Chapter 1

“I told you, I don’t normally wet the bed. I don’t need this diaper.”

I frowned at her, but chose a conciliatory tone. “I believe you, but you can surely understand that I need to protect my furniture. If you go a few nights without using your diaper then I’ll accept that this was a one-off.”

I knew it wasn’t even a one-off. It had been awkward weeing into the container I’d emptied onto her sleeping body, but worth it. She’d slept through the warm liquid soaking into her nightie, wetting the bed below her hips, looking entirely like it was her at fault.

Things escalated into the next phase. “Since your nightie is in the wash you need something else to wear tonight. Here, this will hold your diaper in place if you wet it.”

“I won’t wet it!” she protested, but took the garment from me anyway, held it up and looked at it in dismay. “A onesie? You actually want me to look like a baby?”

I did, but I wasn’t going to tell her this. “No,” I falsely assured her, “That’s my onesie, you think I want to look like a baby? It’s warm and comfortable and I thought you’d appreciate the practicality of it as well as being cosy tonight.”

That shut her up, her desire not to offend me making her accept that I was trying to help, stopping her from even challenging the obvious lie. It wasn’t practical at all, buttons up the back making the front prettier but making it difficult to pull on - or off.

“Can you help?” she asked, struggling to even reach some of the buttons.

“Of course.” I smiled, went around behind her, pushed the buttons through the very tight buttonholes, fastening her in. It was my onesie, in that I’d bought it, but I’d never worn it, never planned to. This was for her, always had been, would do its job tonight.

She’d be restless tonight, worried about wetting, I wouldn’t be able to add urine to her diaper for her. I hadn’t tried to give her too much to drink either, too obvious, even suggested she didn’t drink too much so that she’d stay dry. I was still playing the concerned friend, would escalate over the next few days, eventually take control of her life. Sure, she didn’t need it, was doing well in her career until the pandemic forced lay-offs, was only staying with me for the free rent, but I had my price and it involved a new baby girl. Her.

The baby monitor she hadn’t spotted would tell me when exhaustion finally sent her to sleep, so that I could sneak in, a few drops of the fast acting laxative into her open mouth and back out of the room fast, very fast. She’d be awake in under a minute and expelling seconds later. Sure, she could get to the toilet in time, but getting out of that onesie?

I smiled, bade her goodnight, sweet dreams and promised her, “I’m sure you’ll be dry but don’t worry. I won’t get upset if you use your diaper.”

That would keep her awake awhile worrying. All part of the plan.


a nice little snippet! I read the POV character as male- but it easily could be female, too. I read male because the whole domineering/ controlling angle but again, a female could easily be that way too. Perhaps I’m just going off of stereotypes and generalizing too much.

I think the onesie hints at the gender of the POV character but the story didn’t need one defining so feel free to choose for yourself :slight_smile:

You weren’t kidding; this is definitely one that prompts a demand for more.

As for who is dominating, surely it’s okay to read them as male simply because you want them to be. :stuck_out_tongue:

But seriously though, I’m confident they’re female. It’d be a really–well, decidedly more–odd situation for a woman to go stay at a male friend’s house and then be okay with promptly being diapered and dressed. I couldn’t see that happening unless she was already quite submissive and/or already had somewhat of a close relationship with the other person. For a male to do it, it would almost instantly be seen as sexual and inappropriate.

Once again BabyAnna has managed to write a densely-packed yet short work. Bravo.

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the onesie, too, good point. I think it would generally read towards a male person/ voice, but could also be read a a female who dresses/ has masculine tastes.

This is really easy to do. Just skip background, context, plot development, character development, descriptions of the room, the people in it, the situation; it’s a very single-track form of writing that makes the whole thing very limited and sadly rather amateur.

It’s one reason I write very short stories. To go further I’d have to do all of that other stuff, and that’s hard :frowning:

It doesn’t read like that.

A lot of the background, context, and situation, are implied; plot development and character development aren’t required in a vignette, and visual descriptions aren’t required unless they specifically add to the rest of the scene–in this case, I find nothing missing so I wouldn’t say they’re needed either.

