MinnesotaWriter Posted February 13 Share Posted February 13 The one thing Madelyn desires most in the world is to wear diapers again, and she is prepared to do anything to make that wish come true. As inexplicable as that desire is for a twelve-year-old girl, it is one she has obsessed over for the past three years. Ever since Madelyn tried on a pull-up that a distant cousin had used for bedwetting, the thought of what it would be like to forego her underwear for that padded, crinkling sensation between her legs has been a desire she has been unable to shake. Every other plan to get her hands on diapers or pull-ups has failed up to now. But this time it is going to be different. This time it is going to work. This time she isn’t going to back out at the last minute. The plan is simple. All Madelyn has to do is intentionally begin to wet the bed at night. Then, her parents will have no choice but to get her the diapers she so badly desires. What could possibly go wrong? Chapter 1: Daydreams in Class I will not chicken out this time. That was what I had told myself two days ago. That was also what I had told myself yesterday. Third time was the charm, right? It was easy to put a bold face to my latest harebrained scheme to acquire diapers from the safety of my daydreams. It was much harder when the time came to actually carry out the plan that had been brewing in the back of my mind for the past year – one I had finally decided to put into motion this week. Why would a 12-year-old girl want to wear diapers in the first place? I don’t know. All I know is that for the past three years, nothing I have done has been successful at getting this obsession out of my head. I certainly didn’t have any interest in being a baby. My younger brother, Jackson, is only six years old. I discovered where Mom kept all his old baby stuff long ago. I’ve tried his old pacifiers, bottles, and sippy cups. None of those items held any appeal for me. I can’t stand kids’ TV shows. I can’t color to save my life. And don’t get me started on dollhouses, barbies, and whatever other toys babies like to play with. In every aspect of my life other than this strange desire for diapers, I wanted to act my age. My latest plan all started a year ago with a magazine and a desire to procrastinate on my homework. There had to be some level of irony to the fact that this latest idea came about when I was seated on the porcelain throne. Mom had almost a dozen different magazines she subscribed to. Most of them found their way to the bathroom, which was also probably the only circumstance where I would have even considered reading them in the first place. I was already finished doing my business, but leaving the bathroom meant needing to continue a homework assignment I’d been slowly picking away at for the past hour. The only reason I even bothered to pick up a copy of the Reader’s Digest on that day about a year ago was for the few sections where it had funny jokes and stories. That, and I had left my smartphone in the bedroom. I really didn’t know how my parents managed when they were my age. I skimmed through the first section of jokes. Whoever had put together this edition of the magazine had totally mailed it in. There was a completely unoriginal one about redheads and souls that had me tempted to toss the magazine in the garbage. I mean, with how many magazines Mom had, would she even miss it? Redhead jokes get old really quick when you’ve had people telling you them your whole life. It has been forever since I’d been told one I hadn’t heard before. And even longer since I’ve been told one that was actually funny. Maybe I would have better luck with the second humor section toward the back of the magazine. I flipped through the pages casually when one of the advertisements caught my eye. I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. There it was. Right on the page. An exact replicate of the pull-up I had briefly stolen from a cousin two years ago. But there was more. That pull-up from two years ago had been the boys’ designs. This ad showed that there were ones for girls as well. And even though I’d had a pretty good growth spurt in the past two years, the product info indicated that I wasn’t even close to being too big to wear them. I didn’t tuck the magazine in the trash, but I did take it with me from the bathroom, burying it deep inside my box of miscellaneous things in my bedroom. I’ve looked at that page at least once a day for the past year. “Earth to Maddy. Earth to Maddy. We’re calling in.” My head jerked upright from the hard wooden desk in my math classroom to the sound of laughter. “Here!” I called back to our math teacher. “Well, thank you for joining us again, Maddy. Now,” he said, pointing to a cluster of numbers, letters, and symbols on the whiteboard, “that we’ve isolated ‘x’ on this side of the equation. Can you tell us what it is?” I had enough trouble paying attention in classes that I liked. For ones I hated? The temptation to daydream was hard to resist. And I hated math class. It was hard enough when we were dealing with regular numbers. I would be lucky to scrape by with a “B-” on my report card. But now, with the end of the school year in sight, my math teacher had ever-so-helpfully decided to give us a sneak peek of some of the things we got to look forward to learning next year in eighth grade. I sucked at long division. But it at least made sense conceptually. The numbers were real, even if doing the work to get the answer was tedious. But now there was this thing the teacher called Algebra, where we were supposed to be adding up letters as well as numbers, which was beyond my ability to comprehend. Every “x” and “y” on the whiteboard seemed designed to taunt me. May as well put a “D” or a “C” on the board, as that was about what I could expect on my report card next year if this was what was in store for me. I stared blankly at the whiteboard with the sinking feeling that even if I had been paying attention for the past five minutes, I wouldn’t be any closer to understanding what was going on. “Um,” I said, picking at my nails while I continued to stare ahead. I had to at least give some kind of guess. But my brain and my mouth sometimes aren’t exactly in sync with one another. “The spot.” “I’m sorry. What was that?” Mr. Thompson asked. “You know, the spot. Like, ‘x’ marks the spot.” The classroom was full of laughter again. This time with me rather than at me. I made eye contact with one of my friends, Angie, who turned to look back at me from the front row. We shared a smirk at the joke. Mr. Thompson sighed. “Everyone settled down, please.” He gave me a look that suggested he might be once again telling my parents about how I had apparently been disruptive in class. “Now, Maddy, if you had been paying attention as we worked through this problem, you would know that the answer was actually…” I didn’t even manage to pay attention long enough to get to the answer to what ‘x’ happened to be or what sorcery had been used to arrive at that conclusion. I fixed my eyes on a spot on the whiteboard, a method I had mastered to trick teachers into thinking I was actually paying attention to their nonsense when I’d rather be daydreaming. My thoughts slipped back toward my plans for this evening. The third time had to be the charm, right? It wasn’t really my fault the first two attempts at wetting the bed had failed. The first night, I had simply been too tired. We’d had an exhausting soccer game that evening that had gone on to overtime, and we’d been shorthanded, so I hadn’t spent almost any time on the bench. I had fully intended to stay up past midnight but had used the excuse of being tired to back out of it. Instead, I let myself drift off to sleep without wetting the bed. During the second night, I’d managed to stay up until 1 a.m., but I had found it impossible to make myself pee. I simply hadn’t had enough to drink. I had considered simply pouring water on my bed, but I was worried that might not be convincing enough should my parents make a closer examination of my bedding. I could have snuck off for a glass of water in the kitchen and stayed up another hour, but again, I chickened out and pushed the plan off to another night. But tonight was going to be different. I was going to be drinking as much water as I could tonight, and I would skip going to the toilet before going to bed. Plus, tonight was Friday, which meant it was pizza night, so as long as I picked out a caffeinated soda, I should be able to keep myself up late enough for this plan to work. I realized that I was likely going to have to keep this up for multiple nights. One random night of bedwetting — after having never wet the bed since I had been potty trained at the age of two — wouldn’t be enough to convince my parents to take action. But if I could have the courage to keep it up long enough, they would have no choice but to purchase the pull-ups shown on the magazine page for me. I would make sure to leave that old magazine out in a way that would get Mom to see the advertisement. It was a desperate move, but I couldn’t wait any longer for the pull-ups. I knew from other advertisements I’d seen that these pull-ups were sold in stores. Had there been a store close by that I could bike to, I might have considered going out and purchasing some for myself on a day when I had been left at home on my own. But that wasn’t an option for me. I still had over three years to go before I would be old enough to get my own driver’s license. I had already waited three years for this. I couldn’t possibly wait three more. “Maddy. Earth to Maddy. Hey!” There was the sound of hands clapping together a single time. More laughter. I blinked rapidly, adjusting my gaze over to Mr. Thompson, where he was standing at the front of the classroom with his palms still pressed together from making the noise he had used to so rudely interrupt my daydreams. “Maddy, please just take one of the homework sheets and pass the rest behind you.” I looked straight ahead, where Chloe was holding a stack of papers with her arm stretched out toward me. She rolled her eyes at me as I grabbed them from her. In a rare moment of self-control, I did not stick my tongue out at her. I took one of the homework sheets and passed the remaining one behind me to where one of my two best friends was sitting. The three of us had initially been seated next to each other. But Mr. Thompson decided a few weeks into the school year that doing so was too much of a distraction. Emma, who had been seated to my right, was switched to the seat behind me. Angie, who had been on my left, had worse luck. Not only was she moved to the front of the class, but she had to sit next to Ryan, who had the disgusting habit of picking his nose in public. But that was OK. We’d have the whole weekend together. Tonight was the beginning of the playoffs for our U13 soccer team. We’d had a moderately successful season, meaning we’d managed to somehow win more games than we lost over the past several months. It was disappointing that the spring soccer season was so close to coming to an end, but we had the opportunity to keep it going this weekend if we could manage to string a few victories together. The bell rang as the final class of the week came to an end. Mr. Thompson belted out more instructions about the homework as I slid the piece of paper, with all its archaic symbols and equations, into my backpack. I’d just ask Angie and Emma later to see if there was something I’d missed in his instructions. I joined my two friends in the hallway. We all lived in the same neighborhood, so we rushed off to catch the bus together. They chatted excitedly about the game tonight, but I walked alongside them in silence. My thoughts were somewhere entirely else. My mind settled on the image of the pull-up I had held in my hand three years ago. The few minutes where I had examined it thoroughly, my fingers tracing over its whole surface. How it had felt to wear it for a couple of minutes before I was forced to set it aside, not knowing the opportunity was one I wouldn’t get again for years. Should everything go as planned, I would be wearing a pull-up again in less than a week. But to accomplish that, I needed to wet the bed tonight – on purpose. <><><> Three years ago If there was a single moment that perhaps best defined the last three years of my life, it was that day three years ago when it all began. The day I first laid eyes on a simple object that would become an obsession I would never be able to shake off. