All My Mother's Rules (Ch. 70 & Epilogue - 2/13/24)

[MinnesotaWriter]

Sarah's mom is a strict disciplinarian, with rules for anything and everything. When the 14-year-old girl begins to wet her pants again, will she be able to avoid getting caught in the web of all her mother's rules?

Her mother is currently attempting to potty train Sarah's 3-year-old sister, Emilia, and it's been a disaster so far. Her mother has instituted a strict regimen of potty-training rules for Emilia, and as Sarah begins to experience an ever-increasing amount of daytime and bedwetting accidents, she must navigate school, sleepovers, cheerleading practices, and a new friendship while attempting to keep her condition a secret. 

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Links to all of my stories are available at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com

Chapter 1: Crime and Punishment

Christmas was my mother’s favorite time of the year. Can’t say the same for myself. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I liked Christmas as much as any other kid. Racing down the stairs at the crack of dawn to get the first glimpse of the surprises beneath the tree. Decorating cookies. And candy canes. I absolutely loved candy canes.

But Mom took it to the extreme. And by extreme, I mean that I’d just stepped off the bus to the sight of her at the top of a ladder stringing lights across the front of the house. It was the first week of October.

I did my best to keep a straight face despite the giggles coming from my friends Desi and Samantha. They knew the drill, but it didn’t make the situation any less funny to them. At least this year, Mom was not putting up Christmas-themed Halloween decorations. Skeleton Santa, anybody? Yeah, no thanks.

I try not to make eye contact with Mom. I swear she was always trying to come up with new ways to embarrass me. She had on the absolute worst Christmas sweater, which was saying a lot because she’s got a closet full of them. It was unusually chilly for a fall day in New Mexico, and any excuse to wear a sweater was a good one for her. Walking quietly up the driveway, I nearly reached the front door - Christmas wreath on it and all - without catching her eye. Like I’d ever gotten away with that.

“Sarah,” Mom yelled. “Make sure to check up on your sister before you start your homework. It’s been about thirty minutes.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” I reply, followed by a sigh that was too small for her to notice.

I might be turning fifteen soon, but any noticeable back-talk or back-anything meant risking some hard swats to my bottom.

Having been an only child for the first eleven years of my existence, I was so thrilled when Emilia was born three-and-a-half years ago. I had helped decorate Emilia’s nursery, picking out all the colors and accessories. I even arrived at the hospital all proud with by big sister shirt on. That thrill had lasted all of three weeks until I graduated from adoring older sister to unpaid babysitter. And don’t tell me it builds character. I’d heard that cliché more than enough.

I opened the door to the sound of “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” serenading through the house, followed by the pitter-patter of bare feet scrambling across the wood floor.

“You’re home! You’re home,” Emilia yelled as she rushed around the corner and gave me a hug around my waist. I mean, of course, I’m home. Not like Mom usually let me go anywhere else after school was out. Fourteen might be old enough to babysit my sister, but Mom didn’t think it was old enough to do things like sleepovers.

Emilia was dressed in a pink Minnie Mouse t-shirt with a matching pink Minnie Mouse pull-up. If you were wondering what Mom had asked me to check, let’s just say my latest responsibility was being conscripted into the great potty-training war. This was our third attempt. Unfortunately, Mom hadn’t found my jokes about “World War Pee” to be particularly funny.

We had made two heroic attempts at potty-training already: once when Emilia had turned two and again after her third birthday. We tried every tactic we could think of. Stickers, charts, rewards, special “big-girl” panties, potty-training toilets in every room of the house. There was a week where we had let Emilia just run around naked. That was such a mess. Mom had even half-joked about having me wear pull-ups to model good potty-training behavior for Emilia. I’m so glad she didn’t go through with that.

This time around, though, we needed to succeed. There weren’t any other options. Emilia would be kicked out of her preschool if she wasn’t toilet trained by her fourth birthday. Mom threw a fuss with the daycare, but I don’t blame them. Who wants to be changing a four-year-old’s dirty diaper? I sure as heck didn't.

Our most recent strategy was for Emilia to be wearing a special potty-training watch that went off every thirty minutes to remind her to go to the toilet. We’ve given up on those plastic potty-chairs - such a pain to clear up after - and had instead settled for a toddler seat that could be quickly placed on the toilet in our lone bathroom.

“Guess what? Guess What?” Emilia clamored while giggling. “I’ve been dry all day.”

I’m a bit skeptical of that statement. Emilia isn’t very good at noticing her accidents. What was that phrase Mr. Higgins had taught us from that president recently in history class? Oh yeah, “Trust, but verify.”

Emilia smelled good, at least, so she hasn’t done a number two. That was a relief. The last thing I needed right now was a poopy pull-up to change. I checked the front of her pull-up as well, and the wetness indicators were, surprisingly enough, all still unchanged. Guess she was dry after all. At home, Mom never let Emilia wear anything to cover her pull-up. She wanted to always be able to know right away whether it was dry, wet, or messy.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Well, Mom was right about the timer needing to go off.

“Come on, kiddo, it’s time to get you on the potty,” I said, grabbing Emilia by the hand.

This was followed by her usual, drawn-out protestations: “I don’t have to go. I don’t. I don’t have to. I... I don’t.”

Then she stomped her feet and started to pout. Emilia wouldn’t have dared to do that with Mom, but I’m the good cop after all. On other days, I might have attempted to gently cajole her into cooperation. Today I wasn’t having any of it. I grabbed her under the armpits with both hands and hauled her off to the bathroom with her whining all the way. A few minutes later, it turned out that she had needed to pee after all.

With the potty-training out of the way - for half-an-hour at least - I raced off to the kitchen to get an after-school snack. A few minutes of looking through the cupboards, fridge, and pantry left me feeling less hungry. There isn’t junk food of any type in sight. Mom had been on a health binge recently. I settle for a bag of veggie chips instead.

I take a look at my own watch. Thankfully, it didn’t come with a timer telling me when I had to go to the bathroom. But I had to start doing homework at 4:30 p.m. That’s another one of Mom’s rules. So that gave me just about twenty minutes or so to relax.

I wasn’t the only one getting a break. Mom was in the living room as well, showing Emilia how to put together a simple puzzle - of Minnie Mouse no less, cause that was my sister’s thing right now. I had barely been on the couch for just a couple seconds when Mom interrupted me.

“Did you wash your hands before you started eating, young lady?” she asked.

Mom had certain ways of saying things. Young lady means she knows full well what the truthful answer was. Any attempt to fib your way out of the situation would be futile.

“I’ll do it right now,” I replied. I didn’t want to outright admit how close I had come to breaking one of her rules.

“Remember, twenty seconds,” Mom yelled after I had already headed off to the bathroom sink.

When I came back to the living room, I wanted to take over the TV. There had to be something entertaining on. But I knew better than to interrupt what Mom was watching - home videos of our previous Christmas mornings. Look, most families videotape their Christmas mornings, and then that’s the end of it. They might upload it to YouTube or let the tapes collect dust in a cardboard box in the basement. But my mom, she loves to go back and watch them. It gets her in the Christmas spirit.

I grabbed a library book instead and picked up from where I had left my last bookmark.

“Why is Sarah wearing a pull-up?” Emilia interjected suddenly.

I was confused at first. I mean, I had panties on, after all. Then it dawned on me. Bless young children and their questions. I looked up from my book to the video playing on the TV. The slightly grainy footage must have been about six years old. But there I was, clear as day, opening presents next to the Christmas tree while wearing no clothing other than a pull-up adorned with a colorful assortment of flowers and butterflies. The pull-up was sagging between my legs and clearly soaked. I looked at the screen awkwardly for a few more seconds as felt my face go flush red before turning back to intently looking at my book.

