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

[kerry]

2 minutes ago, MinnesotaWriter said:

She should, but without access to a phone or other methods of communication, that would be difficult even if she decided she wanted to.

True enough, but she goes back to school soon...and he is there.

[spark]

1 hour ago, kerry said:

True enough, but she goes back to school soon...and he is there.

The best person for Sarah to speak with is her counselor.  My advice would be: walk straight to the counselor.  Do not go to first period.  Walk directly to the office and ask to talk to somebody, and share the exact the story that she told her mom.  

[Night Rain]

3 hours ago, spark said:

The best person for Sarah to speak with is her counselor.  My advice would be: walk straight to the counselor.  Do not go to first period.  Walk directly to the office and ask to talk to somebody, and share the exact the story that she told her mom.  

I have a feeling come Tuesday Sarah. Won't even consider doing that she might talk with Samantha and Desi. But with how things turned out with Lisa I don't think she will do anything. She's dug too deep a hole for herself and she's not going to be able to get out of it.

[spark]

25 minutes ago, Night Rain said:

I have a feeling come Tuesday Sarah. Won't even consider doing that she might talk with Samantha and Desi. But with how things turned out with Lisa I don't think she will do anything. She's dug too deep a hole for herself and she's not going to be able to get out of it.

I was speaking as an educator when I wrote that.  Over this story I've shared how a school would react, and up until the most recent situation, I'd have to report it, but I'm not sure how much would happen. 

If Sarah shares this, it's not just a CPS report.  There are minors at immediate risk, and the police would respond.  FTR, as a teacher, if Sarah told me what just happened, I would contact her administrator, counselor and CPS in that order.  The counselor would likely go to Admin and CPS.  Admin would go- sheriff or PD.

[kerry]

I hope that the police become involved. Sarah's mother is horribly abusive!

[MinnesotaWriter]

Chapter 60: Big Girl Duties

It took a moment before the reality of Mom’s new rules sunk in.

My mind arrived at the worst possible conclusions when she mentioned that I would have to follow different toilet training rules.

But this, this was something I thought I could manage. All I would have to do would be able to do would be to hold my bladder as long as Emelia did. Piece of cake, right?

But something was nagging at me in the back of my mind. It wasn’t the new rules that Mom had pronounced, but the way she had said it that was bothering me.

“I’ll believe you actually want to be a big girl again.” To her, it wasn’t a question of whether I could make it to the toilet on time. She fully believed I could do so, and the only thing holding me back was some desire to be a baby.

It was ridiculous. Couldn’t she see how stressed out I had been over my accidents the past few months? But there wasn’t anything I could do to change her mind. Well, almost nothing. The only option was to prove myself worthy through this next challenge.

“I can do that!” I said, trying to muster up as much enthusiasm as possible. I couldn’t have Mom thinking I wasn’t fully committed to getting out of diapers.

“We’re going to start right now,” Mom said. “Wait here. Let me get your sister and have her use the toilet.”

I laid still on the bed, naked from the waist down, as Mom left to get Emilia. I could hear her calling faintly to my sister, and the growing crescendo of pattering footsteps as Emilia immediately obeyed Mom’s call.

The bathroom door slammed shut. That was followed a minute or so later by the sound of the toilet flushing and water running in the sink. Then it was my turn.

“Emilia just went potty,” Mom said. “You need to go sit on the toilet now.”

Mom hadn’t offered me anything yet to cover my bottom. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t passing up the first chance to sit on the toilet in over two weeks.

The sensation of setting my bottom down on the plastic toilet seat felt foreign to me after having not done so for so long. I wasn’t even sure that I needed to pee. I couldn’t even recall the last time that I had done so. Had it been before, after, or even during the time that I had messed my diaper a short while ago?

My body felt confused as I attempted mentally strained to get something, anything to come out of my bladder. One minute passed. Then two. I had to do something. The last thing I needed to happen was to find myself desperately needing to pee in another twenty minutes.

I had to assume that I would need to hold my bladder in for at least another forty-five to fifty minutes. Emilia had begun to be able to go a bit longer without using the toilet than the initial thirty-minute timer she had been on while potty training.

As I shifted, I seemed to be finally working the correct muscles in my body. A short, warm stream of urine dripped steadily into the toilet. Finally, success. Still, I waited another minute to be sure that was the last of it.

Cleaning myself with toilet paper also felt odd. I missed the baby wipes, despite how annoyingly cold they sometimes felt. I had one foot out into the hallway before remembering I was supposed to wash my hands. Another toilet-related habit that had fallen by the wayside over the past couple of weeks.

I counted to twenty as I scrubbed my hands and fingers under the warm water. Mom was waiting for me back in the bedroom, and it wouldn’t be unlike her to make note if she thought I had rushed through washing my hands without taking the time to make sure they had gotten properly cleaned.

I expected Mom to be waiting for me in the bedroom with a pull-up and some baby powder. I wouldn’t have complained about it in the slightest. That would have been a massive step up from the diapers I had worn constantly over the past couple of weeks.

Instead, as I stepped into the bedroom, Mom was holding a pair of underwear in her hand.

“This is what big girls wear, right?” she asked.

“Wes Mommy.”

“If you are going to wear big girl underwear, you need to talk like a big girl, not a baby.”

I bit my lip. This might be just as difficult as the potty training was going to be. I had grown so accustomed to using baby talk that speaking in that nonsensical gibberish was almost second nature.

Mom tilted her head at me. Right. She still wanted the correct response. I had to stop and think a second before I responded.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Much better. Now come here and put these on.”

Mom handed over the underwear to me. She wasn’t going to put them on herself. I was allowed to dress myself for the first time since this latest punishment had begun.

The underwear felt so light in my hand. In the months leading up to Christmas, I only wore underwear when I had no other choice, such as the brief time between getting out of the shower and when Mom would put a diaper on me before bed.

As I felt the soft material in my fingers, I realized I had forgotten how much I missed how it felt.

There was a downside to this as well.

The potty-training stakes had just gotten higher. An accident wouldn’t just mean going back to diapers; my inability to control my bladder would be on a full, humiliating display.

I slid my feet through the holes and pulled the underwear up to my waist.

What was more noticeable than what the underwear felt like was what it didn’t feel like.

The material was loose around my body, not hugging it almost suffocatingly. There wasn’t any bulky material forcing my legs apart. And as I walked, there was silence, not a single plastic crinkle.

I wanted to stay in underwear so badly. Surely, I could do it, right? Emilia was only three. No matter what may have happened to my bladder, it still must be able to hold more urine than hers.

But what if I succeeded? I felt reasonably sure I could avoid accidents at home if I put my full effort into it. But school started again in two days. It wasn’t like I could ask Mom to go out and buy pull-ups for me.