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I knew, intellectually, that this was what people were supposed to do. But even the sight of my aged great-grandfather lying in the open casket hadn’t moved me to tears. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t sad, but it was a more abstract kind of sadness. That kind that has someone thinking heavy thoughts about what happens after death, not that kind that leaves someone bawling on their knees. I had no memories of the man lying in the casket. My parents said I had met my great-grandfather three times. But I had been too young to have any memories of those visits. My older sister, Grace, on the other hand, was devastated. It was her first funeral as well. She had memories of her great-grandfather. The man in the casket was not an abstract concept to her, but the ghost of someone who had played with her and held her in his arms. Jackson cried as well, but that was just because he was a baby. You could never exactly tell what it was that they were upset about most of the time. The three-year-old boy likely just needed a nap. But the funeral home wasn’t where that pivotal event in my life transpired; it was merely marked the event that gave cause for all my distant relations – grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – to join together from where they were all scattered across the country. The reception after the funeral was where the fateful moment occurred. The adults ate, drank, and smoked while kids split into playing games with others of their age. There was a cohort of preschoolers huddled around a TV, watching stupid kids’ shows. On the other end of the spectrum was a collection of angsty teenagers Grace had abandoned me to hang out with. They weren’t particularly welcoming of youngsters, and my normally friendly sister had shooed me off after I attempted to tag along with her. Not that I cared that much. Other than my sister, teenagers made me a bit apprehensive. Besides, there were a half-dozen other kids my age to hang out with. My mom introduced me to two boys shortly after we arrived at the house for the reception. One of them, Alex, was eight. Though he made clear he would be nine in a few weeks, which would make him as old as me. His younger brother, Timothy, was seven. The boys were distant cousins from half-way across the country. There was some technical term Mom used for exactly what type of cousin they were to me — second cousins, twice removed. That didn’t mean anything to me. All that mattered was that they were my age and more than open to finding some way to play in order to pass the time while the adults did whatever adults did. We hit it off immediately. We did what kids that age normally do. We fell into the habit of playing simple games with each other as if we had been friends all of our lives. The two brothers were staying at the house where the reception was being hosted, so it was only fair that they gave me a tour of the massive building. We explored the expansive backyard, winding our way through the adults in the garden until we were shooed away. We played in the basement for a while, which had foosball and ping-pong tables before the teens decided that was where they wanted to be hanging out instead. But there was still plenty of house to explore. Alex and Timothy led me up a winding staircase to some rooms upstairs, where they had been sleeping while their family stayed with the relatives who were hosting the reception. That’s when I stumbled across a stunning revelation. One that would shape my life for the next three years. Haunt my dreams. Hound my thoughts. Practically drive me crazy as I was often left incapable of thinking of anything else. There was something out-of-place sitting in the corner of the room on top of a pile of discarded laundry. I tended to usually say the first thing that came to mind without regard to whether it was socially appropriate to do so. I wasn’t any better at that at the age of nine. I pointed at a blue undergarment in the corner that didn’t exactly look like a normal piece of underwear. It was not as though I didn’t have a good suspicion of what it was. But I wanted confirmation. “What is that?” Timothy walked casually over to the corner and picked it up. “Oh, that’s my pull-up.” I looked at the item in his hand. He was seven. That couldn’t possibly be his. I felt sure I was the subject of some kind of joke. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re too old to wear pull-ups.” “Older kids sometimes need to wear pull-ups,” he said, still holding the item in his hand. His defiance left me no less confused. I rolled my eyes. “I doubt that even fits you.” I hadn’t intended in any way to dare them to put the pull-up on. But that must be how that statement had come across. Alex snatched the pull-up out of his brother’s hand and tugged it on over his dress pants. “See,” he said. “It fits. We wear them ’cause we still wet the bed.” They were bedwetters. And they weren’t the least bit ashamed of it. That was at least a topic that I understood. I had no intention of teasing or bullying them. While neither my brother nor I were bedwetters, my older sister had wet the bed up until a year or so ago. Why hadn’t I put together a connection between pull-ups and bedwetting? Come to think of it. I wasn’t even sure if Grace had worn pull-ups during her bedwetting phase. She had her own room, which I was very much forbidden from going into, so if she had, there wasn’t any way I would have known about it. When I had first learned of my older sister’s predicament, my parents had sat down with me and calmly explained what bedwetting was and how I was to never shame or tease her about it. And given how privately they had handled her condition, and the fact that it hadn’t ever impacted my life at all, I truthfully hadn’t ever given her bedwetting much of a thought. Alex mistook my pensiveness while considering my sister’s bedwetting to mean that I was still confused about the topic. He launched into a long explanation with words like enuresis, explaining how bedwetting was just a medical condition that he and his brother would grow out of. “Do you wet the bed?” Timothy asked me. “No,” I replied. I came close to continuing my reply and accidentally outing my sister, but I would never do something that mean to her. Alex still had the pull-up around his waist, completely unconcerned with how silly it looked. The pull-up had a picture of Spiderman, my favorite superhero, on the front. I pointed that out, which led to another conversation about which Marvel superheroes we liked best. Timothy was big on Iron Man. But Alex insisted that Batman was better than any of them. My eyes kept glancing down at Alex’s waist. I found myself unable to look away from the pull-up for long. The sight of the pull-up around Alex’s waist raised another thought. That pull-up would fit me just as well. My distant cousin and I were both about the same size, after all. I didn’t question the desire to wear the pull-up. Once the impulse had taken hold of me, there was little else I could think of as I distractedly continued the conversation with my cousins. Our parents called us down for dinner. Alex ripped the pull-up off and tossed it back in the corner of the room before we retreated down the stairs. I was unable to concentrate during dinner. Alex and Timothy were across the table from me, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut about what I had just witnessed. I was filled to the brim with questions, most of which I would have to keep inside unless I were presented with another chance to have a private discussion with those two bedwetting cousins. But there was one question more important than any of them. One perhaps best answered on my own rather than by asking them. What did it feel like to wear a pull-up? While the adults were content to sit and chat around at the table long after their plates were clean, that wasn’t the case for us kids, and soon we were back to running around; Timothy, Alex, and I were joined by another four cousins. Big houses and hide and seek go hand in hand together. We agreed that hiding upstairs in the house was against the rules for the game of hide and seek. That meant that the upstairs room where the pull-ups were waiting for me was technically off-limits. But I didn’t care one bit about the game. Anyway, making the upstairs rooms off-limits had been my idea. An absolutely brilliant stroke of genius for a then nine-year-old girl. In one move, I’d ensured that no one would be up there when I went looking for the pull-up and that I would be safe from anyone following after me. I took quick glances in both directions as I stood at the base of the stairway. Perfect. There were no other kids in sight. I leaped up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time with each upward lunge until I was safely around the corner and out of sight. I encountered my first problem when I made it to the bedroom where Timothy and Alex had been sleeping. I had somehow assumed that the pull-up Alex had ripped off could be fixed. I seemed to recall that the pull-ups my brother had worn a year ago had Velcro sides. But that wasn’t the case with these bedwetting pull-ups for some reason. But there had to be additional pull-ups elsewhere. There couldn’t be any way that the boy’s parents would risk them peeing all over the bed while they were spending the night as guests. I didn’t have any luck in the first suitcase that I looked through, nor the second, but the third one was where I struck gold. There were more than a dozen pull-ups tucked into the side of the suitcase. Surely, they wouldn’t notice if one of them happened to go missing. I grabbed a pull-up and bundled the pull-up into a ball, tucking it into the waistband of my skirt. I was sure that was not nearly as discreet as I thought it was at the time. But, to my good fortune, I was able to make it to a nearby bathroom without being caught. The adults were busy downstairs, and my cousins, who were playing hide and seek, were doing a better job than I was at abiding by the rules. I locked the bathroom door behind me. I double and triple-checked to make sure the door was actually locked. I removed the pull-up from under my skirt and held it in my hands. I didn’t stop then to think through how bizarre the whole situation was at the time. I think I must have stood there looking at it for several minutes. Feeling how it crinkled beneath my touch, testing out the sides to see how far they could stretch, rubbing my fingers down the padded interior. I was completely and utterly fascinated by it. The desire was no more explainable than a moth being drawn to a flame, a kitten to catnip, or a raven to a shiny object. I cautiously slid my arms through the leg holes, stretching the pull-up out in front of me. Not only was it more than stretchy enough for me, but it could probably fit a kid twice as wide as I was. Now came the moment of truth. I removed my skirt and underwear. The pull-up had a side that was helpfully labeled as the back, so I knew which way to put it on. As I brought the pull-up into place around my waist, it was like sliding the final piece of a puzzle into place. I turned around so that I could look at my reflection in the mirror. I lifted up the front of my skirt so that the whole pull-up was in view. It practically came up all the way to my belly button. There was something about the way it hugged my sides, the way the soft padding pressed against my skin as I sat down on the toilet lid and the way it crinkled quietly as I paced across the bathroom that left me completely enamored. There was just one thing left to do. And I didn’t have much time before everyone noticed that I was missing. I lifted up the lid of the toilet seat and sat down while still wearing the pull-up. One of my deepest regrets was that I had went to go potty right before the game of hide and seek began, meaning there wasn’t anything waiting to come out of my bladder at the moment. I tried. I really did. I wanted to know. I had to know. What would it feel like to pee into a pull-up? It couldn’t be bad. Alex and Timothy hadn’t seemed to be put off at all by waking up in a wet pull-up every morning. But nothing happened. The timing was off. My bladder wouldn’t cooperate. And time was up. I needed to be out of the bathroom in a couple of minutes. I considered it a radical idea. What if I put my underwear and skirt over the top of the pull-up? I could continue to wear it until I actually needed to pee. I nearly did it. I really, truly, honestly nearly did it. But then I chickened out. The same way I would, time and time again for years afterward. It was too risky. A small trickle of shame was diluting my euphoria. I knew that despite how ecstatic I was at my discovery, the reality of anyone else discovering this secret — and the relentless shame and teasing that would follow — would be devastating. I wasn’t like Alex or Timothy. I didn’t have the veneer of bedwetting to hide behind as an excuse for wearing a pull-up. I slid the pull-up off of my legs. I intended to put it back in the suitcase. Then it would be like nothing had ever happened. That’s when I encountered a second problem. Apparently, I had gone potty in the pull-up after all. Not a lot, just the teensiest of tinkles. But it was enough to leave a tiny yellow patch the size of a quarter smack dab in the middle of the pull-up. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had even noticed it in the first place. That would have made for an awkward situation for Alex and Timothy had I put the pull-up back in the suitcase. I peered into the trash can. I was in luck. I could make out two pull-ups at the bottom of the small trash can. One had been turned inside out, the color of its interior leaving no doubt as to the truthfulness of Alex’s description of his and his brother’s bedwetting. I bunched up the pull-up and tossed it in the trash can. I didn’t think it was likely that anyone would be paying too much attention to notice the addition of one more pull-up in it. My curiosity sated, I returned to the game of hide and seek, pretending that I had been expertly moving in between hiding places to avoid being spotted. I didn’t think anymore about the pull-up until later that evening when we were lying in bed at the hotel. Jackson was little enough that he could sleep on a padded mat and sleeping bag on the floor while Grace and I shared a bed – an experience that hadn’t gone well the past couple of nights, as it had been interrupted by midnight accusation of blanket theft. If it had just been Grace and me in the room, if Mom, Dad, and Jackson hadn’t been around to overhear it, I might have worked up the courage to ask my older sister about her bedwetting. I wasn’t even sure if she knew that I knew about it. But I had to know. Had she worn the same pull-ups as Alex and Timothy? Was there perhaps a style that came in colors and designs for girls? But we weren’t alone, and those questions went unasked. The drive home wasn’t any easier. I didn’t touch my tablet, which had been my constant companion on the trip here. Instead, I stared out the window. But I wasn’t paying any attention to the passing cities and landscapes. Instead, my mind was replaying the events of the previous day, in particular, the few precious minutes when I had my hands on the pull-up. I was filled with a deep sense of longing and regret. Why had I thrown the pull-up in the trash? Why hadn’t I put it back on beneath my skirt? I would have had it with me now. I could have been wearing it now. Of course, I did know better. I would have had no issue wearing the pull-up out of the house, but once we had gotten to the hotel, there wouldn’t have been any realistic way for me to have kept it concealed. But the acknowledgment of that reality did nothing to lessen my longing for the pull-up. I had nothing but time as I began to scheme up all the different ways I could get my hands on another one, or better yet, an actual diaper. What would I have done if I had known the wait was to be measured in years rather than days, weeks, or months? --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com/ 15 1 Link to comment
Kaleros Posted February 13 Share Posted February 13 Thank you for writing a new story. This story is very interesting and relatable. 1 Link to comment
JustaFoxGirl Posted February 13 Share Posted February 13 I wondered how long it would be for a new story to follow. I guess the answer was "no" Can't wait to see how this new adventure pans out. 2 Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 14 Author Share Posted February 14 19 hours ago, Kaleros said: Thank you for writing a new story. This story is very interesting and relatable. You're welcome! This flashback was loosely based on some experiences I had growing up, which I took some creative liberties in putting it into this story. We'll get some more flashbacks with Maddy as we see how her interest in diapers/pull-ups developed. 16 hours ago, JustaFoxGirl said: I wondered how long it would be for a new story to follow. I guess the answer was "no" Can't wait to see how this new adventure pans out. Thanks! I've had a very hectic week finishing both AMMR and AMGR and getting this story outline enough to start writing. 1 Link to comment
spark Posted February 15 Share Posted February 15 I'm interested in where is story goes. You've shared that your outline makes it almost as long as AMMR. PS- Thank you for your writing, I think it has helped me establish my voice and pace, not to mention how to get into the complexities of the mommy dynamic. 1 Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 15 Author Share Posted February 15 Chapter 2: Fully Prepared I tilted my head back, forcing myself to finish each drop of water from the twelve-ounce glass that I had filled to the brim. I had just come home from school, but it wasn't too early to begin working on getting myself as hydrated as possible for what I was planning on doing tonight. Plus, I had a soccer game to play in a couple of hours. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared for that, either. Grace was already home when the bus dropped me off halfway down the block in our suburban neighborhood. It was easy to get lost in the neighborhood if you didn't know what street you were on. Development in the neighborhood had just finished when we moved in a decade ago. The cookie-cutter homes all looked the same – houses painted with a repetitive palette of bland colors, a scattering of barely mature trees dotting the front yards. I waved goodbye to my two friends, Angie and Emma, as I got off the bus, knowing that I'd be seeing them again in a few hours. Angie was three blocks down from my house. Emma was on the opposite side of the sprawling neighborhood, about a half-mile away. We'd put a lot of miles on our bikes once our parents had decided that we were old enough to make the trek back and forth between our houses unsupervised. Emma's parents were going out for the evening, so she would be hitching a ride with us to the game this evening. My stomach felt uncomfortably full after downing so much water so quickly. I belched. "Well, excuse you," my older sister called out from the living room, where she was reading a book on the couch. I probably should have taken it a bit slower, sipping on the water over the course of a few minutes rather than trying to chug it down all at once. But I couldn't help myself sometimes. I was very much an all-or-nothing type of person, and I wasn't going to allow myself to waver the slightest bit in my commitment to finally wetting the bed tonight. Grace always arrived home from high school before the bus dropped me off. In a few minutes, she would walk to the end of the block to pick up Jackson when he was dropped off from elementary school. It was nice to have some freedom between the time I got dropped off by the school bus and the time when my parents returned home from work. Yes, Grace was left in charge, but my older sister was more focused on making sure Jackson wasn't getting into trouble than worrying about me. The most she would ever do would be to remind me to do my homework, which was better than getting a lecture from my parents for not having gotten started on it before dinner. I set the empty glass on the counter next to the sink and retreated to my bedroom. I should have been starting on my homework. Any assignments from school were supposed to be done before I could have any time to myself, but I had no desire to even try to begin working on the Algebra sheet that I had been sent home with. I shut the door behind me as I entered the bedroom. Grace knew better than to barge in on me. We had a well-established quid pro quo about staying out of each other's rooms. I knew she wasn't going to barge in on me announced. Jackson, on the other hand, had about as much respect for boundaries as one would expect from a six-year-old boy, which is to say that he really didn't have that many. I had to be a lot more careful when he was around. My bed had a set of dressers underneath it, most of which I used for storing various odds and ends. My clothes went into my regular dresser and closet. Buried beneath a pile of old books and notebooks in the bottom middle drawer under my bed were some of my most treasured possessions. I had three copies of Reader's Digest. After the first time I had come across the ad for the nighttime pull-ups on it, I browsed through all the magazines my mom hadn't managed to throw out yet. A few had the same ad, so I didn't bother keeping them, but I did get lucky enough to find one with a different ad. Then, for the following year, I kept a close watch on the new magazines that were arriving in the mail. Mom thought it was nice that I was doing so much reading. But I was just carefully scanning all the ads, hoping to get another glimpse of the object that had been the focus of all my desires for the past couple of years. A couple of months later, I was in luck. There was a new ad in the magazine, one that noted an upgraded absorbency for the pull-ups. I waited a couple of weeks to be sure that Mom was finished reading the magazine before squirreling it away at the bottom of my dresser drawer. There was a reason that I maintained this paper collection. My dad was an IT network administrator. The very first lesson I got from him about the internet was that absolutely nothing that happened on it was truly secret. Yes, there were layers of secrecy you could hide behind, but if someone was looking and knew what they were doing, they could find it out. The next lesson was never to talk with adults or strangers online. And the third was never to put my personal information where people could easily access it. I don't think he had intended it to be a veiled threat that I should be careful about what I was doing on the internet, but I had taken the message in that direction anyway. It had taken all of my self-control to not Google the name of the pull-up brand that I had seen in Reader's Digest a year ago. The ad even had a website listed for the product. I knew there had to be better pictures on there. I wanted to look at it so badly, but there would be no good explanation of why I had visited that website. My smartphone, which I had gotten as a gift at the start of middle school a couple of years ago, had come with a parental control app on it. My mom had been reluctant to have me get a phone in the first place. My older sister had been made to wait until the start of high school. Grace had been a bit salty at how I had been allowed to get a phone a lot earlier than her, though her attitude changed when she realized Mom and Dad were going to be monitoring it. I didn't like having the parenting software on my phone, but it was the compromise Dad had reached with Mom, which had been the only way she would have agreed to let me have a phone before high school. My sister – set to graduate high school in two weeks – had a lot more freedom with how she used her electronics. Maybe I could convince Mom and Dad to let off the restraints some when I started high school. I pulled out the most recent magazine from the drawer and flipped it open to a dogeared page marking the most recent pull-up advertisement. If Mom