These are fun reads. When I say densely-packed, I mean that they aren’t lacking for anything. We get enough to guess at a character’s gender, we know their intentions, and we get to fantasize–I mean speculate about what they’re going to do next.

It is, yes, a different thing than longer works, but I like this as it’s done well. There’s no wasted words, and it doesn’t feel lacking due to its length. I also like it as it’s not what I write. I lean more toward the visual and mechanical; writing something like this well would be almost impossible for me.

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Chapter 2

She’d tried to hide the soiled diaper, hadn’t sought my help, didn’t tell me about it in the morning. I even let her get out of bed first so that she could get dressed, didn’t have to reveal whether or not she’d put a clean one on. I was amused to find that she had, had thrown it away unused; I saw it when I found the soiled one, confirmed that my plan had worked.

We had a quiet day, I got on with some work and she watched TV, fussed on her computer. That night I asked her to wear another diaper, offered to help her with it, got rebuffed.

“I don’t need a diaper!” she claimed, “I didn’t wet the bed last night.”

“That’s great,” I replied, “Only one from two so far then. Maybe it was a one-off, maybe you’re fine, but please, humour me? Just a couple more nights.”

I didn’t mention the used diaper she’d thrown away, her choice to wear one without me being there. I was still playing innocent, helpful, caring, and it worked. She agreed to the diaper, but insisted on putting it on herself.

“While I do that, do you have a nightie I can borrow?” she asked, “That onesie is lovely but a real pain to get out of this morning.”

Suppressing my smile I reacted as she’d hope, indeed as she’d expect. “Oh! I think it’s cute enough to be worth the effort, but sure, I’ll go and find something for you.” I called out from the hallway another element that would assure her continued descent, “Don’t forget to add powder to your diaper!”

What I found her was a simple cotton nightdress, a modern design, mid-thigh and comfortable. It suited my plans for the night anyway. I stood in her doorway, ignored her lying with her legs spread, fastening a plastic coated prison to herself, threw the nightdress onto the foot of the bed and told her, “I’m going to make some cocoa, it’ll help me sleep. Do you want a mug?”

I knew she’d say yes, had been distracting her from getting a drink all evening, made sure she’d welcome one now. I went to make them, added a secret ingredient to one mug, brought them both back upstairs.

She was sat on the bed, diaper hidden beneath the nightdress, brushing her hair. I put my mug down as I entered the room, walked up and handed hers to her.

“Here, drink this while I brush your hair. You need some pampering.”

She acquiesced and sat sipping her cocoa while we both enjoyed me giving her hair a good brush, leaving a silky sheen that would be wasted on sleep. Her hair was far too long for a baby but who could cut beautiful hair like this? I’d compromise on this one.

Cocoa finished I left her to go to bed alone, took my own drink to my room and read a book for a while. The baby monitor told me she was breathing steadily but I was in no rush, knew she’d be out for hours. The sleeping draught in her cocoa was hard to overdose so I’d been generous, made certain.

Eventually I went in, soft snoring confirming she was out. I shook her gently by the shoulder, then more forcefully. If she woke I’d tell her she was screaming, that I was worried, needed to wake her from a nightmare. She didn’t wake. I left her sleeping on her side as I drew her nightdress up to her waist, revealing the diaper below. The caution to use powder had done the job; between her lack of practice fitting one to herself and the powder getting in the way, the tabs were barely attached, easily removed without damaging them or the diaper. I pulled the side she was sleeping on down, creased it beneath her, pulled the centre of the diaper a little out of position. It looked like she’d just failed to put it on properly, and it wasn’t going to do its job worn like that.

Not that she needed it to do its job. She wasn’t going to wet it, would wake up dry and clean in the morning. Unless someone emptied a container of warm water onto the inside of her lower thigh, soaking the nightdress and bedding below it, then added another container of urine, this one mostly inside the diaper, assuring that unmistakeable odour to go with the unmissable wetness.

I tugged her nightdress back into position, hiding the evidence, pulled the covers back over her and finally went to bed myself.


It occurs to me, for all the elaborate efforts being made here, a simple turkey baster would do this job much faster and easier. Little tug on the leg elastic, deposit the contents, done.

