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Wetting & Diaper Wonderland helps you connect and share with the people in your life.

This is a story that I started writing a few nights ago as a free-writing exercise. I'll admit the main character is loosely based on me as are some of the relationships within this story. All names of actual persons have been changed and it is completely a work of fiction. This story is a little more on the cerebral end of things, but I've switched up my game a little bit. I like to think that this is my most mature and refined work to date and I'm really enjoying it as I write. I hope you enjoy it too <3

by Baby Blue (Aka Candi/LifestyleLittleCandi)


I’m alone tonight… Well, perhaps not alone. I’m staying with family. My family loves me very much and I’m fortunate that they will put me up without as much as a second thought. My Mum and Dad have always been very good to me and have supported everything I’ve done, all good and bad. My brothers are a joy to be around and are very protective of me, but the love I feel from my birth family… sometimes it just feels like it’s not enough.

Forgive me for sounding spoiled and ungrateful, but I suppose I am spoiled. I have had so much good in my life and have had so much to be thankful for that when I’m lacking in to what I’ve become accustomed, I find myself feeling down, without, and like now, alone.

The estrangement that I’m feeling right now is not one of blood. What I’m feeling now is semi-romantic loss. ‘Separation anxiety’ would be a great term to describe my feelings if they were not fueled by so much more than mere physical absence. Tonight, just like every other night this week and those unnumbered nights ahead, I need to face the fact that I am somewhat of an orphan; a blonde-haired blue eyed princess who has had her tiara taken away indefinitely… cast-off into the care of those abroad, who love her but are unwittingly incapable of fulfilling her needs. Needs… That’s what started this mess.

Chapter One

Enough speaking figuratively, I suppose. My name is Ember Stillings. I’m a 20 year-old sex-worker who lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. I was born in London, but moved to New York City when I was still a baby. I spent the first few years of my life there before my father retired well and moved us southwest into the Pennsylvania farmland. There was nothing to do really, as we grew up. Two of my brothers are older than me by a few years, and my younger brother (by a year) was adopted into our family while we were in middle-school. While my brothers were very protective of me, they didn’t spend a lot of time with me. They were all kind of nerdy, but very adventurous at the same time.

Adventure wasn’t something I got to experience much of growing up. I was diagnosed with a mild case of heart disease when I was in 5th grade and spent most my childhood taking it easy. I read a lot of books, played the piano, and sang as much as humanly possible. As I went through puberty and general adolescence, I noticed that I was different from a lot of other girls. They seemed to outgrow many of their childish behaviors and most took a particular interest in coyly chasing boys (or girls, in some cases). I however, did not. I thought about it pretty much all the time as I gradually lost a foothold on fitting in. I realized that other girls had stopped carrying their teddy bears everywhere they went years ago. Other girls stopped sucking their thumb when they were toddlers. Other girls seemed to no longer relish in being adored by their fathers or having their etiquette constantly groomed by their mums.

I had one close friend in whom I confided everything who helped me realize just how different I was. Her name was Rachel and she was popular. Brown hair, green eyes, but I swear we looked like we were sisters, only she developed a keen grip on style and fashion, whereas I did not. Let me rephrase that… I had style, but it was my own, and was not very popular among my peers.

She had befriended me on the school bus on the way home from my first day at Herrick’s Creek Elementary. We rode the bus together that morning as well, but she presumed I was a 1st grader because of my size. The first day of 3rd grade was nothing too difficult for me. I was used to being ignored because I was always so shy and immature, but Rachel reached out to me on the ride home after having realized I was in her 3rd grade homeroom. We became fast friends and managed to maintain our friendship until we graduated, even though I never followed her into the popular crowd.

Rachel knew more about me than most people and never judged me for being different. Even though I was a few months older than her, she seemed to regard me as somewhat of a little sister. We spent most weekends together growing up. We had regular slumber parties because her parents often traveled to the city on the weekends to visit family and my family happily adopted her as a “second daughter.”

Rachel was there with me through a number of milestones in my life. The first time I had an episode, she rode in the car with me to the hospital. I didn’t want anybody to know that I was having heart problems because I didn’t want to be treated differently, so she kept it a secret. Everyone found out that I had some kind of problem because I never participated in gym and once had an episode in the middle of a Geography test, before my medications were spot-on. She was there when my parents adopted Sean and I went through my “jealous baby” phase. She was there when I got my first period and freaked out about it, even though I knew it would happen.

My parents had gotten a set of powder pink bunk-beds for my bedroom because Rachel visited so often and she had made quite a home for herself on the top bunk. In accordance with my personality, my bedroom hadn’t really changed since I was five. There were cartoon appliques on the walls which had been custom-designed by one of my mother’s former college roommate. The carpet was a fluffy bright white, neatly vacuumed every morning, and aside from a few crayon/paint stains from over the years, looked brand new. White with pink trim was the motif adorning the dresser, desk, vanity, and night stands, as well as a sizable toy box which my father had built to house my boundless collection of stuffed animals, dolls, and other necessities. I had a southeast corner bedroom which almost always brought me the gift of perfect sunrises during my favorite time of year.

One of the most memorable milestones of my adolescence took place in my bedroom in the middle of the night. We were in ninth grade and we were having our usual weekend slumber party. It was only Friday night, so we hadn’t started work on our project for Earth Science that was due on Monday. Surely it could wait until Sunday night, when we’d have to assemble it in a sloppy panic, as usual. I was going through a weird phase where I had started to become aware that I didn’t act as other girls did. I held onto my childishness with such zeal that I’d become fondly known by my peers as “Little Embah” (playfully mocking my slight British accent passed on from my family). I was suddenly aware that it wasn’t ordinary behavior for a girl my age to always have her stuffed pony with her ‘just in case,’ or to absent-mindedly suck her thumb in times of distress or reverie, to wear her hair in pigtails every day, or to not have a single top in her wardrobe that didn’t feature a nameless cartoon character or whimsical design. I was aware of all of this, but whether it was out of self-comfort, rebellion, or just plain fear, I refused to change in order to fit-in.