Yes, I used to be a bedwetter, and my mom had ample evidence of it for all posterity. That was not something I liked being reminded about and was certainly not a subject I cared for my blabbermouth of a sister to be aware of.

OK, this was too embarrassing. I hopped off the couch, tossed my empty bowl into the sink, and walked toward my bedroom. Getting an early start on homework was better than watching videos of myself in pull-ups.

By my room, I really meant our room. Cause three people in a two-bedroom house means someone ends up sharing. Which was why I’m stuck in a room with my little sister.

Sharing a room with a baby, or for that matter, a toddler that isn’t toilet trained, sucks. There was always that lingering, hard to describe diaper smell that seems to persist despite the mighty powers of the Febreze can I keep in the top drawer of my dresser. I opened my backpack and pulled out the new book we were studying in my AP Literature class, “Crime and Punishment.”

Earlier today, I had struggled not to laugh when Mrs. Whittleworth passed out copies of the Dostoevsky novel. Crime and punishment. That was the story of my life, if there ever was one. Mom was big on rules. That was kind of her thing. And not just the normal rules a kid might have, like “no curse words” or “eat your veggies before your dessert.” My life was highly regulated. If I ever got  a grade on any school assignment, that was less than an “A.” Well, that’s a spanking. My butt still hurts when I think about the one time I got a “D” on a test.

With rules, come punishments, and I’d experienced every one known to childkind. Time-outs. Getting grounded. Having my mouth washed out with soap. And spankings. That was Mom’s favorite. She cherishes her grandfather’s wooden paddle like it was an actual family heirloom.

Once I logged into the computer at my desk, I made sure not to go to any sites that weren’t educational. Yes, Mom tracks where I go online, and, yes, if I waste time watching cat videos on YouTube I’ll likely not be allowed to touch the computer for the rest of the week. I logged into the website our school uses to let us track homework assignments and grades.

“Shit!” I said.

I didn’t like what I saw, and I was glad Mom was far enough away not to hear me. Stupid Mr. Higgins had given me a “C” on that quiz on President Reagan from earlier this week. What could I have gotten wrong? Getting a “B” wasn’t too bad, especially if it was a “B+.” But a “C?” That wasn’t going to make things fun tonight.

I did, however, have something going for me. Mom had one means of grace. If I’d broken a rule, and I told her rather than try to hide it or make her wait and find out herself, the punishment was usually a lot less. Mom did check my grades every couple weeks, but I would have heard it from her already if she’d seen it. I’d gotten better at avoiding spankings recently, but I didn't think I could get Mom in a good enough mood to talk her out of them for that bad of a grade on an assignment.

But I didn’t have to decide immediately. There was not any chance she checks my grades from the living room couch. Instead, I grabbed “Crime and Punishment” and jumped onto my bed, only to be greeted with a loud, crinkling sound. So irritating.

Normally, I wouldn’t pay attention to the crinkle coming from the plastic mattress cover on my bed. But after the video, it was just another awkward reminder of my bedwetting phase that I’d really rather put behind me. It wasn’t that Mom had been mean or strict about it, but it had still just been such a humiliating experience.

What was funny about the bedwetting was that Mom was nicer, a little, about nighttime accidents. I’d heard that the condition - I forget the medical name for it - was hereditary, but no way would I ever ask her about it.

I had wet the bed nearly every night until I was about nine. Mom never made too much of a fuss about it besides making me wear pull-ups every night and keeping a plastic cover on my mattress. I had to stay dry a whole month before I was allowed to stop with the pull-ups, but no matter how hard I asked, the plastic sheet was there to stay. That, and the reminders every night that I go potty before bed, you know, just in case, like I wasn’t a fully toilet trained teenager.

The rules Mom was more stringent on were the ones about daytime potty-training. It almost made me feel bad for my bratty sister. Almost, but not really. The potty-training rules were as follows:

No big girl panties unless you’ve gone seven straight days with no accidents.

Any accident, no matter the reason, meant you were back in pull-ups.

If you had two accidents in the same day, you’d be back in diapers for all the next day.

Once every thirty minutes, you had to sit on the potty for three minutes.

No lying about whether you’ve had an accident.

Yeah, it’s strict, but I mean, I was potty-trained during the day before I turned two, according to my mom. And Desi and Samantha’s younger siblings, who I think were around the same age as Emilia, all were perfectly capable of using the toilet on their own. Who knew what was wrong with Emilia?

I flipped through the first few pages of the book. I hated AP Lit. This book was going to be the death of me. I’d only got five weeks to read and then write a report on it. Maybe I’d ask Desi for help. At least she can get onto CliffsNotes without her parents caring or noticing. As I read through the opening chapter, I couldn’t help going back to think about my own impending punishment. After fifteen minutes and only three pages, I decided that I may as well get it over with. I set the book down and headed back toward the living room.

I tried to be calm as I walked into the room. I really did. But Mom must have some sort of sixth sense cause she caught on right away that I was apprehensive about something.

“Sweetie, what was wrong?” Mom asked.

Sweetie, now that’s another one of my mom’s keywords. She does that when she suspects I’d done something wrong, but doesn’t know what. I could still back out now, tell her that everything was OK and hold off for another day. But though I had walked into the room determined to get the spanking over with, the words just stayed stuck in my mouth, refusing to come out. Mom gets what was going on.

“Do you have something you need to tell me?” she asked.

I nod and walk up to her. I know the drill. This scene had played out hundreds of times before in my life. I could recite it as well as any of the lines from my school play. But just like in real life, when it comes time to go before an audience, I always mucked it up.

“Mom, I broke your rule about getting good school grades,” I spat out, garbling all the words together.

“No, say that slower and enunciate your words.”

“I got a ‘C’ on a quiz in my American History class,” I said crisply and clearly, with my eyes pointing down at my feet.

“No, young lady, you look me in the eye while I’m talking to you.”

I matched my mom’s eye and felt my face go full red. Oh, I hated how I had no control over my blushing. It just always seemed to amply the shame that I felt. I repeated about how I had gotten a ‘C’ on the quiz.

“And why was it wrong for you to get that grade?”

“Because I need to be an ‘A’ student so I can get a good scholarship and go to college.”

“And what is the punishment for getting a ‘C’ on an assignment?”

This was trickier, you see. While my mom had punishments, they weren’t always consistent. Make it too easier, and she might go a lot harder on you. But if you gave yourself too much of a punishment, well, you were stuck with that as well. I decided to play it cautiously.

“A spanking.”

Mom gave me that look. And I knew right away I had given the wrong answer.

“And just how many spankings was that punishment going to be,” she said.

I hesitated, which was bad. I’m always bad at thinking on my feet. I spat out the first number that comes to mind.

“Twenty.”

Bad, bad, bad idea Sarah. Twenty was more than I’d gotten when I’d burnt dinner and set off the fire alarm. I probably could have gotten away with just five. But Mom didn’t object, didn’t say that seems like a bit much. She just gave a soft smile and stood up from the couch. It was so unfair.

“Hold still and lift up your shirt a little,” Mom said.

I complied without saying a word. The shock of impending spankings was still fresh. Why, why, why did I have to suggest twenty of them? I pulled my shirt up just enough to reveal the top of my jeans and my belt. I felt Mom’s hands as she undid my belt buckle and then pulled the entire belt loose. Next, she unbuttoned my jeans, pulled them off my hips, and let them fall down.