I defer to your superior subversion skills.

But… I also know what’s next :wink:

OK well now I’m curious

It occurs to me that I’ve read multiple first person ABDL stories, but rarely one where its first person from the dom’s perspective. Far too often I’ve seen stories about people beginning to bed wet and being regressed before finding out they are being put on, its fun to see from the other perspective.

Anyway, love this so far and can’t wait for the next part

You’ll have to wait. I have just finished writing chapter 3 (and it’s longer than 1 and 2 put together) but I’ll wait a day or two before posting. People seem to enjoy anticipating what’s coming next so I’ll let other readers catch up first.

Anybody that wants to wait for the whole thing in its complete form will only need to wait a few days - it’s looking like a 5 chapter story, maybe 6 at most.

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Chapter 3

Toast, half a grapefruit, some orange juice and a nice hot cup of coffee. That last one was the problem, keeping it hot; I cheated by making it into a flask and waited until the baby monitor told me she’d finally woken up.

After pouring the coffee into a mug, I picked up the tray and bustled into her room. “Good morning, you’ve overslept so I thought I’d wake you with breakfast in bed.”

She yawned, looked at me and stretched, a smile breaking onto her face. “Breakfast! Oh, you’re so kind. This is a nice start to the weekend.”

I smiled back and ruined her weekend. “Stay dry last night?”

She seemed to remember what she was wearing for the first time and a range of expressions crossed her face. Confusion, curiosity, shock. “Umm. Yes,” she said, but we both knew she’d be terrible at poker.

I put the tray on the bedside table, leaned over and said calmly, “Let’s see the damage.” Pulling back the covers revealed her nightdress still damp, a circular stain on the sheet beneath.

“I thought you put a diaper on,” I asked, “you can’t have wet that much can you?”

She picked up the dry hem of her nightdress, pulled it towards her waist, looked at the diaper below. It had shifted in her sleep, now nowhere to be seen on the side she’d been lying on, discolouration showing the padding between her legs wasn’t dry. She started to weep, looking at me through eyes blurred by tears. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?”

I sighed, leaned towards her, held her head in both hands and as I tilted it up towards me, wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “Why don’t you go and get a shower, and I’ll get some laundry on. No point crying over spilt milk.”

It wasn’t milk, but that may be what jolted her from her misery. Tenderness seemed necessary, I needed her compliant, not depressed. She stood up gingerly, one hand holding damp nightdress away from her body, the other needing to stop the wet diaper sliding down her legs.

As she waddled from the room I watched in amusement but kept quiet. By the time she was out of the shower the bed was stripped, mattress left bare to dry, sheets already washing. I waited downstairs for her, kept myself busy, gave her some time to recover.

“What’s going on?” She’d made it downstairs quietly, was stood in the doorway, looking at me with suspicion.

I shrugged, gave her a quizzical look. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. You’ve never had this issue before?”

She shook her head, came into the room and sat down. “I think I need to see a doctor.”

“That sounds sensible,” I agreed, suggested she contact her regular doctor, get an appointment for a couple of days time. That support settled her and she got out her phone, started making some plans.

At that point I went shopping, left her to it. The doctor wouldn’t want to see her at the weekend which gave me at least two more nights to reinforce her sense of losing control.

Dinner that night was subdued, me planning my next steps while she sat there lost in thought, clearly troubled by her current situation. It didn’t help later at bedtime, when I followed her into her room.

She’d made the bed while I was out, her desire to help admirable but her sense of responsibility not diminished. I’d need to work on that. Rather than mention it I merely held up a diaper.

“Come on, let’s get you safe for the night.”

“Please, I don’t need that,” she protested, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Ok, give it here, I know.”

It was time to escalate and she’d inadvertently given me extra ammunition. “No. You’ve wet the bed twice in the last three nights, and you didn’t even tell me about Thursday night. I had an awful shock when I opened the bin.”

That shut her up, made her blush guiltily.

“On top of that,” I said, pressing home my advantage, “Last night you couldn’t even put your diaper on right. So come on, get undressed and I’ll do it properly for you. That mattress has had enough damage.”