I shook my head. I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I would figure out how to handle that problem like I always did.

“You’re still grounded.”

I looked back at Mom. I had gotten so lost in the thoughts about underwear and toilet training that I almost forgot she was here.

“That means,” Mom continued. “No electronics. None of your regular TV shows. And Emilia is still in charge, so if she wants you to play with her or help her with anything, you need to do it. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mom.” That was a bummer about being grounded. I supposed it was too much to ask for to get everything back to normal all at once. Still, I had done a good job not reverting to baby talk like before.

“But other than that, you are to behave like a big girl today. That means you need to dress yourself. And you need to do your laundry.”

I nodded, showing Mom that I understood her request. But seriously, it was just my luck to get back all the responsibilities of being a big girl without getting any of the fun parts.

Mom left the room, leaving me to gather up my laundry by myself. Since she had already finished doing her laundry, I’d have the washer and dryer to myself this morning.

I looked down at my waist, confirming once again that this wasn’t some strange dream, that, yes, I was actually wearing underwear. Then I looked down at my bare legs.

I wouldn’t be running around the house in only my undies. Yes, that was what Emilia often had done during her previous potty-training phases. However, I still felt the desire to somehow differentiate myself from her. While it certainly was warm enough to be in this state of undress, I wanted to at least look the part for the big girl role that I was now being allowed to reclaim.

Jeans would have been my choice under normal circumstances during this time of year. But the success of potty training today could come down to the last second. I didn’t want to get caught frantically attempting to undo the buttons on my jeans while squirming in front of the toilet seat.

I couldn’t be taking any chances with my outfit for today. I grabbed a skirt, the same one I had worn when going to the mall on Black Friday.

I couldn’t recall the last time I had worn a skirt by itself while I had underwear on. I felt almost naked, but that just meant that I would be able to access the toilet as quickly as possible when the time came.

Still, the less material in my way when using the toilet, the better. This was the best balance between maintaining some dignity and making potty training as easy as possible.

Most of my clothes were already in the hamper, save for the few Mom had tossed in that direction that had been off-mark and had landed on the floor.

It was heavy. Mom had neglected to do my laundry for a while. No wonder she had been so eager to hand that chore off to me. I had a sneaking suspicion that this wouldn’t be the last chore she would assign me today.

Should just change my name to Cinderella. I wondered what those chores might be. Dishes, probably. Maybe some cleaning or vacuuming, or perhaps even some help with beginning to put Christmas things away, a task that would last well into January.

I checked my bedroom and closet carefully to ensure I had collected every item that needed to go into the wash. It wouldn’t do me any good if Mom were to get on my case for missing anything.

I couldn’t even lift up the laundry hamper, which was practically overflowing. Instead, I dragged it down the hallway and through the kitchen. It went thunk, thunk, thunk down the stairs, and I made my way to the laundry room.

I turned the washing machine on, set the water temperature to cold, and poured a cup of detergent.

I unfolded all my clothes as I tossed them into the washing machine. I hadn’t paid much heed to the sound of water streaming into it until I noticed I had subconsciously begun squirming.

I dumped the rest of the clothing from the hamper into the washing machine without bothering to make sure nothing was inside out, closed the lid to the machine, and raced back upstairs to where the noise of the rushing water couldn’t reach my ears. The squirming ceased. Everything was back to normal, and I wasn’t feeling any need to pee.

I lifted up my skirt to examine my underwear once I was safely back in the confines of my room. All dry.

It was probably good that Mom wasn’t allowing me access to electronics today. I realized now that I had to avoid any possible distraction, any potential trigger that might cause me to forget about my bladder or temporarily lose control of it. I couldn’t let the urge to pee slip unnoticed to the back of my mind.

With my underwear confirmed to be dry, I returned to the living room. My knees ached, but at least they might be feeling better by the end of today. And who knows, maybe I’d even get my big girl bed back again. Either way, I needed to be more careful the rest of today.

That had been a close call. Too close.

[Night Rain]

The question to be seen is can Sarah make it in her big girl training.

[BabySofia]

14 minutes ago, Night Rain said:

The question to be seen is can Sarah make it in her big girl training.

I give her just one trip of success unless she games the system by getting her sister to drink more fluids… even then that might backfire if they both have an accident. Mom is clearly playing her cards to get her daughter to sympathize with her punishment now. Problem for her is biologically she can’t make it. Now after two weeks of not trying at all I bet it’s worse than when she was trying before. 
 

My heart goes out to this poor girl with every chapter. 

[spark]

Her mom is not only horrible, she is negligent.  WTF is she thinking?  She forces Sarah to be a baby for two weeks, even though Sarah's immaturity is because is so parentified that she manages her incontinence issues on her own, and then mom does a full 180.  Not to mention Sarah has an extremely active bladder and her bladder voids every hour.  AFAIK, most 3-year-olds don't need to pee every hour.   Sarah might be in trouble.

@MinnesotaWriter You've promised a good ending, and I trust you.   With that being said, I don't want Old Yeller ending, and I don't even want a Breaking Bad ending.  I want an El Camino ending.  Yeah, I'll think about Emilia if she stays with the evil bitch, but it's been 3 years.  I just want Sarah to be in a good place.

 

 

[Allman90]

These last few chapters have me rethinking my theory. 

For a while I thought this was just a well written story. Specifically one that keeps itself well-grounded in reality, and not in cartoonish absurdity that is so frequent in this interest...

 

But then I began to think MW was subtly attempting to write a mom-punishes-with-diapers story but one that doesn't delve into the usual goofiness that then begins to call upon suspension of disbelief.

 

Recently I've begun to suspect this actually a story about the mother. It's not about Sarah or her adventures in diapers; it's about the mother and how she's a complete psycho.

It's just told from Sarah's perspective. 

The more I think about it, the more things agree with it. The intro paragraph mentions the mother first. And the title itself doesn't even name Sarah or mention diapers. The title states the subject is the mother and her rules.

And it's true. Nearly every aspect of this story and what happens in it has been directly influenced by the mother and her rules. I think this is intentional, and MW has very cleverly disguised this as a (very well written) fairly trope-ish teenage diaper story.

 

In any case, this has proven to be some amazingly good writing.

 

The above also supports a theory I have about the ending, but I'll keep it to myself.

[Bonsai]

If I were Sarah, I would start to encourage Emilia to drink more, maybe using special drinks as a coaxing method.

[Kahlez]

I am feeling less sure how evil her mother really is to be honest. At this point I would not even be surprised if she really believes Sarah likes being a baby but dont want to say it. This chance from her perspective is absolute fair given that she believes Sarah can fully control her bladder. So if Sarah keeps having accident it would confirm in her mind Sarah wants to be a little girl instead.