Mom sat back down on the couch. She didn’t have to say what I was to do next. I already knew. I stepped out of the jeans, leaving them in a pile in front of the couch and carefully lay on the couch facedown so that my bottom was directly on my mom’s lap. My head was facing the TV, which only added to the humiliation. The video was paused right at an angle where you could fully see how wet the pull-up was. Yellow and saggy. Why couldn’t Mom have changed me out of it before opening presents?

Emilia had stopped building her puzzle, which was about halfway done, a look of puzzlement on her face. It had been a while since I’d been spanked. Who knows, maybe she doesn’t even remember having witnessed it before. I sure as heck didn’t want an audience for this.

“Emilia,” Mom said. “Go get the black bag that was in mommy’s closet.”

I should have known I wasn’t going to get away with her not using a paddle. We live in a small house. It shouldn’t have taken even Emilia more than a minute to grab the bag. But it felt like an eternity. Why did I have to get a stupid “C” on that quiz, anyway? All I had wanted was to get the spanking done and over with quickly, but it kept getting drawn out.

The pitter-patter of Emilia’s feet signaled that she had at last come back to the room. The plain, black gym bag was what Mom used to keep all her disciplinary supplies in. Several types of paddles. Non-toxic soap to wash out mouths. Lotions and ointments for treatment after a spanking. The next choice Mom makes would greatly determine my level of discomfort. Please, please, please don’t use the wooden paddle, I prayed silently.

After Mom had finished rustling through the bag, I saw Emilia come back into view, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table where she had been working on her puzzle. But she hadn’t gone back to playing. She was facing me with a curious look in her eyes. My face was burning now. Why couldn’t Mom just send her away?

Without any warning, Mom pulled down my panties to expose my bare bottom. Oh great, this was it. She held the paddle against my bottom to line it up. And she had chosen the wooden one. I’d gone a year without getting a wooden paddle spanking.

Smack. The first whack knocked the breath out of me. I was barely able to squelch a sob. The strikes proceeded likely clockwork every five seconds. One after another. Left. Right. Left. Right. I was able to hold out for the first few swats. But the tears and cries of pain were inevitable.

Emilia watched the entire time. And that brat even started giggling. Suddenly, as quickly as they had started, the spankings came to a stop. The only sound in the room was my heavy breath and receding sobs. A cool sensation covered my bottom as Mom rubbed a lotion into my skin. Despite the relief it was giving, I knew sitting would be a pain in the you know what for the next week.

Mom pulled my underwear back up and helped me sit on her lap. Her hand took a firm grip of my chin as she held my face steady with hers.

“There, there,” she said. “Now, what lesson have you learned from this?”

“I’ll study harder and get good grades. I promise.”

I couldn’t help it. All the pent-up emotion, pain, and tension had to come loose again. The floodgates burst open, and I cried and cried and cried into Mom’s shoulder as she rubbed my back. It was over. Thank goodness it was over.

Another beeping found filled the house. But it wasn’t Emilia’s watch. Mom quickly set me down on the couch.

“Put your jeans back on and help your sister clean up her toys while I get the casserole out of the oven,” she said.

Just the effort of sitting up and pulling on my jeans was enough to remind me of how sore I was going to be. As I finished pulling on my jeans, the sight of Emilia sitting in front of me gave me an idea about how to teach that brat that it was not nice to laugh when your sister was getting spanked.

I reached down and ever so gently gave her the slightest of tickles, enough for her to feel my touch, but hopefully not enough to blame me for what was about to happen. If there was one way in which my sister and I were most alike was that we were super ticklish at even the slightest touch. I knew all her weak spots.

The result was exactly what I had hoped for. Emilia jumped up with a little squeal and placed both hands on the front of her pull-up. I didn’t even need to look at the wetness indicator to know what had just happened.

“Mom,” I yelled, doing my best to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “Emilia just had an accident.”

Karma may not be a bitch, but it certainly was a wet pull-up.

 

[D503]

Wonderful debut!

[Guilend]

I like it

[Jayme]

19 hours ago, MinnesotaWriter said:

Karma may not be a bitch, but It certainly is a wet pull-up.

I love how you left us wanting more from this. Sarah seems to have a rigid structure to follow at all times and if she's not careful she may find her AP Lit class is the least of her worries.

I eagerly anticipate your next chapter and want to thank you for sharing your wonderful story with us here.

[MinnesotaWriter]

Chapter 2: Guilty Conscience

The downside to making Emilia pee herself was that I was the one stuck changing her wet pull-up. Mom hated changing diapers or pull-ups. So guess who’s gotten to do that a couple thousand times over the past several years? Yes, yours truly.

In truth, I didn’t mind it too much. A wet pull-up isn’t that big of a deal to change, and, thankfully, going number two in the toilet was the one part of potty training that Emilia had nearly managed to master.

Emilia cried all the way to the bedroom. She wanted to be a big girl so badly. During this latest attempt at potty training, her failure to learn how to properly use the toilet hasn’t been due to a lack of trying. She even managed to reach the big girl panties stage twice, only to be relegated back to pull-ups as the result of accidents.

Our bedroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. The only furniture was my bed, her crib, a pair of dressers, and a tiny desk just big enough for my computer monitor. In our old house, we all had our separate rooms with enough space for changing tables and playpens. As I sifted through the drawer looking at Emilia’s collection of pull-ups and diapers, the one thing that struck me about her pull-ups was that they were so darn adorable with all the cute cartoon characters on them: Minnie Mouse, Elsa, Ariel, and every other Disney princess imaginable.

My unpaid babysitter duties extended beyond just changing diapers and potty training. Having good manners was another rule Mom heavily enforced, and, again, the responsibility of teaching that to Emilia fell to me. “Please” and “thank-you” were the focus right now, but getting her to do either still required quite a bit of prompting.

After grabbing a fresh pull-up from the drawer, I turned back around to face Emilia.

“And what do you need to tell me now?” I asked.

“I need my pull-up changed,” she whined.

I sighed. Emilia really did know better. Even if she was only three.

“And what do you say when you need your pull-up changed?”

“Can you change my pull-up?”

“Sis, you’re forgetting the magic word.”

“Please,” she said finally.

With that, I rolled out a changing mat onto my bed and plopped Emilia onto it. I was glad we were past her terrible twos when diaper changes had been an absolute nightmare. She laid on the bed complacently – I suppose it did feel good to be changed into a dry pull-up – lifting her legs up when I needed to wipe and not struggling even a little as I replaced her wet pull-up with a fresh one, this time with a picture of Ariel on the front. I placed the wet pull-up in the diaper bin and then made a mark on the potty-training calendar to note that she’d had an accident.

I gave Emilia a hug as I set her back down on the floor.

“And what do you say now?” I asked Emilia.

“Thank-you.”

“Thank-you for what?”

“Thank-you for changing my pull-up.”

You’re welcome, but you need to keep Ariel dry for the rest of today or it’s back to diapers, you understand?"

Emilia nodded back at me solemnly.

“I will. I will,” she said.

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Dinner, even if it was just meatball casserole, had its own sets of rules. All the silverware had to be in exactly the right place. No eating before we had a chance to bow our heads and say grace. No spilling any food. No talking with your mouth full. And, most importantly, you had to eat every last bite of food that Mom put on your plate. You weren’t leaving the table until you were completely done.

I gingerly lowered myself into a chair at the dinner table. Of course, it had to be a wood chair. My butt hurt so much. I had no idea how I was going to get through school tomorrow, if this was how it was going to feel.