She wilted before me, and started to comply. Even as she undressed and lay back on the bed she was looking at me with uncertainty. Eventually she spoke, “That’s a different diaper. Didn’t we have several of the others left?”

She was right, on both counts. My explanation was both accurate and also a horrible lie. “After last night I thought we should try something with extra absorbency. It’s only a little thicker, but it’s a more expensive design, will keep the bedding dry no matter what.”

That made her wince, even after twice waking up with wet bedding. It was bad enough for her to know she needed overnight protection, being told she needed even more was humiliating. What she didn’t know is that these diapers didn’t hold more, as they were bulkier due to something I’d spent several hours fitting to half a dozen of them. Between the plastic backing and the padding of the diaper was a thin plastic bag, impossible to detect due to the plastic beside it. Each diaper had over half a pint of urine already inside that just needed releasing to soak the padding, look and feel to all intents as though it had been wet by the wearer.

My cunning design included a small device that would release it too, but it was the size of a cigarette packet, too large to conceal. I fitted the diaper first. “Lift your hips. Good girl. Ok, down again. Relax. There, all safe and secure.”

Rather than try and hide it I held the device up and showed it to her. “This is a wetness alarm, I got it while shopping earlier.” She didn’t know that was a lie, that it had been made for me weeks ago. “All I need to do is slide this electrode in here…”

I slid a slim plug in past the elasticated leg band right by her crotch, plugged it into the imperceptible socket attached to the bag built into the diaper. “Now, when you wet the alarm will sound, waking you up and giving you a chance to react.”

“Will that help?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Obviously it wouldn’t. Quite the contrary, it would receive the bluetooth signal that I would send when it was time for her diaper to go from dry to wet, would send its own signal through the wires to her diaper, use a small electrical charge to flick open the sluice gate and let that small bag empty into the padding. A few seconds delay and the alarm would then sound, accurately letting her know she had a wet diaper on.

“It might,” is all I told her, “but right now anything is worth a try. Now, I’m sorry but it’s back into the onesie for you.”

She protested at that, “I can’t get out of that in time to use the toilet!” She was wrong. She wouldn’t be able to get out of it at all now.

“You haven’t made it to the toilet three nights running,” I told her, “This will help hold the diaper in place, prevent a repeat of last night’s misfortune.”

That quietened her and she stepped into it of her own accord, let me fasten the buttons. As I sat behind her I swiftly pulled a needle from my sleeve, thread already attached, and sewed two of the button holes closed. It was only 2-3 loops each but that was enough to stop the button coming back out; I’d have to cut those threads to undress her in the morning.

Stopping her undressing was part of imposing my control on her anyway, but it also stopped wandering fingers fiddling with the diaper, displacing my device or worse, discovering the trap that it was waiting to spring.

“Time for cocoa,” I said, and let her alone to contemplate her fate while I went to make it. Unadulterated this time, I needed her bloodstream clean ahead of the doctor visit.

We both went to bed after that late drink, one of us smug and satisfied with a well executed plan, the other… enduring it.


Fair enough :slight_smile: Except its already posted lol

On the one hand, I kinda wanna see this going where it appears to be going.
But, knowing you, I have my suspicions that it will change course, possibly quite drastically.

I don’t know which way we’re going here, but we’re getting there in style.

It’s nice to leave people second-guessing the plot.

Chapter 4

My alarm went off at 3am, my watch silent but vibrating urgently, enough to wake me. I turned on the baby monitor, heard gentle snores and smiled. I picked up my phone and triggered the device, waited patiently for a few seconds then heard an alarm from her room.

“Oh! Oh no.” The monitor caught her dismay as she discovered her diaper was wet.

Pulling on my dressing gown I went through. “I heard an al… oh sweetie, are you ok?”

There were tears, hugs, sympathy.

“Come on,” I told her, “Let’s get you changed.”

She looked at me in distress but turned her back so that I could undo the onesie for her. A small box cutter from my dressing gown pocket sorted the button holes, buttons undone at what she must have felt was a normal speed, and the onesie dropped from her shoulders.