[Lost Little Neppy]

I wouldn't say it's fair. I would say this punishment is being taken too far, and beating your child with a paddle is absolutely no way to discipline, not to mention forced diapering just because the girl has been buying pull-ups behind her mother's back (the horror!).

Now, it could be worse than it is. And I do think that her mother is doing this either because she experienced something similar growing up and thinks this is the best way to parent, or because she has some twisted sort of justice when it comes to raising her daughters. We do know that her mother had diaper punishments given to her in the past. Maybe she has/had a sibling who had it long-term and it warped her mind somehow. That's the best explanation I can give to this woman, since she's not doing this out of pleasure, but because she thinks it's the best way to raise her daughters.

Probably also explains why Dad is no longer in the picture, too, sadly.

[Kahlez]

39 minutes ago, Lost Little Neppy said:

I wouldn't say it's fair. I would say this punishment is being taken too far

dThe fair part was just the big girl training sorry if it was not clear. Sure the punishment itself is way over the top and here in Germany and other parts of europe spanking a child (with or without a paddle) is abuse and can get you even prison time. So I was just meaning her chance to be a big girl again (from the mothers view) seems relative fair. 

[MinnesotaWriter]

11 hours ago, Night Rain said:

The question to be seen is can Sarah make it in her big girl training.

We'll find out the result of that on Tuesday. 

10 hours ago, BabySofia said:

I give her just one trip of success unless she games the system by getting her sister to drink more fluids… even then that might backfire if they both have an accident. Mom is clearly playing her cards to get her daughter to sympathize with her punishment now. Problem for her is biologically she can’t make it. Now after two weeks of not trying at all I bet it’s worse than when she was trying before. 
 

My heart goes out to this poor girl with every chapter. 

That analysis makes sense, if Sarah were to fail the challenge, especially when it's been presented to her as something that should be so easy a three-year-old could do it, that would mess with her mindset. Especially because she's been drifting more toward feeling as though she deserves how she is being treated over the past several chapters.

9 hours ago, spark said:

Her mom is not only horrible, she is negligent.  WTF is she thinking?  She forces Sarah to be a baby for two weeks, even though Sarah's immaturity is because is so parentified that she manages her incontinence issues on her own, and then mom does a full 180.  Not to mention Sarah has an extremely active bladder and her bladder voids every hour.  AFAIK, most 3-year-olds don't need to pee every hour.   Sarah might be in trouble.

@MinnesotaWriter You've promised a good ending, and I trust you.   With that being said, I don't want Old Yeller ending, and I don't even want a Breaking Bad ending.  I want an El Camino ending.  Yeah, I'll think about Emilia if she stays with the evil bitch, but it's been 3 years.  I just want Sarah to be in a good place.

 

 

Narcissists view themselves as the center of the world. Everything, in some way, is actually about them. To the mother, Sarah's accidents can't be something that is a result of an unfortunate medical issues, no, it's her daughter actively defying her, choosing to be wet herself and be a baby. 

7 hours ago, Allman90 said:

These last few chapters have me rethinking my theory. 

For a while I thought this was just a well written story. Specifically one that keeps itself well-grounded in reality, and not in cartoonish absurdity that is so frequent in this interest...

 

But then I began to think MW was subtly attempting to write a mom-punishes-with-diapers story but one that doesn't delve into the usual goofiness that then begins to call upon suspension of disbelief.

 

Recently I've begun to suspect this actually a story about the mother. It's not about Sarah or her adventures in diapers; it's about the mother and how she's a complete psycho.

It's just told from Sarah's perspective. 

The more I think about it, the more things agree with it. The intro paragraph mentions the mother first. And the title itself doesn't even name Sarah or mention diapers. The title states the subject is the mother and her rules.

And it's true. Nearly every aspect of this story and what happens in it has been directly influenced by the mother and her rules. I think this is intentional, and MW has very cleverly disguised this as a (very well written) fairly trope-ish teenage diaper story.

 

In any case, this has proven to be some amazingly good writing.

 

The above also supports a theory I have about the ending, but I'll keep it to myself.

Interesting analysis, I have lots of thoughts about ABDL tropes and what I'm trying to convey in this story. But that will need to wait until this is all over to share.

6 hours ago, Bonsai said:

If I were Sarah, I would start to encourage Emilia to drink more, maybe using special drinks as a coaxing method.

That would certainly make things easier. We'll have to see how liquids are handled under these new potty-training rules. Biting my tongue right now to avoid some spoilers.

5 hours ago, Kahlez said:

I am feeling less sure how evil her mother really is to be honest. At this point I would not even be surprised if she really believes Sarah likes being a baby but dont want to say it. This chance from her perspective is absolute fair given that she believes Sarah can fully control her bladder. So if Sarah keeps having accident it would confirm in her mind Sarah wants to be a little girl instead.

I think it is fair to say that, at least for the daytime accidents, the mother is in denial of Sarah having a medical issue. She's been so focused on rules, discipline, and punishment throughout Sarah's upbringing, that her mind immediately goes to the idea that Sarah is in fact actively defying her.

4 hours ago, Lost Little Neppy said:

I wouldn't say it's fair. I would say this punishment is being taken too far, and beating your child with a paddle is absolutely no way to discipline, not to mention forced diapering just because the girl has been buying pull-ups behind her mother's back (the horror!).

Now, it could be worse than it is. And I do think that her mother is doing this either because she experienced something similar growing up and thinks this is the best way to parent, or because she has some twisted sort of justice when it comes to raising her daughters. We do know that her mother had diaper punishments given to her in the past. Maybe she has/had a sibling who had it long-term and it warped her mind somehow. That's the best explanation I can give to this woman, since she's not doing this out of pleasure, but because she thinks it's the best way to raise her daughters.

Probably also explains why Dad is no longer in the picture, too, sadly.

The mother definitely believes that what she is doing is right, which makes the situation more messed up, not less.

4 hours ago, Kahlez said:

dThe fair part was just the big girl training sorry if it was not clear. Sure the punishment itself is way over the top and here in Germany and other parts of europe spanking a child (with or without a paddle) is abuse and can get you even prison time. So I was just meaning her chance to be a big girl again (from the mothers view) seems relative fair. 

One thing to consider, since the story is set in the U.S., is that views on spanking (and what it is defined as) vary widely.

For some people, spanking is a few wacks on the bottom with a bare hand. For others, it's a paddle, or something worse, like a switch (a smallish branch), and to the extreme, something that can extend beyond just hitting the bottom.

I'm definitely of the mindset that spanking, in any form, is not a productive means of disciplining a child, something that is well-backed by scientific studies.