Mom placed Emilia in a highchair next to herself. Emilia really was too old for it, but Mom was determined that if Emilia wasn’t wearing panties like a big girl, then she wouldn’t be treated like a big girl either. That meant Emilia also was wearing a bib and had to drink out of a sippy cup.

I was apprehensive as I held up my plate for Mom to scoop out a serving. I really hoped she wouldn’t put too much on my plate. Let’s just say I don’t share her affinity for casserole. Disgusting stuff, but I knew better than to voice that opinion out loud. Thankfully, her scoop wasn’t too big. I could manage. I just wanted to finish eating as quickly as possible so I could get my butt onto a much more comfortable surface.

Mom hadn’t mentioned anything about the spanking earlier today. She never did. It happened. Then it was over. She moved on without a second thought. I would rather eat in silence, but Mom always made sure there was plenty of conversation when we were together at the table.

“How did the cheerleading tryout go?” Mom asked.

I started to answer with a mouthful of food, but then paused until I had finished chewing. Close call.

“Good,” I replied.

Please, just let me eat so my butt can stop hurting.

I hadn’t wanted to be a cheerleader at all. Or do any after-school activities of any sort. Couldn’t I just spend my time after school reading or playing video games? But Mom was insistent that I had to have a ton of extra-curricular activities since apparently colleges care about that stuff when you apply. Getting on the cheer team as a freshman isn’t exactly easy. I’d come close to making the team at the beginning of the school year. However, my best friend Desi had gotten the spot instead. It had actually been a bit of a relief.

I thought I was out of the woods until last week, when Desi had taken a tough fall and torn her ACL. With her out for the season, they had an emergency try-out for a replacement. If only Mom hadn’t gotten wind of it. But she did, and I aced the try-out.

“So, when do you start?”

“Tomorrow. Practice goes until 5 p.m.”

Just less time to be doing the things I want to. And no more bus rides home with Desi and Samantha. Mom would have to be picking me up from school every day now.

I made sure to thank Mom for the dinner as I stood up from the table.

“Remember, you need to finish your homework before you play any video games,” she said.

---

I’d just gotten through the first chapter of “Crime and Punishment” when Mom opened the door to my room. Without knocking, I might add. She didn’t believe in privacy, or at least that I should have any.

“I’m going on a walk,” Mom said. “You’ll need to do your homework in the living room and keep an eye on Emilia. I’ll be about an hour.”

The Fitbit was another part of Mom’s health binge. She had to get her 10,000 steps every day, after all. Good thing she didn’t have to pay for a babysitter. Emilia was playing make-believe with a pair of hand-me-down Barbie dolls on a rug on the living room floor. Ugh, this book was hard enough to get through without also having to ignore her incessant chattering. After fifteen minutes, I had barely managed to get through a handful of pages when I felt the call of nature.

“You behave yourself. I’ll be back from the potty in a little bit,” I told Emilia.

The toilet seat wasn’t any more comfortable to sit on than the dining room chair, but when you gotta go you gotta go. I was nearly ready to flush when Emilia began to whine on the other side of the door. I couldn’t believe my luck.

“Sarah,” she whimpered. “Hurry. I need to potty. Please.”

Normally, I’d be happy to quickly finish up with my business and let her onto the toilet, but my still-stinging butt and the memory of her laughing during the spanking were too fresh in my head. Plus, with Mom gone, there wasn’t any way Emilia could force me off the toilet.

“Sis, you’re going to have to wait a few minutes. Can you be a big girl and do that for me?”

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” Emilia whined again. “I don’t wanna wear a diaper.”

If she was worried about being made to wear a diaper, that meant she was close to having an accident. It had been nearly thirty minutes since her last trip to the toilet.

I could hear her feet patter on the other side of the door. I suppressed a laugh at the mental image of the potty dance she must be doing. And since she’d already had one accident today, another one meant she’d have to be put back in diapers for a whole day. I’d be changing them, of course, but the feeling of schadenfreude was more than making up for it. I ripped off some toilet paper and pretended to still be cleaning myself off. Emilia wasn’t good at holding it at all. When she needed to go, she needed to go now. All I needed was to stall for a few more minutes.

“Emilia, big girls can hold their pee in for a few minutes. You’re going to have to do that for me if you want to prove that you were a big girl.”

After a couple of minutes, I heard Emilia’s prancing feet come to a sudden stop. There was a moment of silence – a rarity with her – followed by a steady stream of quiet sobs. Mission accomplished. In the great potty-training war, I’d just turned into a double agent. I finished with pretending to clean myself up. Another minute wouldn’t hurt now that the damage was done. At last, I flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom door to a very sorry sight.

Emilia was sitting down on the floor with her hands covering her face, both legs splayed out in front of her, giving me a perfect view of a completely soaked pull-up. There wasn’t a single wetness indicator remaining.

“Come on. Time to get on the potty,” I said, pretending not to notice her accident.

“I don’t wanna go potty,” she said. “Don’t need to.”

“Oh, it’s OK,” I cooed at her. “Did my baby sister have an accident?”

“I’m not a baby,” she shouted. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Emilia crossed her legs and tugged her shirt so that I could no longer see the pull-up. I really don’t know what was making me feel so vindictive today, but I wasn’t going to waste any chance to rub the accident in her face. I placed the potty-training cushion on top of the toilet seat, and then motioned for her to stand up.

“Come on, pull your pull-ups down and sit on the potty. Three minutes.”

The pull-ups fell to the floor with a squishy thud. I took a peek down at them to see the yellow, soaked insides. The next three minutes passed into total silence. There wasn’t any more pee that needed to come out.

“OK, time to put your pull-ups back on.”

“But.”

“No buts.”

I reached down and grabbed the pull-up that was hanging around Emilia’s feet on the floor. It was warm and squishy to the touch. A twinge of guilt began to form in the back of my mind. I remembered how it felt to be forced to wear a wet pull-up waiting for Mom to change me. Having to deal with the uncomfortable feeling of something warm and squishy being held tight again my skin with no control over when I would get cleaned up. All the same, I pulled it back up over her waist.

The rules were the rules. Two accidents today meant that I needed to put Emilia in a diaper once I’d gotten her cleaned up. I don’t normally question Mom’s rules, but in this instance a bit of doubt was gradually beginning to creep in. After all, both of Emilia’s accidents today were my fault. She hadn’t done anything to deserve having to be put back into diapers.

Without saying anything further, I picked Emilia up and carried her the short way to the bedroom. The changing mat was still there from the pre-dinner accident. As I lay her down onto the mat, tears were rolling down her face and onto the bed, but Emilia didn’t put up any resistance. I ran my hand gently along the back of her head and placed a pacifier in her mouth to sooth her.

“Hey, it’s OK, you’ll feel so much better once I’d gotten you all cleaned up.”

I had a choice to make when I opened the top drawer of Emilia’s dresser. I should’ve grabbed the diaper decorated with the Sesame Street characters, but the part of my conscience that was feeling bad for Emilia had won me over. I picked out another pull-up – making sure it was another Ariel one so Mom wouldn’t think anything was amiss – and grabbed the wipes and powder.

I ripped off the tearaway sides of the wet pull-up and proceeded to thoroughly wipe her clean. I added just a smidgen of baby powder after that. I didn’t use nearly as much as Mom would, as I can’t stand the smell.