hadn't been aware that these pull-ups were a thing when my older sister had been a bedwetter, she surely was aware of it now. I knew for a fact that she read these magazines cover to cover. I wondered. How many nights in a row would I need to wet the bed before she was to go and purchase the pull-ups for me? Knock. Knock. Someone was tapping on my bedroom door. "Anybody home?" Grace called out, knocking again. I hastily pulled back the sheets on my bed slightly, tossed the magazine under them, and pulled the sheets back on top. It really wasn't unnecessary. Reading a magazine shouldn't be suspicious in any way, but I nonetheless felt compelled to hide it, as if having it in view when Grace opened the door would somehow give me away. I rolled my eyes. I wasn't going to play along with whatever stupid knock-knock joke Grace was trying to make. "Just come in," I yelled back. Graced opened the door just a couple inches, enough for her to stare at me through the hallway. There was no mistaking us for sisters. As I could tell from family photos, I was a spitting image of her when she was my age, from our red hair to green eyes to the expressions we made on our faces. "I'm walking over to wait for Jackson. Why don't you get started on your homework?" She didn't even wait for a reply; she just turned right around and headed back down the hallway. She didn't even bother to close the door behind her, probably because she expected that I'd be leaving my bedroom to get started on homework right away. I knew better than to be annoyed at her. If not for the reminder, I probably would have completely forgotten about my homework. My parents knew me too well. I was not allowed to do homework in the bedroom, especially not with the door shut. That my parents had good reasons for that decree didn't mean that I liked the rule. <><><> The homework sheet sat in front of me. I'd been seated at the kitchen table for ten minutes and hadn't yet written anything down with my pencil. Next to the paper was a glass of water – I'd only filled it halfway up this time – that I was periodically sipping once a minute. The water was not helping me concentrate. Each time I took another sip of water, all I could think of was what I was going to be doing tonight. I didn't need to pee yet. That I had a strong bladder was probably one of the reasons I hadn't taken after my sister's bedwetting. I heard the sound of the front door opening in the distance, followed by the sound of running feet and my sister's voice calling out after them. "Hey! You! Get back here. No shoes in the house." Jackson raced down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the family room. Watching TV was his typical routine when he came home from school. Grace followed after him, an irritated look on her face as she went to get him to take off his shoes. I wished that I could say that the arrival of my siblings had interrupted my train of thought, but there hadn't even been one to begin with as I stared back down at the sheet of homework yet again. I tried to think back to what Mr. Thompson had been saying about how to start the process of solving these equations, but I had been far too distracted earlier this afternoon in class. I was so going to fail my math class next year. I was not looking forward to the start of high school. All my teachers kept stressing how our grades would actually really matter starting then. It felt like grades mattered plenty already, with how my parents reacted to my report cards at the end of each semester. But if getting my report card was what I would need to endure in order to begin my summer break, then that would be a fair tradeoff. There was the pitter-patter of running feet again, but this time, it wasn't quite as loud. Jackson sprinted past on his way to the front door. This time, his sneakers were in his hands rather than his feet. Grace came into the kitchen to get a snack for my brother. She stopped to peer over my shoulder. "Algebra, already?" She sounded a bit incredulous. "I don't think I started for you until next year." I explained how Mr. Thompson had been so evil as to have us working ahead, all in the name of having us ready for next year. "That's nonsense," Grace said. "Like anyone in your class is going to remember that after summer break." She went and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with some trail mix that she carried over to Jackson. I wasn't hungry, but I realized it might be a good idea. Something salty to eat would help make me thirty enough to continue drinking more water. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to procrastinate more on my homework. I was sorely tempted just to make up some numbers on the assignment. It wasn't like it would count for much, and I probably wasn't going to get that good of a grade in my math class, anyway. I found myself staring up at the wall while I munched on the salty snack, leaving my homework sheet ignored on the table. How long was it going to take for this plan to be successful? Would I have pull-ups by tomorrow night? That wasn't likely. I couldn't imagine a one-off event leading to that purchase. Two nights in a row? Maybe. But it was more likely than not that I was going to need to keep this up for a while. I was pretty sure I could keep my bedwetting secret from Jackson. He wasn't observant enough to notice anything that didn't directly impact him. And there was no way Mom and Dad would be telling him about my accidents. They hadn't even told me about my sister's bedwetting until that one time I had accidentally stumbled across her secret. There would be trouble if Jackson did find out. Sure. Mom and Dad would tell him not to say anything, but I couldn't trust him not to accidentally let it slip when my friends were around. Grace, on the other hand, was probably too observant. There would be a lot of laundry needing to be done before the pull-ups were purchased, and even if she didn't notice on the first night, she was bound to catch on. But I felt I could count on her discretion, given that she would know all too well what it was like to be dealing with that issue. We had actually never had a conversation before about her bedwetting. I had never been bold enough to bring it up with her. And it was one of those random topics that never had a natural chance to be asked about. She would have been sure to wonder why I was interested in it all of a sudden. "You're looking a little lost there." I snapped out of my daydream. Grace was standing next to the kitchen table again. "I'm fine," I lied. "I, um, I'm just working it out in my head." Grace stared down at the empty worksheet. "You don't know what you're doing, do you?" I sighed. "Not one bit." Grace pulled up a chair and sat down next to me. Her voice switched to an awful, gravelly Italian accent. "I can do that homework for you, but someday, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me." I stared at her blankly. What kind of drugs was my older sister on? Grace sighed and rolled her eyes as she leaned back in her chair. "The best movie quotes are wasted on the young." That still didn't make a lick of sense. "Look, I'll give you the answers," Grace said. "That wasn't fair to give you this hard of an assignment. It's nearly summer. It's time to relax, but there might be something I'll need you to help me out with later." "What's that?" I asked. "Don't know yet. But if there is, you need to do it for me, OK?" I looked at her a little suspiciously. Grace wasn't one to play pranks on me. At least, not on any day other than the first of April. But the fact that she wasn't willing or able to tell me was slightly ominous. On the other hand... I looked back down at all the still unanswered questions. It would be nice to get an "A+" for once. I reached to hand Grace the pencil, but she waved my hand away. "Oh no. You still need to write the answers down. Has to look like you actually did it." Further proof that Grace was the smart sister. She had a valid point. My handwriting was like chicken scratch compared to her elegant calligraphy. Grace walked me through each of the half-dozen Algebra questions. She didn't just spit out an answer for me right away, even though it was clear that this assignment was as easy for her as it would be for me to go back to doing my third-grade math homework. "Let me see your nails," Grace said. I held out my hand. She placed hers next to mine. The difference was night and day. The edges of my nails were rough and uneven, a result of how I often picked at them mindlessly during my classes or other times when I was bored. Her's were perfectly manicured, colored with lavender nail polish. "You need to stop picking at them like that," Grace said, taking a close look at my fingers. Embarrassed, I pulled my hand away from hers. "I can't help it," I muttered. Ten minutes later, we were all done. I couldn't wait to see the look on Mr. Thompson's face when he would have to hand the assignment back to me with an A+ written on it. "Thanks! You're the best," I said, as Grace got up from the table. I gave my sister a hug. "Not a problem," Grace said. "Just don't forget your side of the deal." All the water I had drunk was beginning to have its desired result. I made it to the bathroom with plenty of time to spare. I sat and peed for what felt like forever. I remembered reading something about how the color of your urine could determine if you were hydrated enough. Mine was practically clear from how much I'd had to drink. I wished more than anything that I was peeing into one of those pull-ups instead. I tried so hard to imagine what it would feel like. None of my attempts at makeshift diapers had ever been remotely successful, so I was left to ponder what that experience would be like. I hopefully wouldn't have to wonder about it for much longer. As long as I continued to drink up through my soccer game and the rest of the evening, I would be fully prepared to wet the bed tonight. Now I just needed to figure out what Grace wanted from me in exchange for doing my homework. --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com 11 1 Link to comment
spark Posted February 16 Share Posted February 16 Can't wait to see how this story builds up. I wonder how her sister will react to wet sheets in the laundry. Link to comment
sklawlor Posted February 16 Share Posted February 16 this is a good story so far. looking forward to reading more. Link to comment
JustaFoxGirl Posted February 16 Share Posted February 16 Great chapter. The sister being a former bedwetter herself will certainly cause some complications if she ever finds out. The way the parents handled it, however, means something would have to go pretty wrong for that to happen. Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 16 Author Share Posted February 16 Minor correction to note: Fixed a continuity error in chapter 2. Maddy will be entering eighth grade in the fall, not high school. I will say that after two stories with protagonists as the oldest child (Sarah and Lisa) and another with an only child. I am having fun with writing a middle child and having interactions with an older sibling as well. 3 hours ago, spark said: Can't wait to see how this story builds up. I wonder how her sister will react to wet sheets in the laundry. Thanks!. Yep, and same goes for the parents as well. 1 hour ago, sklawlor said: this is a good story so far. looking forward to reading more. Thanks! 1 hour ago, JustaFoxGirl said: Great chapter. The sister being a former bedwetter herself will certainly cause some complications if she ever finds out. The way the parents handled it, however, means something would have to go pretty wrong for that to happen. Thanks! Depends on if the sister if sister is going to be feeling sympathy or schadenfreude. 