[AndTheChips]

It’s such a good story and I can say that because I’m sick to my stomach reading it. It’s so cruel… if you! That I’m emotionally invested and so sad that she’s now stuck between two sucky endings. I mean really it’s more one because you are a more realistic writer 🤔. A) mom makes her a baby and “homeschools” her which is just a horrific result for this character or B ) which it has to actually be: she/someone else report the abuse and mom is jailed and both children are taken away from the only parent figure they’ve ever known and even though it was clearly often twisted, the only parent they know who does also seem to actually love them in her own twisted way (okay well at LEAST the lil one). 
 

ughhhh why must you torture me so with your well-written story 

[Kahlez]

True I didnt even think that far yet but there is no real good ending in this story. I mean the only good solution I could see that her mother maybe get some help on how to be a better parent. Then she keeps her children and stops using such abusive punishments. As a child being taken away can be very traumatic (even from abusive parents) and being in the system can be even worse then staying with their parents. I heard a lot of stories from children being send from one temporary home to another, every time loosing friends they made, switching schools like every year depending where the new family lives. Not counting people who want just the money and dont actually care about the child itself. Even if someone is reporting that they believe something is not right, as long as Sarah decides to say nothing or even defends her mothers, they have no legal reason to take them away from her mother. Unless of course someone outside would have proof of the abuse but so far I cant see anyone having anything like this. The Christmas video maybe could be used (unless Sarah protects her mother and says it was her idea or something) but without a reason they cannot search the house and use the video as evidence. In the end it most likely will depend on Sarah to speak out or accept whatever her mother wants to do. So I can only agree it is kind of a well written torture story for the reader.

[Lost Little Neppy]

On 1/7/2024 at 9:23 AM, MinnesotaWriter said:

The mother definitely believes that what she is doing is right, which makes the situation more messed up, not less.

While parents abusing their children for their own sick fun is something that we don't like to think about, it is something that happens, which I find to be worse than "well, I was spanked/diapered/made to do this or that or whatever when I was a kid and I turned out fine" despite how incredibly annoying and outright wrong that statement is (for someone who turned out fine, they're certainly defensive, aren't they?).

There's no "good" way of looking at this women, because she's definitely psychotic in the sense that she lives in this little bubble world of hers where what she does is right and if anyone disagrees with her, they are wrong, the end, oh and she lives for Christmas and only Christmas, and she will absolutely discipline her daughters when it comes to potty training when accidents are expected. Even the most stubborn of people of any generation would look at her and tell her tone it down.

I'm so, so curious about the missing father here. I have a few theories, but I'm keeping them to myself for now, bwahahaha.

[MinnesotaWriter]

19 hours ago, AndTheChips said:

It’s such a good story and I can say that because I’m sick to my stomach reading it. It’s so cruel… if you! That I’m emotionally invested and so sad that she’s now stuck between two sucky endings. I mean really it’s more one because you are a more realistic writer 🤔. A) mom makes her a baby and “homeschools” her which is just a horrific result for this character or B ) which it has to actually be: she/someone else report the abuse and mom is jailed and both children are taken away from the only parent figure they’ve ever known and even though it was clearly often twisted, the only parent they know who does also seem to actually love them in her own twisted way (okay well at LEAST the lil one). 
 

ughhhh why must you torture me so with your well-written story 

Thanks! 

3 hours ago, Lost Little Neppy said:

While parents abusing their children for their own sick fun is something that we don't like to think about, it is something that happens, which I find to be worse than "well, I was spanked/diapered/made to do this or that or whatever when I was a kid and I turned out fine" despite how incredibly annoying and outright wrong that statement is (for someone who turned out fine, they're certainly defensive, aren't they?).

There's no "good" way of looking at this women, because she's definitely psychotic in the sense that she lives in this little bubble world of hers where what she does is right and if anyone disagrees with her, they are wrong, the end, oh and she lives for Christmas and only Christmas, and she will absolutely discipline her daughters when it comes to potty training when accidents are expected. Even the most stubborn of people of any generation would look at her and tell her tone it down.

I'm so, so curious about the missing father here. I have a few theories, but I'm keeping them to myself for now, bwahahaha.

Unfortunately, there's not going to be any grand surprise about that father. That character's absence is more of an oversight from this being the first story I started writing. That said, I will include a brief explanation later on when it makes sense to in the story. But I can safely say that he won't be showing up.

[spark]

11 hours ago, Kahlez said:

True I didnt even think that far yet but there is no real good ending in this story. I mean the only good solution I could see that her mother maybe get some help on how to be a better parent. Then she keeps her children and stops using such abusive punishments. As a child being taken away can be very traumatic (even from abusive parents) and being in the system can be even worse then staying with their parents. I heard a lot of stories from children being send from one temporary home to another, every time loosing friends they made, switching schools like every year depending where the new family lives. Not counting people who want just the money and dont actually care about the child itself. Even if someone is reporting that they believe something is not right, as long as Sarah decides to say nothing or even defends her mothers, they have no legal reason to take them away from her mother. Unless of course someone outside would have proof of the abuse but so far I cant see anyone having anything like this. The Christmas video maybe could be used (unless Sarah protects her mother and says it was her idea or something) but without a reason they cannot search the house and use the video as evidence. In the end it most likely will depend on Sarah to speak out or accept whatever her mother wants to do. So I can only agree it is kind of a well written torture story for the reader.

I posted that mom would get arrested if it was discovered, but Sarah would have to share what happened, and she might not be willing to do that.   If not, I don't think there is any way a DA could prosecute.   The type of abuse that Sarah gets is emotional abuse, which is hard to prove.   The spanking she's received is assault, but it's open-handed and no marks are left.   

Mom also appears smart enough to hide her tracks.    The video is the evidence, but if that is not found and Mom denies humiliating Sarah, there isn't much that even CPS could do.  

The mom is a narcissist, which the author has shared as well.    Narcissists don't suddenly change, so there is no way that Mom would change, realistically.  It would be out of character, and I don't believe that's where MW is going.

The mom might think she has good intentions, but she isn't doing it out of love.  She has proven that she is incapable of love.   She punishes Sarah and Emilia because she doesn't look good. Sarah gets the worst of both sides of a coin.  Before she had to Pull-ups, she was parentified, and she is doing the same now when she let her be a big kid again.  At the same time, the mom is extremely controlling.  And she goes to the complete other extreme when she punishes Sarah.

 

[zzzz50]

All of the commentary and speculation shows how good the writing is by @minnesotawriter. It will be interesting to see the mom’s background to see where her fixations on potty training and Christmas come from. Keep up the great writing!

[Night Rain]

Perhaps the missing father means he might have passed away.

[spark]

18 minutes ago, zzzz50 said:

All of the commentary and speculation shows how good the writing is by @minnestawriter. It will be interesting to see the mom’s background to see where her fixations on potty training and Christmas come from. Keep up the great writing!