The look of surprise on Emilia’s face when she realized I was putting another pull-up on her instead of a diaper was immensely gratifying. The tears stopped flowing, and a cautious smile was spread across her face. I lifted her bottom up and made sure the new pull-up was fit snugly around her waist.

As I tossed the used pull-up into the diaper pail, I made sure to conceal it underneath some wipes. Not that Mom was likely to go looking in there anyway. As I helped Emilia off the bed, she began to say something, but I quickly interrupted her.

“This was going to be our secret, OK? Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise,” Emilia replied.

 

 

[Shotgun Diplomat]

31 minutes ago, MinnesotaWriter said:

“This is going to be our secret, OK?

That phrase when used, especially with a three year old, never works out. I am loving this story, and I can't wait for your next installment. Thank-you. 

[MinnesotaWriter]

Chapter 3: New Leverage

“Sarah, Sarah, wake up.”

I never needed an alarm clock in the morning. Being the responsible student that I was, my clock was set to loudly and rudely wake me up at 6:45 a.m. every school morning so that I could get ready in time before the bus left.

But rather than waking to the buzz, buzz, buzz of the alarm, my morning usually began with Emilia tugging at my blanket. I rolled over to my side and took a peek at the alarm clock – 4:37 a.m. Even this was earlier than usual for her.

“Sweetie,” I yawned. “It’s much too early. Go back to bed.”

I couldn’t wait until she was old enough to understand how to use a clock. I tugged the covers back over my head and rolled over to the side facing the wall. I got a few moments of reprieve until I felt Emilia tugging at my blankets a bit harder than before. Life had been so much better before we had lowered one of the sides of her crib, which let Emilia get out whenever she pleased.

“Sarah, can you change me? I’m wet. Please.”

I really didn’t want to get out of bed, but at least she was remembering her manners this morning.

Emilia still wet the bed every night, and, if she took after me, she’d continue doing so for another five or six years. I knew she wouldn’t stop bothering me unless I got her cleaned up. I begrudgingly slipped out of bed and winced as I turned our bedroom light on. Much too bright for this early in the morning. I straightened out my covers to make room for the changing mat and Emilia crawled up onto it. I pulled her pink and blue Elsa nightgown up above her waist to reveal a soggy diaper. We still used diapers at night for her because the potty-training pull-ups would leak, and she wasn’t big enough yet to fit into the nighttime pull-ups that I had once worn as a bedwetter myself.

I made quick work of the diaper change. I was tired and wanted nothing more than to get back into bed. But when I was done changing Emilia, she didn’t go back to her crib.

“Please,” she said. “Can I sleep with you?”

That’s another bad habit she’s been getting into. I swear, it’s been nearly every other night when I’d woken up to find her in my bed cuddling next to me unannounced. I give Emilia a stern look, hoping to dissuade her.

“But please. I had a scary dream.”

I relent. I’d get back to sleep quicker if I just let Emilia into my bed than if I spent the next ten minutes arguing with her. And if we make too much noise, we’d wake up Mom and that was just asking for trouble. I gave Emilia a clean pacifier, lifted up the covers, and let her crawl in. I slipped into bed and cuddled behind her. I was asleep again before I knew it.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Ahh. Really. I slammed my hand against the alarm clock to put it into snooze. While I was wide-eyed and awake, Emilia was still asleep in bed. The pacifier wasn’t in her mouth anymore. It must have fallen behind the bed. I reached under Emilia’s nightgown to feel her diaper. Wet again. Not much, but still, how much could one kid pee at night anyway? I decided to let her sleep some more, while I hopped in the shower.

Emilia looked to still be fast asleep when I returned to the bedroom. Good. I always preferred dressing while she was asleep. Now, what to wear, what to wear. My options were pretty limited, considering the large stack of laundry that I had put off doing. Mom always makes me do my own laundry, and I’ll admit that I’d been procrastinating on it. I’m not much of a girly girl. Jeans paired with a hoodie or a t-shirt were my normal style. I grabbed an unused Fortnite hoodie from a closet hanger and checked the jeans I had worn yesterday. No stains, so I could get away with wearing them again.

That was another thing I was dreading about cheer-leading. The outfit for that – a mini-skirt and short-cut top – was just not my style. I didn’t care for the idea of accidentally exposing my panties to anyone. Well, I’d just have to see how that new outfit looks on me later today. Coach said she’d have a uniform all set to go after school. I packed my gym bag with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt for practice, and made a mental note to make sure to grab a water bottle from the kitchen before getting on the bus.

Unlike most of the students in my class, I also had the added responsibility of getting my sister ready for the day as well. Thankfully, that didn’t mean doing much other than changing Emilia into a pull-up and t-shirt and then ushering her into the kitchen for breakfast. Mom would take care of getting Emilia dressed for preschool and then drop her off on her way in to work.

I gave Emilia a little nudge on her shoulder. She wiggled a little too much. That brat was just pretending to be asleep.

“If you don’t get up, the tickle monster was going to get you.”

That got her attention. Emilia jolted up.

“What pull-ups do you want to wear today?” I asked her.

“Minnie Mouse!”

I should have known. That’s been her answer every morning for the past several days. I sifted through the pull-up drawer. Good, there were still a couple of Minnie Mouse pull-ups left. I grabbed yet another Minnie Mouse t-shirt from the closet to go with it. I couldn’t wait for the Minnie Mouse phase to be over.

---

I had been sitting on the curb for about five minutes before the school bus arrived. Typical. The only time the bus was on time was when I was running late. Desi and Samantha were sitting in opposite seats in the row behind the driver. Normally, we would choose something closer to the back, but with Desi needing crutches cause of the cast on her ankle, that was the best location for us.

Samantha was taking up an entire seat to herself, with a bunch of her Algebra 1 homework spread out next to her. She had headphones in both ears and didn’t appear to notice that the bus had arrived at my stop. I took a look at the assignment Samantha was working on. She was ever the procrastinator. Mom had made me do those same problems over the weekend.

Desi re-adjusted her crutches to make room on her seat for me. Sitting down on the bus seat wasn’t as bad as the dinner table, but it was a close second. I must have made a weird face when I sat down, because Desi certainly took notice.

“Are you not feeling well?” she asked.

“I think I’d just got some sore muscles from the try-out yesterday.”

No way was I going to bring up that Mom had given me a spanking. I don’t know why, but it just felt wrong talking about Mom’s punishments with someone outside of my family. It wasn’t exactly as if Mom went around bragging about how she spanked me. Desi and Samantha knowing about it would just add to the humiliation.

Desi chuckled.

“Yeah, I knew what you mean. My ass was so damn sore that first week. It hurt like a fucking bitch until I got in shape,” she said.

Yeah, Mom didn’t like that I’m friends with Desi. Thinks she was a bad influence on me. Of course, overhearing Desi drop an f-bomb the only time they met might have had something to do about it, especially since we had only been in third grade at the time. I sighed. I’d had enough of potty mouths and potty training.

“I feel so out of shape. The try-out left me exhausted.”

“Don’t worry. It gets easier. Coach just makes the try-outs harder than regular practices, so she knows that you’ve got what it takes to be on the squad.”

That was Desi for you, a bit crude on the outside, but beneath the rough edges she was compassionate and understanding.

“Samantha and I were trying to plan another sleepover soon. You’re always welcome to come.”

I appreciated that she always tries to invite me. When I was younger, the thought of a sleepover had been terrifying. No way was I going to risk letting my best friends find out that I wet the bed. So when Mom told other parents that she just didn’t allow sleepovers as my age, I didn’t throw a fuss at all. I had been so excited when the nighttime accidents had stopped. In my mind, that was all that had been holding me back from being able to spend a night at a friend’s house. But Mom had kept on adding excuses for why I wasn’t allowed to, and despite all my efforts, she hadn’t relented.