1 Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 18 Author Share Posted February 18 Chapter 3: Point of No Return Past the point of no return The final threshold What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn Beyond the point of no return? The music Mom played in the car always had to be educational. She had been a theater actress until Grace was born, when she’d traded that for the stability of a tedious office job. Even after all these years, she still had a thing for musicals. We’d been listening to The Phantom of the Opera on car rides for the past week and a half. It had been a desperate effort to keep Mom from singing along to the lyrics while my friends were in the car. It was one of her favorites; Mom had parts in the musical as a high school student and later as a professional actress. Thank goodness the musical was nearing an end. But that raised the uneasy question of what Mom would have us listening to next. Grace and Jackson had the two bucket seats in the middle row of the van, while I sat between Emma and Angie in the back row on the way home from the soccer game. There were few things capable of fully distracting me from my years-long quest to get my hands on pull-ups or diapers, but soccer was one of them. And our season wasn’t over yet. Emma had scored the winning goal with five minutes remaining, heading the ball into the net after I lofted a pass into the penalty box. Mom was driving us home so that Dad could put in an order for pizza. Dad leaned over to tilt his head and look at us from the front passenger seat. “We need to figure out what kind of pizza to order.” That led to an immediate clammer of responses. I wasn’t particular about my toppings. But my siblings and friends all had strong preferences. “Hold up,” Dad said. “One at a time. Tell me what you’d like when I say your name.” After getting each of our answers, Dad determined that we’d need cheese, pepperoni, and BBQ chicken pizzas to have something that would be suitable for everyone’s palates. He placed a delivery order on his phone. The pizzas would arrive ten minutes or so after we made it home. We pulled into the driveway. The ignition was turned off. The music came to an abrupt end just as the chorus was repeating. Past the point of no return. My efforts at being hydrated for tonight had continued throughout the soccer game. Playing midfield was hard work, so I didn’t have any difficulty going through a couple of bottles of water. This would be it, though. Once I began to wet the bed, there would be no going back to the way things were before. There would be no hiding that I was wearing pull-ups. Not from Mom and Dad. Most likely not from my sister. I felt confident I could keep my secret from Jackson. And there was absolutely no way I was going to allow my friends or anyone at school to discover it. Could I live with that? Could I live with my parents and sister, thinking I was a bedwetter? Was that a fair price to pay for finally getting what I had been seeking for three years? I tried to push those worries to the side. My sister had been a bedwetter, and she had turned out completely fine. Pretending to be one couldn’t result in things going any worse for me. Besides, once I was old enough to be able to get pull-ups on my own. I could slowly stop wetting the bed, pretending that I had grown out of the issue. I made my decision. I unscrewed the lid to the half-full bottle of blue Gatorade sitting in my lap and drank another few ounces. If the amount of liquids I’d been drinking so far this afternoon and evening had stood out to anyone as odd, no one said anything about it to me. Emma and Angie left their sports bags in the trunk as we got out of the van. Mom would take them home after dinner. Something wet and rough began to lick my leg as I sat down on the couch. “Shoo!” I gave Chester a mostly gentle push away from me. The cat flicked its tail in annoyance. He jumped up on Angie’s lap instead. I had thought it was cute when our cat had first licked my legs after returning home from a soccer game one evening a couple of years back. I just thought it meant that he really liked me. Leave it to Grace to spoil the mood. She had informed me it was probably only due to my skin being salty from sweating. Chester didn’t love me. He wanted to eat me. And if I were to suddenly keel over and die, he probably would do just that. It’s hard to look at your beloved pet the same way again in light of that information. Yes, a family of redheads had, of course, adopted an orange cat. The jokes practically wrote themselves, and Angie and Emma had been more than willing to make them in the three years since our family had adopted that orange menace. The doorbell rang. Dad went to the front door to get the pizzas. Mom went down to the basement to grab some soda for us. I followed my friends and siblings to the dining room, where the three pizzas, as well as cheese bread and dipping sauce, were laid out on the table. I was just about to pick up a plate to put some slices of BBQ chicken pizza on when Mom called me over from the kitchen. “Madelyn, can you come here for a second?” Mom was waving at me from the kitchen. I set my empty plate down. That Mom was using my full name wasn’t a promising sign about where this conversation was heading. Maddy – with a “y” – was what I usually preferred to be called. When a new teacher was going through the roll call for the first time at the start of the school year, I would make sure to let them know that I preferred my nickname rather than Madelyn. Sometimes, Grace and my friends would tease me and call me Mads, especially if I happened to already be irked by something. That could get annoying pretty quick, even if I had to admit that it was rather funny. Mom and Dad were usually good about calling me Maddy, except for when I had done something wrong. Then I was Madelyn. But what exactly had I done wrong? Mom was still holding the two-liter Mountain Dew that she had brought up from the basement. That was going to be key to the success of my plans tonight. Plenty of caffeine and sugar to keep me up later, and I would be well-hydrated before going to bed. “Maddy, look at me.” “Huh?” “Did you not hear a word that I said?” I looked down at my feet. Had Mom been talking? “Um. Maybe not.” Mom sighed. “I noticed that you hadn’t cleaned the cat litter when I went to grab the soda. Can you please go and do that now? There weren’t a lot of chores that I had to do, but one of them was that it was my responsibility to clean the cat litter every day when I got home from school. The chore had completely slipped my mind. That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. It wasn’t like I was intentionally trying to avoid it. I didn’t like scooping the cat litter, but it beat washing dishes, which was one of the things my older sister was tasked with helping out with. “Now? But I’m hungry? I’ll go do it after dinner. Promise.” “It needs to be done now, Madelyn. We don’t need the basement to get all stinky.” There was a subtext beneath her calm but firm tone, one that suggested something both Mom and I knew. If I didn’t complete that task right now, I was likely going to forget to do it until tomorrow. And Mom wasn’t going to be all that happy about it. Besides, I didn’t have anyone but me to blame for needing to do the chore; I had been the most vocal proponent of getting Chester a couple of years ago. The sound of my feet against the wooden stairs echoed noisily as I descended into the basement. Mom wasn’t wrong about the litter being stinky. I wrinkled my nose as I went about the unpleasant task of cleaning up after the cat as quickly as possible. <><><> We brought our food into the family room, where a trio of couches formed a half-circle facing a large, flat-screen TV. Grace had retreated to her bedroom to eat her pizza in solitude. Her tastes in TV shows were a lot different from my friends’ and mine. She pretty much avoided Emma and Angie when my two friends were over. To be fair, I gave my older sister’s high school friends plenty of distance as well. Being the last to fill my plate and cup had come with its advantages. With everyone else already in the family room. I filled my cup to the brim with pop, drank half of it, and then filled it up again. I would need to brush my teeth extra good before bed tonight. That is, if I remembered to do so. That was another task I had a hard time keeping track of, much to my parents’ – and dentist’s – annoyance. Angie – short for Angelina – had only cheese pizza on her plate. She was the pickiest eater I had ever met. I didn’t know how she managed to get enough calories each to subsist. The girl with dark brown hair done up in a ponytail eyed my BBQ chicken pizza as I took a seat next to her on the couch. She looked quite put off by it. “I don’t think that counts as pizza,” Angie said. Emma rolled her eyes from the other couch she was sitting on by herself. “Says the girl who won’t even eat pepperoni and sausage.” “Hey, I saw a documentary about how they’re made,” Angie retorted. On that topic, I did actually take Angie’s side, though, unlike her, I wasn’t well on my way to becoming a vegan. “She does have a point, though,” I said to Emma while taking a bite of my chicken pizza. “I don’t really care for mystery meat.” We were streaming a show on Netflix while we ate our dinner. I wished my parents had been willing to pay enough to avoid ads, but instead, we were getting interrupted every fifteen minutes by commercials. My parents had left the room shortly after finishing their pizza slices, leaving control over what was on the TV to us. I usually looked down at my phone during the commercial breaks, but this one caught my eye. It was something I had never seen before on the TV: an advertisement for the very product I was trying to get my hands on by becoming a bedwetter. There were a bunch of boys and girls dressed in pajamas for a sleepover. There was a narrator talking about how two of the kids had an embarrassing secret they needed to hide from their friends. “Wait, are those diapers for teenagers?” Angie asked as the ad showed a boy and a girl, not all that younger than ourselves, putting on a pull-up. Pull-ups, I thought silently. Those are pull-ups. If they were diapers, they’d have those sticky tapes to attach them around the waist. That was not a distinction I was going to dare bring up to my friends, though, so I had to sit silently as they gave their loud observations about the commercial. “What kind of loser would wear those?” Emma said as the ad broke away to show a picture of the product and its packaging. I stared straight ahead at the TV, not because I wanted to watch the advertisement while my friends were present, but because I wasn’t sure how successful I was being at putting on a poker face. It wasn’t that I wasn’t aware of how unusual my desires were. There was a reason I had confided in no one over the past three years. There was a reason that all my attempts to fulfill it had been conducted in utmost secrecy. I knew my friends would find the idea of someone their age being a bedwetter to be strange or weird, but to hear the venomous ridicule coming out of their mouths was something altogether different. It raised the stakes of what I was about to do tonight. “Yeah, that’s really gross,” I added, pretending to share their disgust over the topic as well. There was a sudden realization in the middle of the conversation. I needed to pee. Badly. I didn’t leap up from the couch. I needed to preserve at least some of my dignity, but I did walk out of the room rather quickly, that walk turning into a jog to the bathroom as soon as I was out of sight. I pulled down my underwear, wishing it was a pull-up I was removing instead. But if it had been a pull-up, I wouldn’t have needed to rush off to the toilet in the first place. My urine was even clearer than it had been before dinner. The plan of getting extra hydrated was working. I would have no issues peeing in bed tonight. Everyone was still focused on the TV when I returned to my place on the couch. Nothing more was said about the ad for pull-ups for bedwetters. It was long forgotten as the drama of the TV show continued. Our next soccer game wasn’t until Sunday, but we’d already made plans to meet up at Angie’s place tomorrow after lunch. We watched two episodes before it was time to say goodnight to my friends. The word was one that was difficult to say in light of the advertisement on TV, and I nearly stuttered over it as I waved goodbye to Angie and Emma as they followed Mom out the door. <><><> I picked up Chester off of the bed, set him down in the hallway, and made sure the door was actually shut securely behind me before I returned to bed. For a cat as dumb as he was, the fact that