The replacement diaper was an ordinary one, same outer design, same overall thickness but it wouldn’t get wet unless she did lose control herself. That was unlikely, amusing though it would be, although I did fit the wetness alarm anyway, just sliding the probe into her diaper this time; it would actually work, and she’d be confused if I omitted it. The onesie was buttoned normally too. I wanted her to undress herself in the morning, remove the diaper, have no suspicions that she’d been set up this time.

It worked. She was up and making breakfast before I was out of bed myself, kept herself busy when I came down. We didn’t discuss the events at 3am, planned a walk that afternoon, pretended life was normal. Life semeed normal for a few days. Ordinary days, wet nights, the time I set off the device varying but always while she was deep asleep.

Her doctor visit came and went. He found nothing, suggested it may be a mental issue due to the circumstances, loss of income, global pandemic, stress in her life.

That nearly caught me, I almost smirked. If stress made her wet herself I wouldn’t need the device and the doctored diapers. I recovered quickly, faked surprise at his lack of insight and told her, “That can’t be right. Do you want a second opinion? I’ll call my doctor, he can come and take a look too. You need to get some sensible help.”

She accepted, which made me glad. It was important to get her away from her own doctor, and my friend could fake being one enough to get through this situation. He didn’t know the whole plan, wasn’t really into infantilisation, preferred to keep his submissives in leather and on a short leash. That didn’t really appeal to me so I seldom took advantage of the standing invitation to go and play, although the occasional dinner followed by some personal care during after dinner drinks made for a nice treat.

He’d offered to provide nannies if I needed them occasionally, started the training. I knew he just enjoyed the training, liked the idea of forcing someone to change dirty diapers, so it worked well for us both. This intervention needed him directly though, and a couple of days later he came over, looking just like a doctor. Shirt, no tie, cardigan, the picture of casual cosy competent professionalism.

After checking if she wanted me present they disappeared into her room together, quiet murmurs, a longer visit than my actual doctor ever offered. He came out, winked at me and told me he couldn’t discuss what they’d said, asked if I had anything I wanted to raise while he was there.

I smiled, looked at his crotch and politely declined. He rolled his eyes at my terrible pun, and left.

She’d heard some of that but fortunately hadn’t seen it, wanted to tell me his diagnosis. He’d given her a comparable examination to her own doctor, given her largely the same advice - as he should, I’d prepped him on what she’d already heard, made it easy for him to seem credible. He’d added a bit on my behalf though, a suggestion that she just enjoy 3-4 weeks of being looked after, let someone else deal with life’s little responsibilities.

Obviously I offered to step in. After all I was already diapering her, doing the laundry, going shopping for us both. If she wanted to help with the cooking that might be fun but she could ask me to step in at any time, even midway if it helped her. I wasn’t trying to make her completely helpless, yet, just set the seeds that I was willing to be a full time carer for her.

She was going to need it.


Chapter 5

A couple of days later, running short on the doctored diapers, it was time to escalate. Not that anybody told her. She found out the worse way possible.

We were walking through from the kitchen, a late morning milkshake each, both carrying our own, our other hands holding a plate with a slice of buttered banana bread. She’d wanted coffee but a hot drink could be dangerous so I’d suggested the milkshakes and we’d had fun making them. My caution proved immediately justified, as her legs seemed to give way below her, a sudden collapse to the ground.

She squawked, I made an exclamation myself. I knew something would happen but that had surprised even me. The pool of liquid on the wooden floor made me smile, an ideal excuse to introduce her to sippy cups. Although not today, I’d have to pretend to go out and buy one first. I put down my own glass and plate, crouched down and hugged her quivering form from behind.

“Are you ok? It’s all right, I’ll make another milkshake for you. Did you get it on your clothes?”

Even before I’d finished speaking a tear streaked face had turned towards me, and a glass of milkshake revealed, still full. Somehow she’d managed to avoid spilling it on the way down, superb control and agility.

The tears were because the liquid on the floor was from another source. She would need a change in clothes, but only from the waist down.

“What happened there?” she asked, “I was walking and then sort of fell and when I landed…”

She burst into fresh tears so I kept quiet, hugged her close, stroked her beautiful long hair. Eventually she subsided so I sent her up to change her clothes, mopped the floor myself. She called down for me so I went up, found her sat on her bed.

