S i t t i n g … t h e … W i n s t o n s
This story just came to me and I thought, what the heck, why not write it down, despite the fact that I had decided not too long ago to retire from the art of diaper-story writing. So, before you read my alley-like return to the ring, keep a few things in mind. 1. This is not supposed to be a real story. 2. It is not supposed to be amazing, plot-twisting, edge-of-seat-sitting story. 3. I write for my own enjoyment and I always enjoy if you enjoy it too. But that is not my goal. 4. This story involves diapers and boys wearing diapers. Because for me, that is what this whole DL thing is all about. I fully understand that represented on this site is a broad spectrum of interests. I warn you that this story involves these interests so that if you don’t share them, you don’t have to read it. There is absolutely nothing sexual in this story, aside from the diapers. Ok, that all being said, I hope you enjoy…
Part 1 - Introduction
I guess I should have seen it coming. I mean the things I did, the actions I took; I basically asked for it. But I didn’t. And when it did happen, well, let’s just say I was surprised. I did not see it coming. I always felt I was in control of the situation, that I had respect, that I could do whatever I wanted and they would think it was cool, fun. And they did…until they got me back. And I guess then, at that point, the tables turned. Boy, did they ever. Whoo-ee.
I had been babysitting the Winston boys for three years. Why their mom would let a fifth grader babysit four younger boys, I still don’t know. But she did. And I was that fifth grader. When I started working for Mrs. Winston, Johnny was just over a year old, Ronney was four, Matthew six, and Paul, the oldest, had just turned seven.
People, as always, are complex. And I wouldn’t want to belittle the vast personalities of my four charges with short summaries of their character. But for the sake of succinct storytelling, I will. Paul, oldest, was a strong kid. He was definitely an oldest sibling of four rough and tumble boys. He could go from being the ultimate caregiver: tear-inducing love, to abusive biggun’. Such is the lot of big brothers. Matthew was the quiet one. Contemplative and soft, but strong. Almost as big as Paul, nearly two years his senior. He could hold his own but would often be the brunt of jokes from his brothers on both sides of the age spectrum. Ronney was the runt, forgive the alliteration. A small little kid, even at four. But man, tough as nails. Red haired and with every personality trait usually associated with that hair color. Even me, six years older, was afraid to mess with that fire ball. I guess you’ve got to be tough to be the small one of four brothers. Johnny? Well, Johnny was pretty darn young at this point. It is pretty safe to say his personality had yet to be defined. Later, three years later, he would reveal himself as a follower, but a very effective follower. He was a strong boy and did everything, everything, his older brothers told him to do. He had a confidence though. So I suppose he wasn’t much of a follower. More of an enforcer. In the mob sense of the word.
I was kind of old for fifth grade. An autumn birthday. When I began babysitting the Winston boys, I was ten. And Iike most ten-year-olds, I thought I was twenty. And I was quite miffed when people older than me treated me like a boy. My least favorite word ever had to be buddy. I hated it when older people would call me “buddy.” Made me feel so small. “Hey Buddy, how you doing?” Might as well pinch my cheek and ruffle my hair. “Jeez, Buddy, you’re getting so tall!” Yep, hated it. Hated feeling small, hated being young. Especially when I was pretty darn sure I was the smartest person around. Well, most the times. Occasionally, I would run across someone smarter than me. As the wit of Mark Twain so adequately expresses, I was entirely surprised by how much everyone else learned by the time I actually was twenty. But, I was still ten at the time, and still very much in control. Or, at least tried to be. It certainly wasn’t the case.
Maybe it was because I was so out of control in many parts of my life that I tried to feel in control over the situations I could. Control to balance the out-of-control. As is usual when we try to find balance, I overdid it. So the pendulum swings.
What was out of control?
For one, the constant fighting of my parents. They were both hard workers, my mom and dad. Hard work, long hours. That meant stress. That meant yelling. That meant a scared little boy wishing he could just fall asleep, but the yells and bangs of anger echoing through the house prevented peace. At times like those, which were often, I was very much ten-years-old. Very much: small. Very much: “buddy.” Here my knowledge, my smarts, failed me. There was nothing I knew that could make sense of the chaos. The fan I turned on high for noise did not muffle the discomfort, disappointment, and fear that permeated my body. Perhaps it was this helplessness that made me long for and enjoy control.
Second, the bed wetting. It came randomly and without warning. No rhyme or reason. It would have almost been better to have it happen every night. At least then I could expect wet sheets in the morning. I could control the expectation. But not every night. Maybe once a month. Just enough to make me scared every night. Not wanting to stay over at friend’s houses, not wanting to go to camp. Not often enough for my parents to require that I wear diapers at night. Just enough to keep a plastic sheet under the covers that crinkled every night when I crawled in bed and reminded me that I didn’t control anything. And once a month or so, I’d wake up, recognizing the feeling immediately. A wetness, a discomfort, and clammy cold. I’d drag the sheets into the laundry room and leave them in a pile (despite her busyness, my mom still did my laundry).