I'm curious about where MW is going with Christmas thing.  The way that Sarah described it had vibes of an influencer, but there is no way in HELL that type of person would show her 14-year-old opening baby gifts in a poopy diaper and sucking on a pacifier on social media, and re-watching those videos back in July is weird.   

What I didn't realize about the potty training is that Emilia is only three, and doesn't seem to be a big three.  At the beginning, I thought she was a pre-k and maybe Mom was feeling pressure to get her potty trained by Kindergarten.  No- she is three!     That might be above the median, but is it unusual?    Especially because I don't sense mom

[MinnesotaWriter]

Chapter 61: The Kool-Aid

I missed my potty-training watch.

That this thought had passed unbidden through my head was borderline heretical.

Back when Mom had been making me wear that stupid watch, pink with the picture of a kid’s toilet seat for the watch face, I had been both humiliated by the sight of it every time I glanced at my wrist and greatly annoyed at the sing-song tune it would play to remind me to go to the toilet every thirty minutes.

I kept glancing at my bare arm, as if between looks, it might magically appear on my wrist.

As much of a nuisance as the watch had been, I had benefited from both the predictability and frequency of the toilet breaks it had directed me to take. It was basically impossible to wet my pants when I was sitting on the toilet two times an hour.

To be fair, as I had later learned from Lisa, going to the toilet that frequently, while useful for avoiding accidents in the short term, could cause issues with being able to hold one’s bladder for longer periods of time. But I wasn’t concerned with long-term consequences at the moment. I just needed to get through this later toilet training challenge. I could work out how to deal with whatever came next when it was time to deal with it.

I was sitting on the couch. I had tried to sit on the floor in front of the coffee table, but my bottom, absent the thick padding of the diaper, wasn’t comfortable in the least, even though the room was carpeted.

The couch was a slight improvement from sitting on the floor. Yes, my bottom was appropriately cushioned by the leather couch beneath me. But with only a skirt on over my regular cotton underwear, there was not much to protect me from the too cold feel of the leather.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of my sister. With the new potty-training rules that Mom had in place, she was the key to everything.

How often did my three-year-old-soon-to-be-four-year-old sister need to use the toilet? One would think that after being stuck at home with her for two weeks during Christmas break that I would have managed to make at least some observations about her toileting habits that I could recall, but I was clueless.

I knew that there would still be times where she would get up from whatever she was doing and rush off to the toilet. And on other occasions, mom would need to give her reminders so that she would make it to the bathroom in time. That wasn’t a good sign for me. If Emilia was constantly waiting until the last moment to use the toilet, that only meant that I would be needing to wait longer to go as well.

But if I had to guess, I didn’t think that there would be many times when Emilia would go longer than an hour without using the toilet. If that proved to be the case, I felt reasonably confidence in my chances of success.

Emilia was watching classic cartoons this morning. They really didn’t make them like they used to. Tom was running around trying to catch Jerry. It was hard to pull my eyes away from that entertaining chaos, but I had to. I couldn’t allow my mind to wander today. I couldn’t allow myself to get caught up in any distractions that might cause me to ignore a signal from my bladder.

Even if Mom had allowed me to no longer be grounded from using my phone and my computer, I would have still ignored those devices today. I felt that the greatest danger to failing to complete this potty training challenge was not from being unable to hold my bladder in while I was aware that I needed to go.

No, the biggest problem for me was what happened more rarely: the completely unexpected accident. The times where I would wet my pants completely out of the blue without any forewarning from my bladder. Looking back, I found that the common denominator for those situations was that it was most likely to occur when I was either intensely preoccupied by another task or in a situation where I was under a lot of stress.

I would allow no distractions today, so I focused my eyes on Emilia, watching for any hint that she was perhaps ready to get up and go to the toilet, while at the same time listening for any of the subtle clues that might be coming from my own body.

How long had it been anyway since she had last used the toilet? It hadn’t been an hour yet, but it must be getting close. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It told me that about forty minutes had passed since Emilia had last gone potty.

A flicker of motion in the corner of my eye brought my gaze back to Emilia. Had I imagined it, or had she begun to squirm ever so slightly?

But there was also a tension beginning to form in my own bladder. Which wasn’t good, but at the same time, I was faint enough that perhaps if I hadn’t been paying super close attention, I would have missed it.

How much longer did I have? Back when I had been tracking my toileting training stats with Lisa, one of the things I had considered most important was seeing how much longer I could hold my bladder after I first noticed that I needed to pee.

The numbers weren’t all that encouraging. The results varied. Sometimes, I could only make it another five minutes. At the upper end, thirty minutes was the result I had achieved on two occasions. But the average was more like fifteen minutes.

Mom had provided an addendum to my instructions once I had finished with starting my laundry. I was not permitted to tell Emilia or otherwise encourage her to use the toilet. In Mom’s view, that was tantamount to cheating.

And anyway, with Mom reading a book in her chair, I wasn’t going to have any opportunity to prompt Emilia to take a potty break.

As a precautionary measure, I crossed my legs and held my knees tightly together. I didn’t even dare look over at my sister. I couldn’t be concerned about the state of her bladder when my attention now needed to be solely focused on mine.

The Tom and Jerry theme music blared in the background as one episode finished, and another began. I allowed myself only the occasional glimpse upward as the tension in my bladder gradually increased.

It was one of those episodes where Jerry had a baby mouse to care for. Of all the things that had to be on TV right now. It was one of those old timey cartoons. The design on the baby mouse was a cloth diaper fastened with a diaper pin. I tore my eyes away from the cat and mouse hijinks, rudely reminded of the modern diapers that would be in store for me if I couldn’t last until it was time to use the toilet.

Another few minutes passed by. I had successfully avoided any further glances at the TV, but the clock on the wall was a different matter. I think on occasion I had glanced up at it three times before the second hand had completed its three-hundred-and-sixty degree loop.

This was stupid. Emilia was right there. She might have squirmed a couple of times or perhaps I was just mis-attributed any of her movements to the potential need to pee. But either way, she had shown no difficulty making it this far without peeing herself, I should at least be able to match her.

It wasn’t as if I’d had significantly more than her to drink this morning. In fact, now that she was in the habit of drinking the milk out of her cereal bowl, I’d be willing to be quite a lot that my little sister was, in fact, more hydrated than I was.

The second hand finished another loop around the clock. The situation was growing more desperate.

I peaked under my skirt. Completely unnecessary, but it was a leftover habit from the urge to check my pull-ups. Of course, my underwear was still dry. There wouldn’t be any way I could escape noticing if I were to wet myself now.

Emilia was beginning to squirm enough that I was certain that I was not imagining things.