he had learned to open my bedroom door in the middle of the night was a source of endless annoyance for me and plenty of amusement for my siblings. For whatever reason, he had decided that I was his person, and therefore, my bedroom was the one that he wanted to be spending the night in. The problem was that my bedroom door didn’t always close all that securely, so if that fat orange cat were to push hard enough against it, he could get it to open enough to slip through and come sleep on my bed. I wanted no part in waking up to his butt being planted on my face. Not again. No, thank you. Tonight, of course, I had bigger concerns about him being in my bed than where he would plant his behind. It wouldn’t do to have the cat get caught up in the bedwetting that was set to happen in less than an hour. I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand as I returned to bed. Still, thirty minutes to go until midnight. I’d been in bed for almost an hour now. Since it was still technically part of the school year, I had a bedtime, even on weekends. Normally, I would have been annoyed at being sent to bed at 10:30 p.m. this close to summer break, but tonight, I did so without complaint, though I still had to be reminded by Mom to make sure to brush my teeth. Midnight was the earliest I could attempt to wet the bed, but I still had to wait to make sure everyone else was asleep before I began. Jackson, being six, got sent to bed right after dinner, around 8 p.m. He was an extremely sound sleeper. Nothing was going to wake him until he got up to zoom around the house and watch Saturday morning cartoons around 7 a.m. My parents were still up watching TV at the moment. This was their chance to watch the shows that Jackson and I hadn’t been allowed to see yet and ones that Grace had no interest in. But their evening schedule was at least predictable. Give them another ten to fifteen minutes, and they’d be brushing their teeth and taking out contact lenses. I’d likely be able to hear my dad snoring from the hallway before midnight. Grace was the wildcard, but whether she was asleep or not was less of a concern. She tended to seclude herself in her bedroom on weekend evenings. The main problem was that I was already beginning to feel a fairly strong urge to pee. As the evening wore on, my trips to the bathroom had become more and more frequent. I wasn’t sure how much I had drunk since coming home from school, but I was sure it had to be some crazily excessive amount, much more than whatever was recommended for staying hydrated during the day. I turned my phone’s flashlight on and retrieved the magazine once more from the drawer in an attempt to distract my thoughts from my bladder for the moment. I buried myself beneath my covers so the light wouldn’t be noticeable from outside in the hallway. I read through each line of the advertisement again and again. At this point, I could recite it from memory, the pictures of the pull-ups and the words used to describe them crystal clear in my mind’s eye. But there was something different about being able to hold it in my hands. It made it tangible. This wasn’t just something I had dreamed up. These pull-ups were real. And soon, they would be mine. I heard some faint noises in the distance and hastily shut off my phone. Mom and Dad were getting ready for bed. I could hear the sink running off in the distance in the bathroom as they brushed their teeth. I listened with bated breath as the sounds of them getting ready for bed continued. After a sprinkling of footsteps, their bedroom door clicked shut, and there was silence. As much as I wanted to resume my examination of the magazine, I couldn’t risk getting it ruined in the bedwetting. I carefully put it back in its place in the dresser drawer. I wouldn’t need it anymore once I had actual pull-ups to look at and wear. Would I toss the magazine out, then? Or would I keep it as a memento of the journey that had gotten me to this point? The clock silently struck midnight. I cracked open my door, doing so cautiously in case Chester was in the hallway waiting to come in. To my right was my sister’s bedroom on the opposite side of the hallway. The light was off. The same was true of my brother’s bedroom on the opposite side of the hallway to the left. I couldn’t make out my parent’s bedroom door, which was down to the left on the same side of the hallway as mine, but, as I had predicted, the sound of Dad’s snoring was proof enough that at least one of my parents was still asleep. I’m not sure how my Mom managed. I shut the door and tiptoed back to my bed, sliding beneath the cover and sheets. Unlike last night, my bladder was now aching, giving me clear signals that it was time to go to the toilet. I lay sprawled out under the sheets of the queen-sized bed. I now had to convince my bladder that it was perfectly OK to empty itself in this position instead. I held my breath. There would be no turning back when I did this. No way to hide the wet bed or the questions it would raise for my parents. But if I wasn’t going to do it now, when was I ever going to do it? I strained my bladder, trying to get myself to pee for several minutes. Nothing came out. I hadn’t considered how difficult it was going to be to wet the bed intentionally. My bladder was desperately telling me that it needed to go, but it was like there was some sort of mental block preventing me from going while I was still in bed. I had experienced a similar problem once before. There had been that time I had attempted to create a makeshift diaper out of plastic grocery bags, toilet paper, and duct tape. I had found myself unable to pee into it until I had sat on the toilet. In retrospect, that had been a good thing because the makeshift diaper had ended up leaking heavily into the toilet. I had figured that the problem then had been that I simply hadn’t waited until I was desperate enough to pee. Though, come to think of it, I couldn’t recall a single time that I had ever wet my pants from reaching that point of desperation since being potty trained. That had to be somewhat unusual. I could recall plenty of times when classmates in preschool through elementary had endured the humiliating experience of wetting their pants in class. Then there was Hannah, who had wet her pants during third-grade recess. I felt bad about it now, but we didn’t let her hear the end of it for the rest of the school year. That matter was mostly long forgotten now. Jokes about that situation had long lost their effectiveness. The urge to urinate was now almost painful. I rolled from my back to my stomach. Still couldn’t pee. I shifted to my side. Waited another painful minute. Still couldn’t get my bladder to release. Then I was on my back again. Still nothing. My bed was completely dry. I needed to go so badly now, but my body was telling me the only place it was going to do so was the toilet. I stood up from the bed. This was clearly stupid. A twelve-year-old girl wasn’t supposed to be peeing in her bed. What in the world was I doing? I began to hobble toward the closed door, both hands clutched between my legs. I made it halfway to the bedroom door when the image of the pull-up re-entered my mind. Was I really going to give up this easily after all my plans and preparations? Yes, someday, I would have the freedom to go and purchase those pull-ups for myself. But that would be ages and ages from now. I already knew what three years of waiting felt like. I couldn’t do it again. If not tonight, when was I going to do it? It was the same pattern, over and over again. My pent-up desire was foiled by my unwillingness to follow through when the time came to actually have the ability to put into motion a foolproof plan to get what I wanted. I returned to bed, but I didn’t lie back down. I had a different idea to try to trick my bladder into letting go. I pulled back the covers, so that I was sitting on the sheets in the middle of the bed, where my waist otherwise would have been had I been lying down. If I couldn’t make myself pee while lying down, perhaps I could do so while sitting on my knees. I tried to get in the right headspace to get myself to urinate. I thought of roaring waterfalls, trickling brooks, the pattering of rain outside my bedroom window, my hand reaching out to test the water pouring out from the shower, finding that the water was just the right amount of warmth to step into. Something began to stir in my bladder. The front of my pajama pants was warm and wet, and it was only getting warmer and wetter. It was all I could do to keep my hands from reaching down to the front of my pajamas. No point in getting them wet as well. My intention had been to make only a small accident. Enough that there wasn’t any question about what I had done, but not something super crazy that would be a pain to get cleaned up. I had figured that it would be easy to control how much I peed. I was wrong. There was simply no stopping the warm flow of urine that ran down my legs and onto the bed. Ten seconds passed. Then, twenty seconds. Then, thirty seconds. Then, forty seconds. Then it finally came to a stop. Even in the darkness, I could make out that the wet spot on my mattress was ginormous. It wasn’t so much a spot as it was a massive puddle covering a sizeable portion of the bed. I was past the point of no return. --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com 13 1 Link to comment
spark Posted February 18 Share Posted February 18 She has crossed the Rubicon. Let's see what happens next Link to comment
BabySofia Posted February 18 Share Posted February 18 1 hour ago, MinnesotaWriter said: I was past the point of no return. Fitting song to use on this chapter! I never would have had the guts to do this as a kid... Link to comment
Bonsai Posted February 19 Share Posted February 19 14 hours ago, spark said: She has crossed the Rubicon. Let's see what happens next Or maybe, the Rubicon has flowed from her bladder across her bed. Either way, now the Rubicon is in the way between Maddy and dry nights. Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 19 Author Share Posted February 19 18 hours ago, spark said: She has crossed the Rubicon. Let's see what happens next There's going to be a lot of interesting things in store for Maddy soon. 17 hours ago, BabySofia said: Fitting song to use on this chapter! I never would have had the guts to do this as a kid... Thanks, and yeah, I certainly would never have had the guts to do it either, but I also had to share a room with my brother. As adults, we obviously know that pretending to wet the bed as a kid is a bad idea for a whole host of reasons (many of which will pop up in this story), but I think it is one of those ideas that a lot of people who got into ABDL in their younger years may have toyed with in their heads. And obviously, for some adults, there is an appeal to either becoming a bedwetter or becoming incontinent. The premise for this story is basically to take a "what if" look at what could actually happen if a teenager were to try and pretend to wet the bed. 3 hours ago, Bonsai said: Or maybe, the Rubicon has flowed from her bladder across her bed. Either way, now the Rubicon is in the way between Maddy and dry nights. That's certainly another way to look at that analogy. Link to comment
Bel George Posted February 19 Share Posted February 19 1 hour ago, MinnesotaWriter said: As adults, we obviously know that pretending to wet the bed as a kid is a bad idea for a whole host of reasons (many of which will pop up in this story), but I think it is one of those ideas that a lot of people who got into ABDL in their younger years may have toyed with in their heads. I did want to do this as a child and as a teenager. But I never did because I did not want to disappoint my parents, and also because I am very bad at lying it would have been abvious really soon that I did it on purpose. But to this day I often wonder what could have happened if I had dared to wet the bed on purpose. Maybe this story will be able to answer that. Link to comment
