Alternative Therapies - Chapter 7

Dressed in a short pair of black leggings and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, I  made my way back to our garden as soon as my mother released me from the  changing table. Although I sat back down next to Sophie, who was still busy building our castle in the sandbox, my enthusiasm for participating had waned. I didn't want to be a kid anymore, playing stupid children's games or wearing children's clothes. While people my age were spending their time in nighttime clubs, I had to wear pull-ups and play in a sandbox with a four-year-old. I wanted to live the life I was entitled to at my age. Several times Sophie tried to encourage me to play with her again, even suggesting new, alternative games in hopes of rekindling my interest, but I grumpily blocked everything. "I understand that you're sad, Emily, I'm sad too when I've had an accident, but being sad doesn't change what happened." I couldn't believe that I, a 19-year-old, was getting life advice from someone who still believed in the tooth fairy.

Out of fear that another mishap could happen to me, I refrained from drinking any more fluids for the rest of the day, and indeed I was spared from another accident, but this was probably only because I did not have to go to the toilet again. My sister was less successful. After lunch, I took pity and played with Sophie in the sandbox again. Sophie was so ecstatic and so happy during the playtime that she simply forgot to use her potty. This resulted in my mother having to clean up another mess.

It was still broad daylight when our mother began getting us ready for bed. Sophie's exhaustion was clearly visible on her face. She could barely stay awake. As for me, I couldn't imagine falling asleep already with the sun still shining so brightly. But that was my reality at the moment. It would probably take hours, like yesterday, until I fell asleep. We brushed our teeth, watched an episode of Pajanimals, and went to Sophie's room at exactly 6:30 pm to get ready for bed.

Before our mother put on our diapers and pajamas, she pulled out an object that I had managed to avoid all day. At first, I naively believed that she only had one potty in her hands and only expected Sophie to use it before bedtime. But the second, identical potty was tucked so inconspicuously under the first one that I had simply overlooked it.

I insisted, “I don't have to pee, Mom,” hoping to avoid having to sit on that thing. “Emily, dear, I thought you wanted to become potty-trained. Do you want to use your diaper at night again?” Of course, I didn't want to use my diaper, but I also didn't want to sit on that little plastic potty in front of my mother and definitely didn't want to use it in her presence. I begged her, “Can't I just go to the bathroom quickly?” My mother shook her head. “The deal was to be treated like Sophie, and look how nicely your sister is sitting on the potty.” Indeed, my sister had pulled down her pull-ups without any help and sat down on the potty all by herself.

I protested desperately, “But...” but my mother cut me off. “Come on, let me help you, Emily,” and before I knew it, she had pulled down my leggings and pullups. “Now that nothing's in the way of you going potty, you can sit on the training toilet,” she continued in her motherly sing-song voice, pushing me down onto the hard plastic seat. "You did a great job, Emily!" my mother exclaimed, using the kind of exaggerated praise that parents reserve for children even when they haven't accomplished anything worth mentioning.

Next to me, I heard a splashing sound, followed by a proud "done." "Great job, Sophie! Look how well your sister used the potty, Emily," my mother enthused, pointing to the yellow content of my sister's potty. I felt like I wanted to disappear. It was impossible for me to keep up with this nonsense for another three months.

My mother helped my sister wipe and then laid her down on the changing table to put on her nighttime diaper. Meanwhile, I remained seated on my potty. As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. If I didn't go now, I would end up with another wet diaper in the morning. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't squeeze out even a single drop.

"If nothing comes out, there's nothing you can do," my mother finally explained after she finished changing my sister, finding my potty still dry as a bone. She took my although still dry pull-up from me and helped me off the potty and onto the now-empty changing table. "You'll do great next time, just like your sister did," she tried to cheer me up, but her words had the opposite effect. She was making it seem like Sophie's ability to use the potty was a sign of higher maturity, as if my struggle was a reflection of my inadequacy. Maybe my bladder wouldn't have been so shy if I, like my sister, had been completely devoid of any sense of shame. I didn't even need to see Sophie, who was already in her bed and out of sight, to know that she was glowing with pride. I couldn't even blame her for it; it was probably the first time in her life that she had done something better than me. That was the burden of being the baby of the family.

Although I was completely clean, my mother did not miss the opportunity to wipe my bare crotch with a wet wipe before putting on my diaper. I had hoped that the whole procedure would, over time, feel less alien to me, but as my mother ran the cool, damp cloth over my labia again, I realized that the cringe feeling would probably never go away. It was not normal as a 19-year-old to be diapered by one's own mother, and even the seeming matter-of-factness with which my mother handled the situation did not change that.

"I have to say Emily, I know I was against you permanent intimate hair removal, but the hairless crotch is really a huge relief changing your diapers." I blushed furiously. Did she really need to start talking about my private parts right now!!!? It was bad enough that she was getting so close to it in the first place. I had talked my mother into it forever when I was 18 until she agreed to pay for my treatment, and until her stupid therapy, I had been very happy with my decision. But at that moment I would have given anything for a magnificent bush between my thighs, not only to make her job harder, but mostly so that my crotch no longer looked like that of a child.

After generously rubbing baby powder on my nether regions, my mother fastened my diaper and helped me climb into my bed. Then, the same scene as the night before played out: she gave my sister and me a goodnight kiss and asked us which story she should read. Once again, I remained silent while my little sister chose the same story as always. After not even a chapter, Sophie was fast asleep, and I pretended to be as well, causing my mother to activate the baby monitor and leave the room. It took me several more hours to actually fall asleep. It's not hard to imagine how boring it is to lie awake in bed with nothing to do. If it weren't for that stupid baby monitor, I could have at least grabbed some book from Sophie's shelf to occupy myself, but instead, all I could do was hope that my body would eventually adjust to these early bedtimes.