“Desi, you know Mom doesn’t let me go to sleepovers. She’ll never change her mind about it.”

“You’ll be turning fifteen in what, a couple of weeks or so?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I knew your Mom was an overprotective bitch and all, but you’re still turning fifteen. That’s old enough to start driving a car. There’s no reason you can’t spend the night at Samantha’s house.”

“OK, OK, I’ll ask Mom about the sleepover, but don’t be surprised if she says no.”

Samantha finally noticed that I was sitting on the bus. Only took her like five minutes.

“Morning,” Samantha said. “You’ve finished the Algebra assignment, right? Can I check my answers against yours to see how I did?”

I knew that “check” was just a euphemism for “let me copy all your answers because I’m terrible at math,” but I owed her a favor. Samantha and Desi were the only reason I’d managed to get through my AP Lit class without any grades less than an “A” so far this semester. I grabbed the assignment from my backpack and discreetly passed it to her.

Desi, Samantha, and I had all managed to get the exact same class schedule. I didn’t know how we would have survived the first semester of high school otherwise. We made the perfect study group as our different academic strengths balanced each other out.

Bump. I winced as the bus hit a rough patch of pavement, causing the pain in my butt to flair up again. This was going to be a long day.

---

I did everything I could to keep from fidgeting during our last class of the day. My butt had just gotten more and more sore throughout the day, no matter what positions I contorted myself into. While Mr. Higgins was droning on about the Cold War, my mind kept trying to drift off into daydream land, but after getting a “C” on that last quiz, I was determined to make sure I was taking copious notes.

The one thing you didn’t do in Mr. Higgins’ class was interrupt him. He didn’t do questions except for when he asked if anyone had questions to ask, so it was a bit of a surprise when a girl sitting to my left in the back row – I think her name was Liz, or maybe Lisa – raised her hand. Mr. Higgins ignored it and continued talking. The girl began to wave her hand, at first just a little, but then more urgently.

“Put your hand down. You can save your question for later, Ms. Erickson,” Mr. Higgins snapped.

“But can you please excuse me from the class,” the girl interjected. “I need to go to the bathroom. Like really bad.”

That drew a couple of laughs from the class, including from me. I mean, this was high school. Shouldn’t you be potty trained enough to be able to holder your bladder for forty-five minutes?

“Then you should have gone during the break between periods,” Mr. Higgins said. “You can go leave when the pass was returned.”

Our high school had strict rules about when you could leave during a class. Every classroom had two hall passes – one for the guys and one for the girls – and you were allowed to be gone for no more than eight minutes -- enough time to get to the bathroom, do your business quick, and get back. If one of the hall passes was already in use, you just had to wait your turn.

I’d developed a bladder of steel ever since my bedwetting had ended. I could go the entire school day without stepping foot in the bathroom if I really needed to. As much as I knew I should be paying attention to the lecture, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the girl with the small bladder, making quick glances to my left as discreetly as I could. She was in my AP Lit class as well, but we’d never spoken. She seemed to keep to herself. The few times I’d seen her in the massive cafeteria she had been seated alone.

After about five minutes of squirming, she froze still, and then after another fifteen seconds moved just a little more to re-adjust how she was sitting. As soon as the pass was returned, she grabbed it and walked slowly out of the room.

Toward the end of the class, Mr. Higgins went row to row, handing back assignments he had graded. I already knew what my grade was, but I needed to know what questions I had missed. I still couldn’t believe I had gotten enough wrong to get a “C.” I eagerly reached for the quiz sheet when he handed it back to me.

10/10. I was shocked. The school website had said I’d missed three questions. I scanned over the assignment thoroughly. Yep, that was my and handwriting. My name was on the top, and those were the answers I knew I had put down. Desi leaned over to look at my quiz.

“What were you shocked about, miss smarty pants? You got an ‘A.’ Like always.”

I couldn’t suppress a grin.

“They must have entered in the grades wrong online. Mom gave me hell cause she thought I had gotten a ‘C.’”

The bell rang, calling an end to the class period. Just as I was about to head out the door, I realized there was one more thing that I needed. Mom would want additional proof that the online grade had been correct. Maybe I could get a note from Mr. Higgins.

As I walked toward his desk at the front of the classroom. I saw that the girl who had been in such a rush to get to the bathroom was at his desk, returning the hall pass. As I got closer, I overheard the end of their conversation.

“Why couldn’t you have just let me go to the bathroom when I needed to?” the girl asked Mr. Higgins.

“Lisa, I can’t treat you differently than any of my other students. This was high school. You can wait like anyone else.” Mr. Higgins paused. “Or you could have peed yourself.”

Gross. I couldn’t believe Mr. Higgins would suggest something like that. That would be such a mess to clean up. Not to mention unsanitary.

“But I d...,” Lisa began to say, before turning to see me standing behind her.

“I’d got to go,” Lisa stammered before making a beeline for the door.

Well, that was awkward. I stood in front of the history teacher’s desk, not sure of what to say. He broke the ice first.

“Sorry about my niece,” Mr. Higgins said. “She’s had a rough time of things lately. She moved in with my wife and I this summer after her parents passed away.”

Now that was a mood killer.

Mr. Higgins apologized emphatically when I showed him that my online grades had gotten messed up. He even wrote up a quick note for my mom without asking any other questions. I made sure the quiz and Mr. Higgins’ note were securely tucked away in my backpack. I couldn’t wait to show them to Mom. I now had an idea about how I might be able to convince her to let me have a sleepover.

I just had to survive my first cheerleading practice.

 

 

[willnotwill]

I like this a lot.   Keep up the good work..

[GQLF]

Grate! I like this story.

[Shotgun Diplomat]

I am really enjoying how this is shaping up. I especially liked the little almost slip-up from Lisa regarding her explicit need and then just as explicit un-need of the bathroom. 

[WBDaddy]

TBT I was expecting something where Mom caught big sis trying to hide little sis' accident and acting crazy on it.  Good job keeping me off-balance by glossing right over it. 

That said, I'm still seeing someone ending up in a cheer uniform and a pull-up underneath before this story is over... 

[Maximilian]

Thank you for this update!

It’s nice to read how caring Sarah is for Emma. Well a little sibling rivalry is natural, but overall they have a good relationship. At least a better one than Sarah has with her mother.

I wonder where this sleepover leads too.

[spark]

I'm really enjoying this story, keep it going.

I especially like the use of the rules for potty training in a story like this.

[MinnesotaWriter]

Chapter 4: Accidents

I entered the locker room with a queasy feeling in my stomach. I had rarely felt so out of place in my life.

At exactly five feet and ninety-four pounds, I was small, even for my age. During the physical exam I had taken as a requirement to be allowed to try-out for the cheerleading team, the doctor had told me that I was in about the 25th percentile. I’m not quite sure how the knowledge that a quarter of the girls my age were smaller than me was supposed to cheer me up. It sure didn’t feel that way when I looked at the rest of the freshman class at River Valley High School. Visits to the doctor were a rarity for me.

I stood awkwardly inside the entrance to the locker room, just taking in the bustle of girls changing from school to workout clothes. Communal dressing, just another item to add to the list of why I was going to hate cheerleading. An upper-classman I hadn’t seen before came running up to greet me.

“You’re Sarah, right?”

I nodded affirmatively.