spark Posted February 19 Share Posted February 19 9 hours ago, Bonsai said: Or maybe, the Rubicon has flowed from her bladder across her bed. Either way, now the Rubicon is in the way between Maddy and dry nights. In Maddy's case, part of it is getting away from dry nights. She soaked her bed and there is no way to hide what she did. She either admits that she did it on purpose, or wait for her parents to act. If this were a less patient author and one less obsessed with reality, I'd predict Maddy's room would magically convert to a nursery in the space of her taking a shower (an actual story I read on Amazon), but I know that @MinnesotaWriter is a little more nuanced with his plots. Trust me, we are in for a fun ride with this story. I know he won't tell us, but I wonder if we will want to cuss out the parents. Link to comment
dpzed Posted February 19 Share Posted February 19 49 minutes ago, spark said: In Maddy's case, part of it is getting away from dry nights. She soaked her bed and there is no way to hide what she did. She either admits that she did it on purpose, or wait for her parents to act. If this were a less patient author and one less obsessed with reality, I'd predict Maddy's room would magically convert to a nursery in the space of her taking a shower (an actual story I read on Amazon), but I know that @MinnesotaWriter is a little more nuanced with his plots. Trust me, we are in for a fun ride with this story. I know he won't tell us, but I wonder if we will want to cuss out the parents. We'll probably cuss out her parents a little bit but I'd guess they'll still act fairly reasonable compared to some other stories. So far this story seems very realistic and there are no indicators the parents are even slightly as bad as Sarah's Mom for example. Really hyped for this story. I recently got Kindle Unlimited (mainly to read @MinnesotaWriter's two books on there, which both are great btw) and most of the stories there are really really bad. They're either just short smut or generic romance flicks with 2 mentions of diapers throughout the whole story, super long but boring build up just to have the last third of the book end up being only smut. @MinnesotaWriter's books really stand out there. Haven't found a single other abdl related book on there that I actually enjoy. Hell even most POV switching stories on Wattpad are still more interesting and engaging than those. (I'm open for any Kindle suggestions btw, I'm sure there must still be some hidden gems on there) Link to comment
JustaFoxGirl Posted February 19 Share Posted February 19 The irony isn't lost on me. You had a whole story about a girl who couldn't help but wet herself, and now this one was, at least at first, about a girl who struggled to do the same. Looking forward to the aftermath of this, but it seems poor Maddy really underestimated her plan. Link to comment
Bonsai Posted February 20 Share Posted February 20 5 hours ago, spark said: In Maddy's case, part of it is getting away from dry nights. She soaked her bed and there is no way to hide what she did. She either admits that she did it on purpose, or wait for her parents to act. Exactly. the same way Cortez burned the ships before invading the Aztec empire (in reality, he drilled bores into the hull of most ships to simulate sinking by seaworms and only a minor part of the ships was burned, but nevermind), Maddy forced herself into the not-so-metaphorical nighttime river and is now somehow stuck to be consistent in order to be convincing in the eyes of her parents and not waste her previous efforts. If she's stubborn enough, the only acceptable dry shore on the opposite side of her self generated river are diapers. The ironic thing is that the Rubicon is in reality a very small stream that is almost dry most of the time, but then goes through sudden floods. Maybe, the only thing Maddy will get is a crinkly mattress protector and a bedwetting alarm... Link to comment
Hawkx1 Posted February 20 Share Posted February 20 13 hours ago, MinnesotaWriter said: The premise for this story is basically to take a "what if" look at what could actually happen if a teenager were to try and pretend to wet the bed. The only one I know of (that took it to actually becoming incontinent) is Ryan's Plan. 6 hours ago, dpzed said: Haven't found a single other abdl related book on there that I actually enjoy. You could try @TheLittleWriter's Kindle page https://www.amazon.com/stores/Little-Writer/author/B0CLKM7KN3?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1708404485&sr=1-1&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true 1 Link to comment
Bel George Posted February 20 Share Posted February 20 8 hours ago, dpzed said: I recently got Kindle Unlimited (mainly to read @MinnesotaWriter's two books on there, which both are great btw) and most of the stories there are really really bad. They're either just short smut or generic romance flicks with 2 mentions of diapers throughout the whole story, super long but boring build up just to have the last third of the book end up being only smut. @MinnesotaWriter's books really stand out there. Haven't found a single other abdl related book on there that I actually enjoy. Hell even most POV switching stories on Wattpad are still more interesting and engaging than those. (I'm open for any Kindle suggestions btw, I'm sure there must still be some hidden gems on there) To avoid this thread becoming cluttered with Kindle suggestions, I would suggest creating a separate thread where I would like to share which Kindle books I have enjoyed reading. And I'm also curious about what others liked to read. Link to comment
spark Posted February 20 Share Posted February 20 2 hours ago, Hawkx1 said: The only one I know of (that took it to actually becoming incontinent) is Ryan's Plan. That one is one of the first stories I ever wrote. I hadn't thought about that one for a long time (it was written a really long time ago), and based off an old meme that was out there at the time Pampers Kids. Among the Amazon books, there are almost none like that. I'm hoping to get a thread going where we can discuss Amazon books, and not just recommend stories. Amazon stories tend to focus on the adult side and tend to be heavily focused on sex. The Sakura Series has a little bit of that element. Almost any story I write will have an element where the protagonist wants to wear diapers because every protagonist that I write has an element of me in him. Here is the thread I recently created to discuss the book recommendations: Amazon Book Club and recommendation's. Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 21 Author Share Posted February 21 On 2/19/2024 at 10:29 AM, Bel George said: I did want to do this as a child and as a teenager. But I never did because I did not want to disappoint my parents, and also because I am very bad at lying it would have been abvious really soon that I did it on purpose. But to this day I often wonder what could have happened if I had dared to wet the bed on purpose. Maybe this story will be able to answer that. That was very much me as well, the few times I tried to deceive my parents about something. Never was a good Poker player either. But yes, I think this story will have a good answer to that question. On 2/19/2024 at 2:56 PM, spark said: In Maddy's case, part of it is getting away from dry nights. She soaked her bed and there is no way to hide what she did. She either admits that she did it on purpose, or wait for her parents to act. If this were a less patient author and one less obsessed with reality, I'd predict Maddy's room would magically convert to a nursery in the space of her taking a shower (an actual story I read on Amazon), but I know that @MinnesotaWriter is a little more nuanced with his plots. Trust me, we are in for a fun ride with this story. I know he won't tell us, but I wonder if we will want to cuss out the parents. I think we'll get an idea about how well thought out Maddy's plan is (or isn't) in the coming chapters. She's not going to admit to doing it on purpose, but there is a questions as to whether she go right to her parents to say she wet the bed, or if she will let them discover that fact on their own. But no magic nurseries will be appearing in this story. On 2/19/2024 at 3:56 PM, dpzed said: We'll probably cuss out her parents a little bit but I'd guess they'll still act fairly reasonable compared to some other stories. So far this story seems very realistic and there are no indicators the parents are even slightly as bad as Sarah's Mom for example. Really hyped for this story. Based on my other two stories on Daily Diapers, I should have added a trigger warning before the first chapter: Caution, story contains depictions of healthy family dynamics. On 2/19/2024 at 3:56 PM, JustaFoxGirl said: The irony isn't lost on me. You had a whole story about a girl who couldn't help but wet herself, and now this one was, at least at first, about a girl who struggled to do the same. Looking forward to the aftermath of this, but it seems poor Maddy really underestimated her plan. It may not be as easy for her to get what she wants as she expects it to be. 23 hours ago, Bonsai said: Maybe, the only thing Maddy will get is a crinkly mattress protector and a bedwetting alarm... Hmm... That would be quite disappointing for her. 1 Link to comment
MinnesotaWriter Posted February 21 Author Share Posted February 21 Chapter 4: Unless I Knock I really hadn’t thought this through as well as I should have. I continued to stare down at the massive wet spot underneath me on the bed. The urine had spread out in a puddle around me. I could feel the wetness beneath me from my knees to my toes as my bare skin pressed against where the urine had soaked through the sheets. It was still warm, though not quite as warm as it had been in the seconds after I had finished peeing. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I had attempted to inch away at first, but that only accentuated the feeling of the wetness against my skin. I did not like that sensation at all. I drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. I had done it. Actually done it. I hadn’t chickened out this time. This next week was going to be the worst of it. I was going to need to keep doing this until my parents decided to purchase pull-ups for me. And that was something that had to be their decision. No twelve-year-old, even one who would be far better off wearing pull-ups to bed, would be actively asking their parents to purchase them for her. That meant Mom and Dad would need to arrive at the decision on their own, without anything but the most subtle of hints from me. As I sat uncomfortably on what couldn’t actually be described as an accident, I now fully understood why my two younger cousins had no issues with their parents buying them pull-ups to wear to bed. For the longest time, I had struggled to understand why someone who was just a regular bedwetter – not someone like myself who actually wanted to wear diapers for the sake of wearing them – would be OK with doing so at night. The proof was right underneath me. There couldn’t be any way that someone would prefer going through this every night rather than wearing a pull-up or diaper to bed. There couldn’t be any question that having an accident contained in a pull-up would be preferable to having to deal with soaked pajamas and bedding in the middle of the night. I couldn’t just continue to sit in the middle of the bed. I inched over to the side of the bed, leaving a trail of wet spots across the sheets as I moved away from the nucleus of the fake bedwetting accident. I reached to the side of the bed, where I could barely make out the outline of the lamp sitting on the nightstand. My hands fumbled across it in the dark for a few seconds before they came across the light switch. I averted my eyes, shielding them from the blinding light with my arm. Then I opened my eyes again. The damage was far worse than it had appeared when I had wet the bed in darkness. My light pink sheets only made the location of the accident more apparent. And I had indeed left a trail of wetness over to where I was sitting next to the lamp. The bottom of my light blue cotton pajama shorts were completely soaked, as was the underwear beneath them. Even my T-shirt hadn’t been completely spared. The bottom of it must have touched a wet spot on the bed as I had gone to turn the lamp on, as there were some wet spots on the bottom of the shirt as well. I had