“I’m not feeling great,” she told me, “It was hard to get up the stairs. I think I should lie down for a bit.”

That wouldn’t suit my plan, so I made another suggestion. “Why not come down, park yourself on the sofa, that way you can still rest but we’ll both have some company. Come on, I’ll find you a blanket so you can be cosy there.”

She smiled at that and thanked me, made her way carefully downstairs. I’d need to stop her doing that soon, didn’t want her to fall and get hurt. We drank our milkshakes, the ice cream now melted, watched some TV and she looked up the show on her phone while I made lunch.

It was mid afternoon that she half rose from the sofa, froze then pushed herself forward, landing on the floor on her knees, sinking down as she clearly wet herself. She looked up at me in astonishment and I looked back with wide eyes, words unnecessary, the shock easy to portray. My internal amusement at the sight and her plight was much harder to hide, and I didn’t dare say anything for fear of letting on.

She finally spoke. “I tried to stop it. I knew I had to go and was standing up when… I couldn’t… it…”

I relented, stood up, crouched by her. “It’s fine, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested we come down here.”

She protested at that, which was nice. She’d have lost control upstairs too, but I wasn’t going to tell her that, was still playing the concerned friend. I helped her upstairs and into the bathroom, suggested a bath or a shower.

She walked back into her room, clean and smelling nice, whatever smellies she’d used working well. They’d put her in a good mood which evaporated when she saw me sat on her bed, an open diaper lying on it beside me.

“It’s not bedtime!” she told me, then realised. “No! I’m not a baby!”

A quick wince to show she’d upset me with that, followed by a stern look. “Who called you a baby? You’re wetting the bed every night and you’ve lost control twice today. I don’t know what’s going on…” except that I did, “…but you nearly ruined my sofa a moment ago. Something’s clearly up so this is just a simple precaution until the doctor can see you.”

“Doctor?” she asked in confusion, “Yes, I should see the doctor.”

“Good, because I called him while you were showering,” I said, “He’s coming tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll be back out of these soon.”

That cruel offer of hope did the trick, and she let me diaper her. A normal diaper, the thicker style that would get thicker when she wet it, superabsorbent polymers swelling between her legs and forcing a delightful waddle. I left her to choose her own clothing over the top, pretended nothing was out of the ordinary when she came down, just sat her back on the sofa beneath the blanket again.

Late that evening she spoke up uncomfortably. “I think I just wet myself.”

It was hard to hide my smile. Was the uncertainty genuine or was she being evasive through embarrassment? It didn’t really matter at this stage, as I shocked her with my reply. “Well, it’s nearly bedtime so no point changing you now. I’ll put you in a clean diaper when you get ready for bed. No point wasting a diaper now.”

She raised her eyebrows at that but didn’t protest. She did suggest going to bed a little earlier than we normally would so I relented, agreed and suggested she went up and got ready while I made cocoa.

In her cocoa I increased the dosage from the amounts that had been working well throughout the day. The muscle relaxant with her three previous meals had done its job perfectly, but at night I wanted her to stay in bed, have no chance of control. After a quick diaper change I still fitted the device for her, but this was into an ordinary diaper, no need now for the doctored ones. It woke us both, revealed that for the first time since arriving she’d wet herself in her sleep. Well, I knew it was the first time.


Chapter 6

Another week passed. I was getting better at judging the dosage now, enough to keep her wet during the day, stopping her walking at night. She wet in her sleep, and she got to enjoy her first messy diaper.

I didn’t enjoy that, wasn’t sure I ever would. But it was my own fault, I put her into those diapers so I had to change them, even the nasty ones. There were more of those, on a regular basis, her humiliation and embarrassment at them so delicious that I had to force myself to act, pretend to be concerned for her comfort. I did cheat though, sent her to shower rather than having to clean her up myself.

My friend’s visit had gone as expected, a pretend full medical, tests of her reflexes and then her ability to feel pain. He enjoyed that part. He also took a blood sample but the one sent to the lab came from me so they found nothing, their paperwork safe to share with her. His prescribed medicine was a placebo, one I offered to collect, picked up from his house.