Third, I was the youngest in my family. And I played the part of the youngest brother quite well. I had perfected the art of annoying my older brother and sister. And I wasn’t aware of my youngest-sibling skill at all. Of course I thought I was perfect, and of course I thought everyone loved me as much as I loved myself. Of course with the power of hindsight, I realize now that I wasn’t the easiest person to be around. Maybe this is why, when it did happen, it really happened. But I always had this nagging feeling as the youngest that my older brother and sister found me annoying (which they did, certainly), and this confused me because I couldn’t control it. There was nothing I could do to enter into the good graces of my elders. I was predestined, as the youngest, to always be the nagging, annoying, occasionally bed-wetting, scrawny little brother.
And I cried. Easily. Not very often, I suppose. But at all the wrong times. I guess that was the forth thing. I couldn’t control my emotions. My tear ducts had a mind of their own. It was a cycle. I’d get frustrated because I couldn’t control, so I’d cry, and I’d cry because I couldn’t stop. It just kept on going. When most people would cry, when they got physically hurt, that is when I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t cry over a skinned knee, or jammed finger. Just emotional pain. That seemed to hurt worse than the physical. Yeah, I bet I was one heck of an annoying ten-year-old boy.
And finally, fifth, was my size. I was small. No way around it. Both my parents were slight and I guess both of their skinny genes combined, multiplied, became stronger, and made me really really small. This probably frustrated me more than anything else. I wanted so much to be big and strong. But I was one of the smallest kids in my class. I guess my confidence and strong attitude made it so others didn’t push me around much. But they could have, if they wanted to. Of course, I found that out when it happened. Even before it happened, I had the fear of being subdued because of my size. And because of that fear, that uncertainty, that lack of internal confidence, I over-compensated with exterior confidence.
Ok, I think you get the point.
The Winston’s house was messy. I guess that can be expected with four small boys. They lived in a lower-middle-class city neighborhood. Wasn’t particularly nice, wasn’t particularly dodgy. Just your typical working class. The house was on a corner lot. Grass in the front. The back yard, though, was just dirt. I suppose grass had been there at some point, maybe attempted to be grown, but with four pairs of active feet constantly assaulting the ground, grass had as much chance to grow there as greenery in the Sahara. Dust and dirt composed mild mounds, the back “yard” undulating at random. A sparse scattering of anemic weeds added some dull green color to the play hardened ground.
When I was babysitting the Winstons, most of the play occurred out there, in the back. Various games, the rules of which I don’t really remember, filled our time from 6:30 pm until 9:00 pm each Friday and Sunday night. Each Friday and Sunday evening for three years. I have to admit, it was fun. I was getting paid, I was technically working, but for all intents and purposes, I was playing. Ten years old isn’t that much older.
As year one, then two, and three rolled by, I was twelve, nearly thirteen. Paul was ten, Matthew nine, Ronney six, and Johnny darn near four. When it happened, Paul was as old as I was when I first started babysitting the Winstons.
The boy I was at twelve nearly thirteen wasn’t that much different than the boy I was at ten. The same five issues above where still very much around. And while three years was an eternity (boy years being much, much longer than adult years), not much had changed. I suppose the occasional bedwetting was all the more embarrassing and frustrating. With each passing year, it became even less OK (not that it was ever OK in the first place) to not be able to control my bladder while asleep. It reminded me that I had about as much control as Johnny, who was just starting to stay dry at night. How could he, at three nearly four, have more control than me: pretty much a teenager? Cause for concern, indeed.
So, I suppose, I started to release some of this frustration that was building up inside of me on the very children I was commissioned to care for. It started as small things, like me always having to win when we played with the electric car track. There was a particular car that always won. Always. And I always had to have it. You would think a twelve year old would be able to give up winning so that the children he cared for could feel self worth, the joy of victory. But, alas, no. I always had to win.
I remember one particular evening. I walked in and the dad, Mr. Winston, sat me down at the kitchen table (which was always dirty, scattered with half finished bowls of cereal, stained homework, sticky substances). It was rare that Mr. Winston said more than “Thank you,” as he headed down to bed when he came home on Fridays and Sundays, so I knew something was up. Well, he pretty much tore me a new one for cheating on the electric car track. It fazed me. I was scared of him. The guy was like six foot four. I was holding steady at four foot ten. Needless to say, I let everyone else but me have the winning car from then on. Take one notch off my control.
Take the electric car situation and apply it to every competition. Bike racing, obstacle courses, doing tricks while jumping over mattresses, hide and seek. I always had to win. Strange enough, the Winston boys still loved me.
Things changed, though, October of that third year. I turned thirteen.