At eighteen she was the quiet sensible one, and in her quiet way, a beauty..  She had been through all of this, and was part of our sisterhood, and knew the hazards of concentrating too much on a really good game.

I spared my daughters the indignity of a nappy check, and shepherded them out of the half-door and back up to the house. This was their grandmother's treat, and they were part of it.

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Always a great thing seeing a new chapter of this story. It’s hard to believe but this story has been going for getting close to 10 years now. That’s awesome. I was very happy I had a like to give it. 

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  • 4 months later...

The 'Flu 

What has it come to when the best a mother can do for her daughter is to give her a well-stuffed nappy?  I looked down at Kate.  She was not a happy child, her temperature was way up and her eyes were dull.  All the kids at her school had gone down with it, and I had taken time off from the office to look after her.  Julian was more than competent to fill in for me, and Grace Models would carry on without their figurehead for a while, so I could give my full attention to my sick daughter.

Kate had had a bad night, and it wasn't just a wet one.  Matt had assured me that it was just the 'flu that was going around, but I still didn't quite trust it.  Changing my daughter gave me a good chance to examine her, looking for a rash.  A tumbler stood on the table beside the bed ready for instant action if one was detected, and I had heard enough stories about kids getting meningitis to make me terrified of the smallest red mark.  

I reached for the ointment - a four-finger load this time, as I wasn't going to risk nappy rash for a moment.  Kate didn't object; the ointment must have been blessedly cool as I spread it between her legs.  This was just routine,  if she was sick in bed, then she wore a nappy, she was expected to use it and there would never be any penalty or repercussions. There would be no deterrent to her taking a nap, and no need to make the usual precautionary trek to the toilet every hour.  It was a concession, the least I could do.

I was using a terry square on her.  Not the normal 'sposie or pull-up that she would wear in the daytime if we were going on a journey somewhere, this was the Full House; kite-fold, booster, and even a liner.  I didn't expect her to need the liner, but I had heard that diarrhoea was a common side-effect of this type of  'flu, and I wasn't taking any chances.  The result of a big accident leaking was really more than I could contemplate at the moment, so she was effectively going to be double-nappied for a while.  If Kate noticed the unusual thickness of her new nappy, she didn't object, but just spread her legs a little wider as I pulled the front of it up between them and spread it on her tummy.  This was one of the new ones - we had recently gone up a size, and although they looked enormous, the bamboo terry was not as thick as the old cotton towelling.

I shook out her plastic pants and she obligingly raised her feet for them.  I slipped them over without delay and pulled them up to her thighs.  These were also new, and a size larger than before, so there was plenty of room inside.  They had the advantage that they were Euroflex and breathed well, so she wouldn't get too hot in there.  She put her feet down and lifted her bottom so I could slip the waistband under her. Enclosed elastics - another thing I had insisted on: there is no point in nappying the child if you still get wicking or leaks, and these nappies were meant for use, serious use, rather than as a simple precaution.

I tucked the leg elastics well up into her nappies as another precaution against leaks.  I had learned how to do it from my mother, as she had learned it from Gran and so on back to heaven-knows-when.  The result was a huge bulge between her legs, which were spread so far apart that she would obviously have difficulty walking.  That was not the point.  Stay in bed was the order of the day, and the implication was that if she needed to go, she could do it in her nappy, so there would be no excuse for her to get out to play or wander around the house.  I pulled her pyjama top down to partly cover her pants, pushed a pillow under her knees, and plumped the pillows behind her head to allow her to recline before drawing up the bedclothes and tucking her in.  Her teddy and a bottle of orange squash completed the picture and she lay there with legs akimbo below the mountain of nappy in the middle of her.  That should last her the whole morning.  I discussed breakfast, checked that the TV remote was within reach and left her to it for a while. It was the best I could do.

Downstairs I found my other daughter, Liz, busy laying the breakfast table.  I told her that Kate would not be joining us this morning and she expressed the necessary sorrow.  I then told her that she would be sleeping in the guest bedroom from now on in the hope, probably the vain hope, that she would dodge the infection.  She shrugged, and I made a mental note that I would have to fit a waterproof sheet to that bed - a double bed - at some point during the day.  Liz was no more continent than her twin sister, and such precautions were necessary.  I told her to stay away from her sister at the moment which got me a frown and wrinkled lip, so I pointed out that I didn't want her to catch the same thing Kate had.
"I'll probably get it anyway." was her retort, eminently practical as always, "Then you'll have both of us in bed."
"I hope not," I replied, "I don't want to spend the whole of my life washing nappies."
"I won't need one." she replied.
"You did last night," I retorted, "you were well soaked, and the night before."
"But I don't need them in the daytime," she persisted, "I'm careful to go every hour."
I nodded.  It had been drilled into them.  Very necessary when going to school.  Long car journeys were another matter, and that was acknowledged by all of us.
"Kate will probably take a number of naps during the day," I replied, "and she might well forget to go every hour.  I've told her to stay in bed.  I think it's for the best.... Erm... you put the forks on the left."