“I’m Sasha, one of the team captains. I’m sorry I missed your try-out the other day. Heard you were splendid, though. Coach Addison was running late, so she asked me to give you a quick tour.”

Sasha led me on a brief lap around the cheerleading section of the locker room and introduced me to the other eighteen members of the team. She pointed me to my locker, which was next to Claire, the only other freshman on the squad. We began to say “hi,” but were interrupted.

“Come on, girls. Cut the chitchat. We need to be in the gym in three minutes. It’s an indoor practice today because the field was taken,” Sasha yelled.

I stripped off my jeans and hoodie and changed into shorts and a t-shirt, careful to keep my back to the locker. I didn’t care to show off the bruises that I imagined must still be emblazoned on my bottom from yesterday’s spanking.

Just like any sports team, everyone on the cheerleading squad had their own role to play. In this case, my smaller stature had been a huge benefit when trying out for the team. After all, it’s a lot easier to have someone stand at the top of a human pyramid or be tossed in the air if they don’t happen to weigh a lot.

We spread out in a big circle in the middle of the gym as the captains led the team through a series of stretches. OK, this hurts. I’m definitely out of shape, no matter what Desi says. We spent most of the afternoon learning some new cheers for the upcoming football game – there goes more of my evening free time. But the end of the practice was the part that I had been dreading more than anything else.­

“Don’t worry about it,” Sasha said. “You’ve got the easy part. Just need to hold still as we toss you in the air and then gravity does the rest.”

“Have you... Have you ever dropped anyone before?”

Sasha rolled her eyes.

“You think they’d make me captain if I was in the habit of dropping people?”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Just make sure to waive to the crowd while you’re in the air and fall with your back to the ground so that we can catch you.”

This was utterly terrifying, but I’d come too far to back down now. A group of six teammates, including Sasha gathered around to lift me up.

“One. Two. Three.”

I let out a slight scream as I was tossed up into the air, but I did make sure to wave my pompoms before falling back into their arms. The adrenaline rush swept away all of my fear. That was exciting. Never mind earlier, I might actually like cheerleading after all. We practiced the routine several more times without a hitch. I was really getting into the swing of it.

“OK, girls. Once more and we can call it good for the day,” Addison said, taking a seat in the bleachers in front of us.

At the count of three, they flung me into the air one last time. I gave an enthusiastic wave to the imaginary crowd in the bleachers before leaning back to fall into what I thought would be my teammates’ embrace. I felt myself slip through their arms and twist before landing on my side on the hardwood floor. The pain that shot through my body was unlike anything I had felt before. I lay on the ground gasping for breath. It hurt too much to even scream.

Coach Addison was by my side almost instantaneously, her hand feeling up and down the side where I had fallen. I guess she was checking for broken bones.

“Relax, she’s OK,” Addison said. “She’d be in a lot more pain if she’d actually broken any bones. Sasha, grab some ice wraps from the freezer.”

Was it possible to be in more pain than this? This was bad enough as it was. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Not even last night’s spanking – the worst I’d ever gotten – was as bad as what I was feeling right now. A couple of the girls grabbed me under my shoulders and helped me hobble to the bleachers. I spent the remainder of the practice holding an ice pack firmly against my hip. After giving a stern lecture to the girls who had dropped me, Coach Addison made them run a bunch of sprints back and forth across the gym. The swelling on my hip began to go down, but I was still left with an ugly, purplish bruise.

Back in the locker room, Coach Addison approached me as I was gingerly changing out of my workout clothes.

“Sorry you had such a rough first day with that accident. How’s your hip holding up?”

“A lot better after I iced it.”

“I almost forgot, but this was for you,” Addison said, holding out a cheerleading uniform in a plastic wrap.

I gave the uniform a quizzical look. Remind me again about how wearing this was supposed to increase my odds of getting into a good college? Coach must have misread the expression on my face.

“I know. but it’s the smallest size we’ve got,” she said. “Don’t worry. Desi fit into that same size just fine and you and she have about the same build. It’s typical to move up a couple sizes between your freshman and senior years.”

While the pain in my hip had subsided for the most part, my body still felt a bit off since the fall, though I couldn’t pinpoint what the issue was as I carefully walked out the locker room door.

---

Mom was already waiting for me in the parking lot when I stepped outside. I tossed my backpack and gym bag in the trunk before sitting down in the passenger seat.

“How was practice?”

“Fine.”

I decided not to mention the fall I had taken. No need to give Mom something else to worry about. The note about the error in the history quiz grade was something I was going to save for a more opportune moment. I couldn’t dare waste my one golden shot at being allowed to have a sleepover.

“Drink that,” Mom said, pointing to a thermos in the cup tray that was filled with a thick, green liquid.

What was Mom trying to feed me, pond scum? Mom glared at me after seeing my look of disgust.

“It’s a kale smoothie. Don’t give me that face. It’s got banana, pineapple and lime in it too. Make sure you finish it before we get home.”

Mom’s health-nut phase hadn’t been such a big deal when it had been focused on making us eat veggies or avoid junk food, but this was just too much.

I had just about fifteen minutes until we were back home, so picking up the cup with a bit of trepidation, I slowly raised the glass to my lips. Hmm. Not as bad as I thought. Sweet, with just a little of a bitter aftertaste. I gradually finished the smoothie in tiny sips. I didn’t want to give Mom the satisfaction of knowing that she was right about the taste. Who knows what other crazy ideas she might come up with?

Emilia was strapped into a car-seat in the middle of the back row. Her hair was in pigtails with rainbow beads at the end. She was wearing denim overalls, but the watch on her arm was missing. That wasn’t her typical outfit. Mom was discreet about pull-ups when we were out and about. She didn’t care to show the whole world that a daughter that old still wasn’t toilet trained, but usually the clothing was something that could be removed with ease in case the need to go to the bathroom arose. Emilia’s eyes were a bit puffy as well. Guess I wasn’t the only one who had a bad day.

“Emilia had a couple of accidents at daycare, so we’re going to take a rest from potty training for a bit,” Mom said nonchalantly.

Drat. Emilia had been making so much progress up until yesterday. And even then, those accidents had really been my fault. Being back in diapers meant Emilia wasn’t allowed to use the toilet at all, so I might be stuck with a messy diaper or two to change before she was back in pull-ups. I tried to give Emilia a sympathetic look. What in the world was going wrong with her?

I finished the smoothie well in advance before we pulled into the driveway. I wasn’t taking any chances with getting on Mom’s bad side. I needed to rinse my mouth out as well, because while the smoothie hadn’t tasted too bad while I was drinking it, as soon as it was finished, a nasty aftertaste had clung to my mouth and wouldn’t go away. A couple of Amazon packages along with a large cardboard box of pull-ups were sitting on the front porch. Mom preferred to do almost all her shopping online.

“Sarah, take Emilia’s pull-ups to your room and unpack them. Also, you need to hop in the shower before you do homework. You really should have done that in the locker room after practice.”

I could get used to communal dressing, but I really was going to draw the line at communal showers. No way I was going to do that. But I would save that battle with Mom for another day.

I grabbed the box of pull-ups. Size 4T-5T, 38-50 pounds. Emilia was on the small end of that range. I was familiar with the marketing jingle, “I’m a big kid now,” but even then, the size range was a bit ridiculous. I was skinny enough that they probably would fit me if I ever cared to try. Thankfully, the Minnie Mouse designs were still in vogue. It wouldn’t be good if Emilia were to throw a fit at not being able to have them.