A sudden thought crossed my head. What if Emilia peed herself? Mom seemed confident that this wasn’t going to happen. As far as I knew, she had tossed all of my younger sisters’ pull-ups and diapers out. At the same time, Mom wasn’t so confident that she wouldn’t give Emilia reminders when it appeared like the three-year-old girl was on the verge of having an accident.

It frustrated me that my sister was afforded a level of grace in regard to her own toileting that Mom had failed to provide for me. In my case, the rules were black and white, etched in stone, and the consequences for failure were dire.

I slipped one hand and then another between my legs. I didn’t dare glance over at Mom. I couldn’t bear the idea that she might, even now, be watching my struggle. But there was the major question she was going to have to answer.

The longer Emilia held off on going to the toilet, the more likely it was that I would have an accident. But failing to remind Emilia might result in my sister peeing herself. Emilia seemed absolutely enamored by the cartoon she was watching. It wasn’t out of the question that she might be so distracted as to have an accident.

My body was now in a constant state of motion, shifting back and forth, ever so slightly, praying desperately that Emilia would get up an rush to the bathroom. Surely, she had to be ready to go at any moment now. The clock said that I’d been waiting for twenty minutes since I’d first felt the urge to pee, meaning a whole hour had passed since my last trip to the toilet.

“Emilia, time to for a potty break.”

Emilia looked back at Mom. It almost seemed like she would begin to protest. But even at three, my sister knew better. She might be able to get away with a few more things than me, but there wasn’t any circumstance where she would get away with talking back to Mom like that.

Emilia immediately trotted off to go to the restroom.

I stood up, careful to maintain my tenuous control over my bladder.

“Not yet,” mom said.

“But you said I can go once she is done.”

“I did, and once she comes back, you can head over to the bathroom.”

So not fair. That added maybe another minute to how long I was going to need to wait to go to the toilet. That might not have been much, but it could be the difference between success and failure.

I was now doing a full on potty dance. I turned around, so I didn’t have to face mom.

Please Emilia, please hurry up. I was counting the seconds in my head for how long she had been gone. Thirty seconds. Forty seconds. Sixty seconds. Ninety seconds. Oh god, I hope she didn’t have to wait and do number two as well. That would be the end of me.

A pitter patter of bare feet running down the hallway when my count has just passed one hundred was the sign that relief was in sight.

I raced down the hallway to the toilet, not bothering to wait for an OK from mom. I made it with no additional time to spare. Thank goodness I had been smart enough to put on my shortest skirt.

The joy of success was diminished by the realization this potty training challenge was going to be far more difficult than I had anticipated.

---

Holding my bladder and going potty successfully on the toilet for the first time in two weeks should have made me happier.

Instead, I was back to sulking on the couch. Mom had turned off the TV. Finally, in my opinion, as Emilia was allowed to watch it far more than I had been allowed to do so at her age. My little sister was playing with the new doll house Mom had gotten her for Christmas, which only served to remind me of the pathetic gifts I had received.

At least she hadn’t asked me to play with her. As far as I knew, the rules requiring me to obey my little sister were still in place. I had grown sick of that stupid doll house the past few days.

I was fifteen years old. Emilia was three. I knew for a fact that there was no physical way that our bladders could be the same size. Mine had to be capable of holding so much more than hers. So why was I struggling so much more than her to wait for the toilet?

Mom’s taunt kept coming back to me. “Prove that you don’t want to be a baby.” Was there something wrong with me on the subconscious level? Was I somehow unknowingly sabotaging myself in the back of my mind? Was it something along the lines of what Samantha had meant when she explained in that heartfelt outburst during the sleepover about how she had this uncontrollable desire to wear diapers and be a baby?

I would be a nightmare of a client for a psychologist, not that I would ever dare express those thoughts out loud to anyone under any circumstances.

I was almost bored enough that I considered sitting down next to Emilia to play with the dollhouse. Almost.

I checked the clock. Lunch wouldn’t even be for another hour. And that still left the rest of the day. I probably had close to another dozen trips to the toilet ahead of me before it was time to get a diaper on for bed. A dozen chances to fail, and I couldn’t afford to slip up even once.

The sound of the washing machine finishing its load in the basement at last gave me something to kill the time. I leaped off of the couch the second I heard the noise. Best to try to stay on Mom’s good side today. She greatly preferred that I do my chores without needing to be prompted.

I trudged all the way down the stairs to the basement. It had been what, ten minutes now since the last time I had used the toilet? I leaned over the washing machine, pulling the damp clothes out one-by-one and tossing them into the dryer. I didn’t hurry through the task like I normally would have.

After sitting on the couch for most of the morning, this typically boring chore was a welcome reprieve. I turned on the dryer after tossing in a sheet. At least I’d have something to look forward to doing in about an hour.

Mom wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room when I made it upstairs. I wasn’t sure what she was up to, but it was nice to not feel like I had her eyes watching me all of the time.

As I sat back down on the couch, careful to make sure I was remaining attuned to my bladder, Emilia a

“Play with me!”

Not even polite enough to phrase it as a question.

“I’m the mommy.” Emilia picked up two tiny plastic dolls, handing me the smaller of the two, a miniature baby complete with a diaper on her bottom. “And you’re a baby, so you have the baby.”

“That’s silly. I’m not a baby.”

“Yes, you are.”

I rolled my eyes, and pulled back my skirt a few inches, enough to make clear to Emilia that I was no longer wearing a diaper. My younger sister was less than impressed by my recent change of undergarments.

“Nuh, uh, you’re a baby. Big girls don’t wear diapers at night.”

I sighed. I knew where she got that phrase from. Arguing with her was pointless, especially when Mom had made it clear that I need to do what my sister said.

That didn’t mean that Emilia might not be immune to some prompting. I wasn’t going to risk reminding her to go to the toilet. I wasn’t sure she would even obey me at this point. I and couldn’t have it getting back to Mom that I had attempted to circumnavigate her rules like that.

I think I had a way around that problem, though. If I could make sure that Emilia was staying extra hydrated today, that would increase how often she was going potty.

I peeked down the hallway, making sure Mom was still out of sight.

“Hey, Emilia, would you like apple juice or Cool-Aid to drink?”

I knew how to best phrase questions to preschoolers. If you gave them two options, rather than giving them a yes or no question, they were more likely to accept whatever it was you were attempting to prompt them into doing.

In this case, I was pretty sure I knew which of the two drinks Emilia preferred, but having Kool-Aid compared to the lesser option of apple juice was only going to make that option more appealing to my sister.

“Kool-Aid!” Emilia shouted at once.

I wanted to hush her, but I couldn’t. I needed to get her started on her drink before Mom wised up to what I was doing. I tip toed down the hallway to the kitchen. Still no sign of Mom.