With Liz packed off to school, I was able to devote more time to my sick child.  As expected, she spent quite a lot of time asleep, and when it came to a nappy check before lunch it appeared that my foresight was vindicated.  One very wet nappy hit the pail, and one rueful child was duly changed and returned to bed.  One very patient parent carried the heavy pail downstairs with a feeling of a job well done.

During the afternoon I remembered to sort out the guest bedroom, and laid out fresh pyjamas, pants and nappy from the linen cupboard for Liz that night; I would try to keep the chances of cross-infection to a minimum.  I didn't actually hold out much hope, but I would go through the motions with due diligence.  I looked in on Kate, and she was napping again, as Matt said she would.  I retrieved her lunch tray and tiptoed out.

Liz came bouncing in the door as I was making tea, dumped her backpack on the floor, and before I could stop her, she had bounded up the stairs to their bedroom.  I followed to find her half inside the door, and chatting to Kate, who was sitting up in bed and looking a bit less flushed.  I put the tray down on the side table and tried to shoo Liz out, but she slipped around me and went over to Kate.  I gave up. On her own head be it.  Kate said she was feeling much better, and swung her legs out of the bed, and waddled over towards the table.  One look at her drooping pants and I could see that action was required once more.  Never mind - that's what they were for.  I despatched Liz down to the kitchen to fetch her favourite biscuits that I had forgotten, and as she left the room I grabbed Kate and slipping my thumbs in the waistband of her pants slid the entire sodden package down her legs and onto the floor, where she stepped out of it.  I scooped it up and flicked it into the pail, then I grabbed a handful of baby wipes from the changing table and told her to wipe herself down and be quick about it.  While she was doing so I took a fresh nappy from the shelf, flicked it into a kite-fold, then I lifted Kate and sat her down in the middle of it.  A dollop of ointment, and I pinned her up quite brusquely. By the time Liz came in the door I was pulling Kate's plastic pants up over her nappy. Practice makes perfect.  The only change noticeable was that she was now wearing frilly pants where before there had been plain ones.  

Liz, while she must have noticed the change, made no comment and we got on with tea.  Kate, however looked distinctly embarrassed.  There was a long silence, then to my amazement Liz looked up at me and said, "Mum, can I have a nappy on like Kate's?" For once I was caught wordless. "I mean," she went on "it isn't fair that she has to be in nappies and I am allowed to be out of them.  Please, I just want to be like Kate, I won't wet it, well, not deliberately anyway."  I felt my lips moving.  I wanted to reply but words didn't come.  Liz got up, went over to the changing table and pulled out one of the diminishing supply of nappies.  "It won't hurt, and Kate will feel much easier if we are both in nappies."  

I couldn't argue.  We'd had our fair share of sibling rivalry, of one-upmanship, and some bitter, envious arguments.  To find such compassion was not just rare, it was unprecedented.  As Liz folded the nappy I regrouped my thoughts  and became the caring mother again.  Part of me said that it was very much the WRONG thing to do, but another part of me said that I should foster Liz's sense of compassion for her sister.  Yet again part of me hid darker thoughts.  I remembered how nice it felt to be in nappies, the feeling of warmth, softness, and above all, safety.  That nagging fear that I might have an accident at any moment, that I might disgrace myself, all evaporated when I could feel the cushion between my legs.  I remembered the pleasure I took in being nappied, to be the centre of attention even though I was the smallest and most insignificant person in the room.  I remembered manipulating Peter into nappying me;  the ointment, the strong hands, dreadful, embarrassing thoughts but so very good.  I remembered the vicarious thrill of being outside in a nappy where people might see me - the danger of being exposed.  It all came back to me in the few moments it took Liz to drop her pants and climb into the centre of the folded nappy.

My paralysis departed, and my voice returned. "No, don't do that, you'll prick yourself!" and I took the pin from her, "Let me do it." and I did it, slowly and carefully.  I looked into my daughter's eyes, and I saw her looking back.  She was delighted, for once she was controlling me, and she was loving being nappied, and I was loving pinning her nappy onto her.

I searched through the heap of plastic pants and found the other pair of frillies, normally reserved for formal occasions such as trips to Pembroke or family weddings, where I wanted to show the rest of the family that the girls were well padded out, and assure them there would be no accidents to mar the day.  I wrung them between my hands slipped them over Liz's ankles and drew them slowly and deliberately up her legs.  I watched her eyes.  There was real delight there. I stood her up, and slipped them over her nappy with a soft rustle.  Then I tucked in the leg elastics, and gave her the obligatory pat on the bottom and kiss on the forehead.  She was done, and safe now, and I released her to rejoin her sister, equals again and reunited.
 