---

After getting cleaned up, I marched into the living room, all prepared to give the speech I had practiced in the shower about how I had been wrongfully punished and that Mom should make it up to me by allowing me to go to a sleepover. Mom was sitting on the couch, cradling Emilia’s head in her lap. She was holding a bottle with a green liquid – I could only assume it was the kale smoothie – up to Emilia’s mouth.

My sister looked miserable. I don’t blame her. Being stuck in diapers was bad enough, but that also meant that Mom was going to completely baby her until tomorrow night. Emilia wouldn’t be allowed to do anything for herself, so no feeding, dressing or using the potty while she was at home.

I took a deep breath to begin my speech, but Mom got the first word.

“Sarah, there you were. It’s about time. You shouldn’t be so wasteful with those long showers. Can you finish feeding Sarah and then get her changed? I’d got to get started on dinner.”

That had to be one of Mom’s favorite excuses for handing Emilia off to me. I took Mom’s place on the couch. Only about a third of the bottle was remaining.

“I’m not thirsty,” Emilia said. “I don’t wanna. Yucky.”

I looked over my shoulder. Mom was already out of sight and out of hearing range in the kitchen. I twisted off the lid of the bottle and chugged the remaining smoothie in a single gulp.

I replaced the empty bottle in Emilia’s mouth with a pacifier. Toddler Emilia just used a pacifier at night, but baby Emilia had to have it in all the time. I could feel something squish when I put my hand underneath Emilia’s bottom to carry her to the bedroom. No wonder Mom wanted to hand her off to me. I did my best to clean up the messy diaper quickly. Thank goodness it hadn’t been a blowout.

With the dirty diaper safely in the bin, I picked Emilia up, settled her on my lap, and gave her a big hug.

“I’m sorry Mom had to put you back in diapers, sis.”

“I hate diapers.”

I squeezed Emilia even tighter as I felt her tears roll onto my shoulder. Taking a fresh wipe, I cleared the tears off her face.

“You just make it through tomorrow, and we’ll work extra hard on getting you potty trained after that. You can do it. I believe in you.”

Once Emilia had crawled back to the living room – babies aren’t allowed to walk – I moved to my desk, opened Chrome and went to Google. We’d tried all the traditional potty-training methods, so maybe it was time to do something a little different. I wonder what I can find. I typed “3-year-old can’t potty train” into the search bar and began going through the results – mostly links to parenting forums – one by one I clicked on the links and searched through the suggestions. I sighed. It was just more of the same. Reward charts. Potty training schedules. Laxatives. Wait, laxatives, what were those?

Another Google search gave me an answer. Well, this would be an interesting conversation with Mom if she were to check my internet history. A lot of the forum members seemed adamant that their child’s potty-training problem was the result of backed-up bowels.

I looked at the potty-training chart for the past month. Sure enough, Emilia was only making two or three bowel movements a week. I felt bad at the idea of making her take laxatives, that was bound to be a messy experience, but if it resulted in getting her fully potty-trained it would be so worth it.

I was busy with my research when I was struck with an immediate burning urge to pee. I stood up instinctively and made it halfway to the bedroom door before I began to lose control. The sudden sensation of the warm urine spreading through my panties and jeans was so foreign to me. I squeezed my legs together as tight as I could. I got the flow to come to a stop after a couple seconds, but not before the damage had already been done. A large wet spot was still gradually expanding around my crotch, and a small puddle had formed on the floor beneath my legs.

I stripped off my jeans and panties, using them to soak up the puddle on the floor and wipe myself down before burying them in my hamper. Never before had I been so grateful that Mom made me do my own laundry. I grabbed a pair of jeans that most closely resembled the ones I had wet – hopefully Mom wouldn’t notice that change – and got cleaned up before Mom or Emilia had a chance to enter the room. I peed myself. Like. I actually just peed my pants. My brain was working in overdrive trying to process what had just happened.

My mind was still aflutter as I finished doing my business on the toilet. What in the world was going on? I had never had any trouble holding my bladder. My friends all joked that I must have a bladder of steel, yet the urge to pee had come on so suddenly and strongly that I hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

As I hauled my hamper off to the living room, I made sure Mom saw what I was up to. Doing laundry unprompted couldn’t hurt in my attempts to get her into a good mood. I still needed to ask her about the sleepover later tonight, after all.

I emptied out the contents of the hamper into the washing machine, added a little more detergent than usual – just in case – and turned it all the way up to the deep clean setting. I stayed to watch as the machine filled with water, soaking all the clothes and removing any last evidence of the accident.

[WBDaddy]

Nerve damage from the fall? 

[MinnesotaWriter]

13 minutes ago, WBDaddy said:

Nerve damage from the fall? 

That wouldn't be an unreasonable conclusion. 

[GQLF]

I guess next ch have Sarah's punishment, expect!

[Guilend]

I bet her mom puts something special in her sisters punishment baby bottles, I bet the mother is the actual reason her sister isn't potty trained.

 

The mother might feel that if her youngest daughter is still in potty training then she'll always need her. 

Or nerve damage from the fall. 

[Jayme]

Interesting twist, I can see a nerve disruption, more than nerve damage unless she hit her hip harder than she though. I could possibly see the bottle or the smoothy being spiked. I definately will be reading the next chapter to see what happens.

[WBDaddy]

7 hours ago, Jayme said:

Interesting twist, I can see a nerve disruption, more than nerve damage unless she hit her hip harder than she though. I could possibly see the bottle or the smoothy being spiked. I definately will be reading the next chapter to see what happens.

 

9 hours ago, Guilend said:

I bet her mom puts something special in her sisters punishment baby bottles, I bet the mother is the actual reason her sister isn't potty trained.

 

The mother might feel that if her youngest daughter is still in potty training then she'll always need her. 

Or nerve damage from the fall. 

The problem with the spiked smoothie is that diuretics don't work like that.  I'd be genuinely bummed if that was the answer to this puzzle.  

There are medications out there which can cause the effects Sarah described, but they are prescription drugs that could easily be lethal to a healthy 3-year-old long before they produced the desired effects (ACE-inhibitors, for example).  

[Guilend]

9 minutes ago, WBDaddy said:

 

The problem with the spiked smoothie is that diuretics don't work like that.  I'd be genuinely bummed if that was the answer to this puzzle.  

There are medications out there which can cause the effects Sarah described, but they are prescription drugs that could easily be lethal to a healthy 3-year-old long before they produced the desired effects (ACE-inhibitors, for example).  

Now that I've actually had some sleep and went back over what I said and read some of the comments on it, I would agree with you. 

[Maximilian]

Thank you for this update. The story seems to have a deeper plot then I initially thought. I'm looking forward to the next installment.

[MinnesotaWriter]

10 hours ago, Nicole Kolibri said:

And now ....
Yes, yes, ooooh yes, finally, finally someone who cares that the whole world doesn't experienced, that the youngest is still not dry, the oldest is spanked because she is strictly educated in the traditional way.
no exibitionism ... it's so nice, thanks for that.

Yeah, that's a pet peeve of mine as well. I'm not a big fan of scenes where parents overtly show off in public the fact that their child is wearing diapers/pull-ups just for the sake of humiliating them.

[Bonsai]

The quality of your narrative is by far above the average of this forum. Thanks for sharing your efforts!

[Jayme]

MinnesotWriter, you are a fantastic author and I love this story already.

I'm thinking the bottle had a possible diuretic in it, to keep the youngest off balance.

I want to thank you for taking the time an courage to post your story here, may your Muse never get laryngitis!