I retrieved a half-full plastic jug of blueish liquid from the refrigerator. Emilia still used sippy cups, which was good because Mom allowed those to be in the living room. I grabbed the largest sippy cup I could find from the top shelf in the cupboard and filled it to the brim. This would have Emilia going potty again in no time at all.

Emilia smiled as I handed her the sippy cup. I even got a brief “thank-you” out of her this time. She hadn’t entirely forgotten her manners. She sipped away at it, downing a few ounces quicker than I expected. I didn’t think she was old enough to process the connection between drinking liquids and the later need to pee.

I dutifully played my role as the baby in Emilia's silly makeshift game of house. Every few minutes I would give Emilia a slight hint that she should be drinking more from her sippy cup. I could pull this off a few more times today. There wasn’t any reason to believe that my underwear wouldn’t still be dry come tonight.

“What do you have there?”

Mom’s voice cut into the playtime, bringing it to a temporary halt. I turned to look at her, but the question had been directed at Emilia instead.

“Kool-Aid!” Emilia answered.

“You aren’t supposed to get that from the kitchen yourself.”

“I didn’t. Sarah got it.”

If there was one thing I could always count on Emilia to do, it was to tattle on me to Mom. Not that Emilia would have realized that I had possibly done something wrong.

Mom took a close look at the now nearly half-empty sippy cup.

“That isn’t going to do, Sarah.”

My heart sank, wondering what punishment would be in store for me if Mom thought I had been attempting to cheat.

“If you are going to be showing that you are as potty trained as your sister. You need to be drinking the same amount as her as well.”

That wasn’t where I had been expecting Mom to take things, but it wasn’t good, either. Mom went off to the kitchen, and it was obvious what she was going to be returning with.

When Mom came back from the kitchen, she handed me an identical sippy cup, filled completely with Kool-Aid.

“I expect you to be finished with this by the time Emilia is finished with hers.”

“Yes, Mom.” I answered dutifully, taking an obedient, but small sip of the cold, blue-raspberry flavored liquid.

It wouldn’t do me any good to hold off on drinking the Kool-Aid. If I saved it all until the very end, I’d almost certainly be dooming myself to having an accident. The only way forward was to try to pace myself as evenly as I could and hope that Emilia wasn’t as thirsty as she seemed.

I had vastly underestimated how much a thirsty preschooler could drink. Ten minutes later, Emilia was already three-quarters of the way through her sippy cup, and beginning to squirm almost uncontrollably.

Meanwhile, I was about a third of the way through mine, but it had only been about thirty minutes, and I really wasn’t feeling the need to pee all that much yet. I didn’t think that would take too long to change.

“I need to pee,” Emilia announced out of the blue as she leapt to her feet and ran down the hallway to the bathroom.

My plan was backfiring. I didn’t really need to pee at all right now, but I certainly was going to need to go urgently in a half-hour or so. The timing of Emilia's potty trip couldn’t have been worse.

Emilia returned to the living room fast enough that I questioned whether she had taken any time to wash her hands.

At looked over at Mom. She nodded at me, giving silent permission to go and use the toilet. I didn’t dash off to the bathroom this time. I walked at an even pace.

I strained for several minutes, but all that came out were a few brief tinkles. This was bad. Really, really bad. I thought through how much I had just drunk. The only thing going for me was that Emilia was still also quite hydrated. I just had to hope her next bathroom trip arrived soon enough.

Emilia had lost interest in her dollhouse by the time I was back in the living room. She had her coloring book out and was drawing with crayons on the coffee table. Her sippy cup thankfully didn’t show any signs that she had made much more progress drinking it.

I took my place once again on the couch. At a glance from Mom, I took another small sip of my own cup. With Emilia’s thirst now apparently sated, I would have time to slowly finish the remaining half of the Kool-Aid to not overwhelm my bladder any more than it already was.

Five minutes. No need to pee yet. But Emilia had taken another sip from her cup, forcing me to do the same or risk Mom’s wrath.

Ten minutes. Maybe I was imagining things again. It was hard to tell. I was trying so hard to catch any signals from my bladder that perhaps my mind was filling in the blanks when there wasn’t anything there. Could I actually be feeling the need to urinate again after having just sat on the toilet ten minutes ago? Emilia didn’t seem to be experiencing any issues yet. My younger sister wasn’t showing the faintest traces of any unease from her bladder.

Fifteen minutes. Nope, I had not been imagining things. The urge to pee was there, and it was real. I hadn’t realized how poor my bladder control was until I had been forced to compare it to my sister. Emilia was still contentedly playing with her blocks.

She stood up. Was it time to a quick run to the toilet? No, she was just going to grab her sippy cup from the other end of the coffee table. Which she downed the rest of in a dozen large gulps. Not fair. I briefly met Mom’s eyes, and I knew what she was expecting me to do.

I still had a third of the sippy cup left. It took me almost a minute to drink the rest of the Cool Aid. The entire time the sweet liquid was going down my throat, all I could think of was how much liquid was in my bladder at the moment. I crossed my legs again in a feeble attempt to fight off the urge to start squirming.

Twenty minutes. Emilia now appeared to be affected somewhat by the amount of Cool-Aid she had drunk, but if there was anything I had learned about my sister today, it was that she was going to wait until the last possible moment before she raced off to the toilet. At least Mom wasn’t watching me squirm this time. She was off preparing lunch in the kitchen.

The confidence I had when I first handed Emilia the sippy cup was now completely gone. It was tempting to blame Mom for making me drink the Cool-Aid as well, but that wasn’t really fair. It wasn’t as though she was making things any harder for me than they were for Emilia, and my sister, despite the slight fidgeting that was beginning, was doing quite fine.

Twenty-five minutes. As the tension in my bladder turned to a blaring pain, I didn’t want to face the truth that I might not be as capable of using the toilet as my little sister.

“Lunch time.” Mom called. “Go use the potty and get washed up before you eat.”

Saved by the bell.

 ---

I held the fork loosely in my hand, almost as if I had forgotten how to use it.

It was the first meal I’d eaten with any silverware since my punishment began. I had been forced to either sit patiently as Mom or Emilia spooned food into my mouth, or, just as bad, eat sometimes incredibly messy meals with my bare hands.

The only thing I had going for me was that this leftover casserole wasn’t as difficult as something like spaghetti.

Since I was seated at the kitchen table, I had even been given a regular sized cup. I handled it cautiously, not just because I was leery of what the additional liquids would do to my bladder, but I couldn’t afford to clumsily knock it over. I suspected that I was going to need to do more than just use the toilet to get Mom to believe that I really wanted to be a big girl.