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 I am still excited to see a new chapter has been added to this awesome story. I know that Liz thinks she is pulling one over on mom, we all know that mom was the pro at getting what she wanted and that usually meant a thick cloth nappy. I actually wished that mom would have suttley let her know she was well aware of what she was doing but that it was still good for now. I was very pleased to be able to give this a like and I am already looking forward to seeing the next chapter. 

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  • 3 weeks later...

The Journey


Praise where it was due, and this was indeed cause for congratulation.  A long, long car journey all the way to Verbier and the twins had kept their pull-ups dry.  A stop at a service area every couple of hours had worked, and given Matt and me a chance to exchange drivers, but the girls had gone each leg of the journey and stayed dry.  Well done girls!  Normally that would have been the classic nappy-trip with possibly a couple of changes, but the girls were nine years old now and at last we seemed to be making some progress. Furthermore, they had managed to stay dry overnight as well, although they had been well padded, of course.  I had brought enough disposables for the whole fortnight for both girls,  and in addition - a major source of contention - enough pull-ups to last both girls for the whole day, every day. I knew from previous experience that the combination of cold, intense activity, and one-piece snowsuits made daytime accidents almost unavoidable and had made provision accordingly.

I thought I had been clever in buying bright pink snowsuits for the girls, but had forgotten that almost every other girl on the mountain would have a bright pink snowsuit.  At least all the other girls didn't have red hair, so I could still see which ones were mine as they flashed past.  I took things more steadily, not that I couldn't ski but I wanted to stay in one piece, and kept myself to the intermediate runs.  I let Matt go off down the black runs, but for him it was a matter of pride; I preferred a gentler life.

The girls continued to object to having to wear pull-ups under their ski-suits, but I continued to insist - washing a ski-suit wasn't all that easy, and the warm filling suffered, so I stood my ground.  I argued that nobody could see and so nobody would ever know.  This lasted until the about the fourth day when they were approached by an American girl in the same class, who asked very discretely if they were wearing some form of protection.  Both my girls went red, which, like me, they do very easily, but the girl went on that she too wore something  just in case.  Her mother insisted, blah, blah, blah.  That broke the ice, and the three of them went off to discuss the iniquities of Mothers as a class, and to compare notes.  After that, they were inseparable.  One afternoon after skiing  I went to their room to check on them, and found all three together, stripped to T-shirts and pull-ups, lying on the beds and discussing the disposable nappies that my two had to wear at nights.  They agreed that it was absolutely outrageous that they should be treated in such a cavalier manner, and how it stopped them from going on sleepovers with their friends.  In the following days they checked out the rest of their class, playing spot-the-diaper, which was surprisingly fruitful, especially with the younger children. 

 I got some of my own back when I met Cassie's mother, and we compared notes.  Her daughter only wet the bed two or three times a week, and she wore all-in-ones at night, so she could wear the same diaper several nights running until she wet it.  That sounded like heaven to me, as my two were wet as often as not, but when they wet, it was copious.  We discussed all-in-ones, and I found that she used the brand that Helen marketed, albeit under and entirely different brand-name to her bespoke couture of which I was a such sponsor. I told Jeri about this, and that the all-in-ones had originally been designed for my daughters, but their habit of sleeping on their sides had made them inclined to leak,.  Jeri asked if I found that disposable tended to leak if the child slept on their sides, and so I told her that it was a problem, but that I usually put plastic pants over them to minimise it, and at home they still wore traditional terries, although they were now bamboo instead of cotton, and so the conversation rattled on. I didn't tell Jeri that I had Helen run up a couple of pairs in my size for me to try, which gave me some insight into their effectiveness.  That is not a subject I want bruited abroad.

 Jeri told me that the largest problem with her daughter was maintaining her self-confidence, when she was so regularly humiliated by having to wear "diapers" for so much of the time.  Fortunately my two had never suffered from that; self-confidence seemed have sprouted in reaction to their problems, and, frankly, it was quite hard work to keep them on the leash at some times.  Mother, who had watched the children growing up from a safe distance, said that if you dropped my two into a pool of piranhas they would have the piranhas stripped to the bones within two minutes, and there were times when I thought she was right.

We were both delighted that the girls had found kindred spirits with whom to share their  woes, and we agreed to stay in touch.  Jeri was married to a diplomat who was based at the Embassy in London, so it would be very easy.