known the process of faking bedwetting to get pull-ups wasn’t going to be pretty, but even then, the reality of what it was going to entail hadn’t really sunk in until now. But now what? My initial plan had been to wet the bed in the morning, but I had worried that might not be a good idea. There were several problems I found with that option. The first was that all the wet spots on the bedding would still be warm; it would look a lot more like I had peed a few minutes ago than having had an accident in the middle of the night. Too suspicious. The second issue with that idea was how it would be much harder to conceal the bedwetting from Grace and Jackson. They would both be awake, and it would be much more likely that they would come across wet laundry being hauled down to the laundry room or eavesdrop on a conversation about bedwetting between me and our parents. That meant that a nighttime accident was necessary, and I would need to proactively inform my parents about it. How in the world was I supposed to begin that conversation? Hey, Mom and Dad, it’s me. Maddy. You know, your twelve-year-old daughter who has never wet the bed before. About that. I just pissed all over my pajamas and bed just now while I was asleep. Sorry about that. Can you help me get cleaned up? Just another thing I hadn’t thought through. But I was going to have to do it, and soon. I stifled a yawn. I couldn’t risk falling asleep and being forced to attempt to stealthily hide my wet bedding from my siblings while also informing my parents of the accident. I just had to trust that my parents would show the same amount of discretion in handling my bedwetting as they had done for my older sister. I grabbed a dry portion of the bed cover and used it to wipe off my feet and legs before getting off of the bed. It wasn’t super bad to walk in wet shorts, but the wet underwear beneath them clung to me uncomfortably as I retrieved my phone, turning on its flashlight function as I turned off the bedroom lamp. I had to nudge Chester back into the hallway with my foot as I creaked open the door. The stupid cat would probably accidentally end up in my wet bedding if I let him in. It was bad enough that I was probably going to need to get in the shower. The one time we’d had to bathe that poor cat gave me no desire to have to do it again. I shut the bedroom door behind me as I entered the hallway. A few seconds later, I was standing in front of my parents’ closed bedroom door. I couldn’t bring myself to even gently tap on the door, let alone knock on it enough to wake them up. But the longer I waited, the more likely it was that one of my siblings might get up to use the restroom or get a late-night sip of water. I silently went through a half-dozen variations of what I could say to my parents. I wasn’t happy with any of them. The truth was that I wasn’t going to find the right thing to say. There wasn’t any possible way to explain the situation to my parents that wasn’t completely and utterly humiliating. My thoughts drifted back to the magazine under the bed. This was the price I had to pay to get my pull-ups. I hoped it would be worth it. I reached out and pressed the palm of my right hand against the door. The door wasn’t locked, but I knew better than to open it without their permission. I pulled my hand back a few inches and then did what could be most accurately described as a few soft pats on the door. In the silence of the night, the sound of my palm on the wood door seemed to reverberate through the hallway. But I knew I hadn’t actually made enough noise to wake anyone up, whether that was my siblings or my parents. I closed my hand into a fist. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door. I thought of a desperate plan to turn back. I could sneak down to the basement. I knew for a fact that the washer and dryer weren’t audible from the second-floor bedrooms. I could get everything washed and dried. I could remake the bed. No one would be any bit the wiser to what had occurred. I would be exhausted the next morning. But it was Saturday. I could sleep in. I shook my head. That was how this always went. I couldn’t let myself get turned aside, not after everything I’d done. I tried to build an image in my head of what my life would be like next week. Mom would have purchased a small package of pull-ups for me. I would have pretended to be embarrassed about using them, but would have reluctantly agreed to do so in the end. I would be lying in bed, wearing them in place of my underwear. I certainly wouldn’t have any pajama shorts over them. No, I would want to be able to see the colorful design, run my hand against the crinkly exterior. Even three years later, I could still longingly recall exactly how that had felt, along with the padding that so comfortably fit between my legs. And then, when I was wetting myself in bed, it would all be contained. I wanted ever so badly to know what that felt like. None of that was going to happen unless I knocked. No matter how embarrassing the next week was going to be, it would all pass. And I would get what I wanted. I rapped my knuckles on the door several times. I winced at the sound it made, but there was no way around it. I paused, listening first for any sounds from behind the door and then from further down the hallway where my siblings were sleeping. Nothing from either one of them. I rapped my hands again on the door. This time a little harder than before. And this time, there was a result. I thought I heard something creaking from beyond the door. Then a hushed conversation. Then a couple of footsteps. Then the door opened. I didn’t have to fake the shame and embarrassment I felt as the bedroom door creaked open to reveal Mom standing in front of me in a nightgown, with the dim light of my phone illuminating her face. My hands were trembling as I looked at her. Through the gap in the door, I could see Dad, who was still in bed. He was also craning his head to get a look at me. “Is everything alright?” Mom asked. She didn’t sound as though she was fully awake yet. “I… I…” The beginning of my planned response drifted off into nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. It turned out that I didn’t have to. My face burned as Mom’s eyes drifted away from mine and down toward my waist. There was no immediate verbal reaction to what she was seeing, but her eyes told the story that her lips didn’t. Her eyes blinked rapidly a couple of times and then widened, staring at my shorts for several seconds before breaking away to look back at me. I couldn’t meet her eyes this time. I focused instead on the sash of her nightgown. Mom turned around and motioned for Dad to get back into bed. “It’s OK, honey. I’ve got it.” She stepped out next to me in the hallway, pulling the bedroom door shut behind her. “Let’s go and get everything cleaned up,” Mom said as she began to walk toward my bedroom. Even though I’d had some light from the lamp and my phone, my eyes still weren’t prepared for how bright the room suddenly got when Mom flipped on the light switch to my room. Mom took a deep breath as she surveyed the bedroom. “You have one of those dreams where you thought you were sitting on the toilet?” “Yeah,” I muttered. I didn’t even know that was a thing. But it seemed like a believable lie to go along with. “Well, it happens,” Mom said. She didn’t sound upset. Just tired. “I’ll take care of getting the bedding in the wash, but you need to get yourself cleaned up as well once you’ve helped me get the bedding stripped.” I tossed all of my pillows to the floor. They, thankfully, had been completely spared. Mom didn’t say anything further as she helped me strip the bed. The cover hadn’t gotten all that wet, just a little bit from where it had gotten tossed in the wet bedding and used to dry myself off. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the bedding. The sheets were very soaked. There was a thin cotton mattress protector beneath the sheets. Also soaked. And then there was the mattress itself. The wet spot on it was as bad as I had feared, considering how wet all the bedding had been. I really hoped that I hadn’t ruined it. Though, on the other hand, that type of damage might spur my parents on to get me pull-ups a lot more quickly. Mom had wrapped the sheets and mattress protector in the much dryer cover and was holding it all in her arms. “One more thing, Maddy. I need to wash your clothes as well. Just take them off in the bathroom, and then you can inch the door open a little bit to hand your wet pajamas to me. I need to put them in the wash with all of your bedding. And you need to get cleaned up in the shower before getting dressed again for bed.” I hastily grabbed some underwear and clean pajamas from the dresser and retreated into the bathroom. I grimaced as I pulled off my wet shorts and underwear. I had forgotten how much I disliked the sensation of wet fabric on my skin. Per Mom’s instructions, I slid my wet clothes through a slightly open door. I winced at the thought of Mom having to pick them up as if she wasn’t already holding plenty of evidence of my supposed bedwetting accident. I turned on the shower, adjusting the shower head so that the water was coming out at an angle that would allow me to step into the shower and wash my midsection without getting my hair wet. I hated going to bed with wet hair, and I wasn’t going to use a loud hairdryer at this time of night. There wasn’t much that could wake up either Jackson or Grace, but the hair dryer might be loud enough to do so. The last thing I needed was for either of them to be wondering why I had been up taking a shower at this time of the night. Since I wasn’t washing my hair, it only took me a couple of minutes to get scrubbed down. I washed as thoroughly as I could, eager to get every trace of urine off of my skin. Once I had pull-ups to wear to bed, that wouldn’t be a problem. Those would actually be able to absorb everything. I could see the light coming into the hallway from my open bedroom door as I stepped out of the bathroom. I walked slowly through the hallway in a conscious effort to not create any more noise than I had made already. Mom was patting the mattress dry with paper towels. There were two bottles of cleaning sprays on the nightstand, along with a rather sizable pile of wet, discarded paper towels. A bit of guilt ran through me at the sight of Mom cleaning up after my mess. None of this was fair to her. I grabbed a handful of paper towels off of the roll and leaned over the mattress next to Mom, pressing the towels against a wet spot that now gave off the harsh scene of cleaning chemicals. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I pressed another wad of paper towels into the mattress. Mom took a break from patting the mattress dry and rubbed my back. “Don’t worry about it, Maddy. You were asleep. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, it’s not like it is the first time I’ve had to clean up a mattress in the middle of the night.” I knew she was referring to my older sister, but as eager as I was for more details about Grace’s past bedwetting, I couldn’t bring myself to ask Mom some more questions. Besides, I doubted I would get any more answers than on that day when I had accidentally found out about my sister’s bedwetting. We went through a couple dozen more paper towels before Mom stepped back from the bed and turned to look at me. “Well, I think your mattress will survive. But it still needs to dry some more. I set up your sleeping bag on the floor.” I had been so focused on helping Mom clean the mattress that I hadn’t noticed the dark purple sleeping bag that had been unrolled at the foot of the bed. It was all set up for me to crawl into. And, of course, Chester was already curled up on top of it. For a dumb cat, he could be pretty perceptive sometimes. I knelt down and slid into the cool sleeping bag, careful not to displace the cat. “I wouldn’t get too worked up about it,” Mom said quietly to me as she went to turn the light off. “I’m sure it’s just a one-time thing.” Her hand touched the switch. I was enveloped in darkness. If only she knew. --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com 13 1 Link to comment
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