I somehow managed to finish the meal without spilling any food on my shirt, which was a good thing, as I hadn’t been supplied with a big, either.

The consequences from the Cool-Aid I drank before lunch were still reverberating in my bladder as I returned to the living room after cleaning up my plate and depositing it in the sink. I could only hope that Emilia was feeling the same way.

If I thought having to load the washing machine was bad for my bladder, being forced to immerse my hands in warm soapy water to scrub dishes would be an even more difficult challenge for my bladder. But dishes were a chore that was typically assigned after dinner, so I had another six hours or so before that became something I needed to worry about.

The previous two attempts to hold my bladder in had been close calls, but what I was feeling now was somehow even worse. My insides hurt so bad I wanted to lie down on the floor and curl up into a ball. It almost felt as though it would be worth it to just pee all over the couch, if only to be done with that intensive discomfort.

Please Emilia. Please just get up and go use the potty. But I could no longer spare any attention to my sister. Every thought was bent toward one goal, making sure not a single drop of pee escaped my bladder.

Emilia didn’t verbally announce her need to go to the toilet this time. But the sound of her footsteps racing away was the only confirmation that I needed.

I stood up from the couch, not too swiftly. Any sudden movements at this point would be risky. I took one step toward the hallway. I needed to be in position to make a go for the toilet as soon as Emilia returned.

“Sit!”

I dropped back down onto the couch at the sound of Mom’s stern yell.

“You can go to the toilet when your sister returns.”

I strained my ears for the sound of the toilet flushing in the distance. Nothing but silence.

The floodgates opened. And I experienced the full devastation of a bladder accident without there being anything to contain it, even partially.

The puddle of urine spread out beneath me on the couch, soaking through my underwear and then my skirt, spreading downward into the gaps between the couch cushions. Warm liquid streamed down the front of the couch onto my legs and socks. Was the couch ruined? If not, it was going to take a lot of work to get both it and the carpet cleaned up.

“You didn’t just fucking do that.” Mom’s recliner creaked as she stood up from it.

My hands were wet as well. I had shoved them between my legs as a last-ditch attempt to stop from wetting myself.

Mom leaned down over me. I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Really, Sarah? That’s just so disgusting. I can’t believe it.”

Unfortunately, I was more than capable of believing it.

Mom sat down on a dry spot on the couch next to me. What was she doing? Wasn’t I going to be hauled off to the bedroom to be put in a diaper?

Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me across her lap. Oh, that’s what she was doing.

My face rested on the side of the couch that was dry, but my bare legs were laying directly in the puddle I had left behind.

The side of the couch with my face didn’t remain dry for long, as teared streamed out, dampening the leather surface.

How could I have been so delusional to think that I could actually have succeeded?

Mom pulled my skirt up but didn’t remove my wet underwear. I would have preferred that, even if it would have meant receiving a bare-bottom spanking.

The first smack of her hand landed directly on my wet underwear. While that damped the blow, it only added to my awareness of how I had peed myself.

The next few smacks stung, but I gradually grew numb to the pain. I hoped Emilia hadn’t come back yet to witness this. I blinked rapidly every few seconds in a pointless attempt to clear my eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And I somehow thought I deserved to ever wear big girl underwear again.

I waited for another smack of Mom’s hand on my bottom. But it didn’t come. I took a deep breath.

My first thought was to wonder how long it would be until I got another opportunity to work on potty training. My next thought was to wonder whether I even wanted to make another attempt.

Mom shoved me off of her lap and I stumbled onto my feet in front of the couch. Without saying another word, mom grabbed me by the wrist and marched me down the hallway and into the bathroom.

“There,” Mom said. She pointed to a spot for me to stand on the bare tile next to the bathtub.

Mom gripped the waistband of my skirt and underwear. She tugged them a few inches below my waist and let them fall to the floor by my feet. Next was my shirt, the only item I had on which hadn’t gotten a single trace of urine on it. She then had me lift my legs, removing the socks that had gotten pee drizzled on them, tossing all the clothes out of the way into the corner.

“Get in the shower.”

I hesitated. The water wasn’t even on yet.

“I said get in the shower. Now.”

I stepped over the edge of the tub. I nearly tripped and fell when Mom turned the water on. It was like jumping into a lake late in the spring before the water had warmed up.

The water gradually made it to a lukewarm temperature, but I was shivering crazily before then. Mom detached the shower head and sprayed me all over, not bothering to use any soap.

At last it was done, and I stood shivering and soaking wet as Mom patted me down with a towel, before leaving to go to my bedroom and motioning for me to follow.

I attempted to dry myself a little further as I wrapped the towel around my chest and followed after mom.

What happened next was no surprise.

I stood and watched as Mom set up the changing pad on my sister’s bed once again, along with everything else she would need for diapering me.

I was already in motion to lie down on the bed before she had a chance to tell me to do so.

There had to be a big sister and a little sister. That was the proper equilibrium. There wasn’t room for equals. With Emilia haven proven herself yet again to be fully toilet trained, I knew where that left me after this most recent failure.

I couldn’t lodge any complaint about how Mom had treated me. None of the rules had been any different from what my little sister had gone through. And I knew that if Emilia had broken the rules as I had, she would have faced the same consequences.

“This,” Mom said, as she placed the last tape in place on the diaper, “is what you get since you keep choosing to piss your pants.”

I couldn’t blame the rules Mom had put in place for me today. I have failed each and every variation of potty-training rules she had installed for me over the past few months. I’d had to cheat and lie just to trick Mom into thinking that I had succeeded.

Mom’s rules had defined nearly every aspect of my life since I was old enough to be able to follow them.

But while it could sometimes feel as though I was trapped in the web of all my mother’s rules, what the rules had done today hadn’t trapped me so much as revealed a truth I had not yet been willing to admit.

I looked back down at the diaper. The four tapes that secured it to my waist. The wetness indicator running down the middle. The crinkle as I shifted my weight. The mass of absorbent padding preventing me from closing my legs.

I deserved the diaper. No, that wasn’t right. That carried the implication that it was something being forced on me against my will, that I wouldn’t accept willingly. That was no longer true.

I needed the diaper. Now, that statement was closer to the truth. My inability to control my bladder was undeniable. But there still was more to it than that.

I wanted the diaper. My desire for it wasn’t the same as what Samantha wanted. There wasn’t any compulsion or urge to actually be a baby, but I knew now exactly what it was that I wanted.

No more puddles of pee on the floor. No more mad sprints to the toilet. No more potty watches. No more underwear. No more pull-ups. No more counting how many accidents I’d had. No more needing to keep careful track of all the liquids that I drank.

No more hiding who and what I was.

I was a teenage girl who couldn’t help but keep pissing herself. And I wanted to wear diapers.

[Babytom948]

Welcome to the dark side