All went very well for the two weeks of our stay, but on the final day an old adage came to hit us; it is said that an Englishman will break his leg on the first day, or the third day, or the last day.  Matt chose the last day.  Bless Him!  There was something of an irony in having an orthopaedic surgeon with a broken leg, and it wasn't lost on the girls.  Having seen Matt being recovered on a stretcher by the ski patrol they clustered around asking a plethora of questions, finally asking that if his leg was broken, could he not fix it himself?  This was perhaps, the wrong thing to ask while your father is being carried off on a stretcher, but then it was perhaps the best time to ask him - he couldn't do much about it.

That left me with a number of problems; the hotel were very helpful in letting us stay another couple of nights, and the girls managed to enjoy even more skiing, but it meant I would have to do all the driving myself on the way home.  That involved leaving before dawn, finding my way down the mountain in the dark on frozen roads, and driving hard for a long day along the French autoroutes.  I told the girls to get themselves dressed and ready while I concentrated on manoeuvring my three-legged husband into the front seat and arranging his crutches safely, leaving the girls to grumble their way into their safety seats in the back. A quick check to make sure everything was packed and we started the horrible journey down the mountains.  The Range Rover had our skis in a box on top, and was fully loaded inside, and I couldn't trust the handling.  Lucy the Lotus it was NOT!

As dawn broke we were clear of the worst of it and established on the autoroute. The French autoroutes are toll-paying, which means they are not too busy and we made good time for the first couple of hours.  Then the dread cry came from the back: "Mu-uum! can we stop for a minute?"  That usually implied urgent business.  Fortunately there was a rest area just ahead, and I went for it.  There are two types on the autoroutes; rest areas which are frightfully basic with just a toilet block, and often the dreadful stoop-and-poop toilets at that, and the big Service areas with fuel, restaurants, shops and so on.  This was a very basic rest area, and I was quietly interested to see how the girls would react to the very basic amenities.  The car park was empty, and Matt managed to sort himself out against the hedgerow while I took the girls into the toilet block  there the full extent of the problem was revealed.  Wet tights, wet skirts, and no pull-ups.  Instant row.  Protests from the girls that they had run out of pull-ups because of the extra days in the hotel.  I took their wet tights off and made them use the toilets, then run back to the car. Once there I told Matt what had happened, and he was furious.  My course of action was clear: into the back of the Range Rover, find the disposable nappies, and change the girls on the back seat. Take their skirts and tights and wipe down the child booster seats, which by dint of good design, were waterproof.  Follow up with baby wipes in all directions. and reinstall the girls, strapped into their seats, with only nappies on their bottom halves.  Ignore all protests and drive on.

We made one more stop for fuel and lunch before we reached the Tunnel.  I found some leggings for the girls, and their coats covered almost all of their nappies (except when seen from the back), but they still needed a visit to the Baby Changing room, which fortunately was vacant.  We were now running very low on disposables, too, and I elected to press on regardless, stocking the girls up with drink and snacks, and leaving them to it.  Fortunately, in the Tunnel, you stay with your car, unlike the ferry where you have to leave it in the hold and go up to the passenger decks.  That made one more change possible on the back seat, using the last of the disposables and I left the leggings off, the better to keep an eye on those pillows between their legs and spot when they were wet.  It was a sensible move.  It was only an hour back to home from the ferry to home, but by the time we got there both the girls were soaking wet yet again, and their nappies were sagging as they ran back into the house.

I got Matt into the house, and directed the girls to sort out their own baths while I unloaded the luggage.  I left the skis and other kit inside; that was just too much for the day.  I went to check the girls, and they said they didn't want any supper; they had feasted on snacks and soft drinks all the way to the Tunnel, and had slept thereafter, and were ready for bed.  Just one essential ritual remained.  There were no disposables left, so I folded terries across the changing table and sat the girls on top, anointing, powdering, pinning and panting in a production line, then both of them were tucked into bed where they fell asleep almost immediately.

I made a quick supper for Matt and myself out of the freezer and microwave, and then escorted him on his crutches up the stairs to bed.  Then I hit the sheets and passed out to a welcome oblivion.  That's the joy of family holidays, they are so relaxing.


 

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  • 3 weeks later...

Always juch a treat to read a new chapter. I actually laughed at the ending. How true is that statement. I always feel like I need a vacation to recover from the vacation I was just on. Still I would never give up on the great times I had with my kids on our vacations. Most involved camping but all were throughly enjoyable and created lasting memories. I am a little surprised that the girls put up a fuss about having to be protected during the trip. I thought they rather enjoyed their nappies. I was more than happy to give this a like and I will always be ready to read more. 

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I think the girls do actually like their nappies, but are playing a game with Mum.  Easily done, and perhaps hard to spot - unless mother shares the same feelings and recognises the symptoms.  Then, again, maybe she likes keeping the girls nappied; it is a way of controlling what are a pair of rather wild and very determined children - just like their Mum!.

Play up and play the game!

Lots to explore yet.  Thank you for the feedback - it makes it all worthwhile.

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