The day after he’d visited she did drop her drink. From then she was using a sippy cup, the protests easily overruled, and the sippy cup itself dropped more than once to prove my point. It seemed to reinforce to her that she was helpless, that she couldn’t control her own body, made her withdraw into herself.

That lasted a couple of days, gentle ministrations and kindness helping bring her back to good humour, my lack of concern at taking on the role of changing her helping normalise the situation. I’d never had children but fell into the routine easily, just treated it as part of my daily life, and she responded in kind. Wet diaper, oh well, better change it, no point getting upset, there’ll be another soon.

“Here,” I suggested one morning, “Put this on.”

She held it up and sighed. “A onesie? Crotch snaps and envelope shoulders? That’s baby wear! I’m not wearing that.”

I sighed back. “No, it’s for people that wear diapers. It stops them falling off, makes it easier to change them and the shoulders mean that if there’s a nasty leak you can take it off without spoiling your hair.”

It was baby wear, and we both knew it. My words for once didn’t do the trick.

“This is for babies,” she told me, “and I am not a baby.” She folded her arms and glared at me.

Tilting my head a little I stared into her eyes and raised my voice for the first time since she moved in. “I don’t care if you’re a baby,” I told her firmly, “People don’t buy these for babies because they’re babies. They buy them because they’re practical for people that wear and use diapers.” I softened my voice and added, “People like you.”

I wasn’t even lying: I didn’t care if she was a baby. I was going to treat her like one anyway.

She relented, but still protested. “I’m not a baby,” she repeated, trying to convince herself.

It would be silly to contradict her but I couldn’t bring myself to agree either. “This is hard for me too,” I said, “I’m trying to help you through this, and I’m sure it’ll be over soon. These onesies will help me with your diaper changes, keep you clean and fresh, surely that’s better than sitting in a wet diaper?”

She didn’t even ask how they’d be easier for diaper changes than just not wearing one, instead just held her arms up so I could slide it onto her. “Ok,” she said, “You win. Let’s make this work.”

That win continued for another few days, happy content ones with a baby in the house, no matter how much she protested otherwise. We had fun, but the muscle relaxant kept her wet, occasionally messy, unable to leave the house or do much walking around. I responded by doing all the work, the shopping, the laundry, the diaper changes, the housework, and spending much of the rest of my time being nice to her, brushing her hair or giving her a massage, making her feel pampered in her pampers.

It worked, the protests ended, the diaper changes accepted without complaint. Then one morning another win. I’d got her up, changed her wet diaper, dressed her for the day but as I went to make us breakfast she clutched at me. demanded cuddles. At last my new baby was being dependent, wanted cuddles from me, so we had cuddles. She didn’t say anything, just clutched me close, heartbeats shared and soft caresses showing tenderness from us both.

She seemed disappointed when I had to stop, go for a doctors appointment of my own. I’d told her I had a meeting that morning, pretended it was work related, didn’t want her asking why the doctor wasn’t coming here. As we’d missed breakfast I promised her a big brunch after I returned, went out and left her to enjoy her morning.

Our evening cocoa before bed that night had an accident. I’d put my mug on the table, handed her a sippy cup and she’d asked for toast to go with it. I went to the kitchen to make it, had put the bread into the toaster and was getting butter from the fridge when I heard a scream.

Running back into the room I found her sat with her front all wet, the sippy cup in her hand but its lid on the floor. I must have failed to screw it on properly, left her an accidental booby trap full of cocoa.

We went back upstairs, I cleaned her up, dressed her in a night time onesie and she crawled under the covers herself, told me that she just wanted to sleep. Reaching her arms up to me she asked me just before I left, “Hug first!”

We had a quick hug, said night-night and I went downstairs, enjoyed some toast for myself, drank my cocoa, went to bed.

Maybe she was becoming dependent. Things were looking good, full diaper use, sippy cups, onesies, now dependency. Maybe it was time for the high chair and crib.


Great addition! Crazy that she forgot to screw the lid onto the sippy cup, such a shame that the cocoa was wasted