Lately I believe I was afraid of growing older because I was afraid of growing sicker. I had enough grown-up things in my life. I spoke several languages quite well, I had impeccable manners, I had enviable piano skills, and I had heart problems. I often pictured my youth impetuously battling with my age and I found it quite intimidating, the lack of control I felt over my future.

I could hear Rachel stirring in the bunk above me. No doubt, she heard me moving about in the darkness and shook the cobwebs from her mind so she could wake. I sensed that she was moving and stopped what I was doing. I sat back down on my bed and started weeping.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Rachel whispered. I continued weeping for a short moment, sniffled and replied,

“I… wet my bed…” I was shocked and scared because I knew that this wasn’t normal. At fifteen years old, I should not be having night-time wetting accidents. In the darkness, Rachel climbed down the ladder slowly and carefully and stood in the middle of the floor.

“Do you mind if I flip the light on?” She asked cautiously. I could tell that she knew I was ashamed and didn’t want me to feel any more uncomfortable than I already did.

“Sure.” I whispered. She reached over to the night stand and flipped on a reading lamp that dimly lit the room. She shuffled over to the end of the bed carefully as her eyes adjusted to the light and sat beside me. I must have had a ‘deer-in-headlights’ look in my eyes, because she immediately wrapped her arm around me and took that big-sister tone saying,

“Don’t be scared, sweetie. Lots of teens have accidents once in a while. It’s part of growing up.” She gave me a squeeze and I lay my head on her shoulder. She hummed softly what sounded like a lullaby, held me close and rubbed my arm. Once I took in a deep breath and sighed, she stopped humming and loosened her hold on me.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” she suggested. I nodded in agreement and reached over and started pulling my sheets off of my bed. She gladly assisted me. As we carried the sheets and all to the laundry room, my mother shuffled out of her bedroom, her eyes barely open to see what we were doing awake. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her what I’d done, so Rachel willfully broke it to her.

“Ember… had an accident. She needs new sheets.” She said quietly, calmly.

“Oh right. I’ll fetch ‘em from the linen closet. Emmy… ‘You alright?” she approached with the back of her hand reaching toward me to feel my forehead.

“I’m fine Mum, really.” I assured her. I was over it and just wanted to go back to sleep.

“Well, it happens to the best of us, I’m sure.” Said my mother as she wandered into the darkness of the hallway and into the deep reaches of the linen closet to fetch my sheets.

My mum didn’t stick around after she gave us the sheets. I could tell she was trying not to make me feel worse by making a big deal out of it. She simply kissed me on the forehead and returned to bed for the night. Rachel helped me by making the bed while I took a quick bath. I returned to find pajamas laid out for me and Pony sitting on my pillow. I got dressed and Rachel came in with a cup of tea.

“Is that for me?” I asked, flattered that she went to the trouble.

“No, it’s for me. It’s probably a good idea for you to not drink anything before you go back to sleep.” She tried to put it as delicately as possible, but it still kind of hurt. I wasn’t hurt by her words, really… just by the cold reality of it.

I crawled back into bed and curled up with Pony and my old baby blankie. I could feel the towel under my sheet that Rachel had thankfully remembered to place over the wet spot. It was uncomfortable for a moment, but I put my thumb in my mouth and closed my eyes, happy that the night’s debacle was finished.

Rachel sipped her tea and checked her Myspace. After just a couple of minutes, she yawned and set her half-finished tea down on the saucer and walked back over to me. She looked at me adoringly as I absently sucked my thumb, waiting for sleep to take me.

“Sweet dreams, Emmy.” She cooed softly right before she climbed back up to the top bunk.

Since that night, things did not get any easier. It wasn’t just a one-time thing or “a phase” that my body was going through. I began having accidents more often and not just at night. One day during that summer, I was watching a movie and suddenly felt an urge to pee. I ran to the bathroom as fast as I could, but I was not fast enough. That was my first day-time accident.

My mum had taken me to the doctor to try to figure out why this was happening. She told me that my bladder muscles were most likely being weakened by the effects of the diuretics that I take for my heart. The only solutions she had for me were to do Kegel exercises, put myself on a strict frequent urination schedule, modify my night-time food & drink routine, and wear protective underwear until my muscles were strong enough to avoid accidents. I wasn’t happy to hear any of it. All I could think was ‘Isn’t there a pill I can take to make it go away?’

I wasn’t exactly terrified about wearing “protective underwear” at first. I didn’t have a glorious social status at stake or anything, so I was relieved to not have to be worried about having accidents in public anymore. Wearing a sweatshirt tied around your waist in the middle of a hot summer day is unusual enough to raise suspicions. I didn’t have to worry about changing my wardrobe to accommodate bulkier underwear, since I didn’t really wear anything too tight or revealing (besides swimwear, really) during the summer, unlike most of my peers.

I remember sitting on my bed staring at the shopping bags on the floor in front of me. One bag had a package of pull-up style protective underwear and the other bag had baby powder, baby wipes, nappy rash cream, and lotion. The second bag didn’t have anything I thought I needed, so I pushed all that stuff under the bed and reached for the pull-ups. My hands were shaking so I quickly took to tearing the package open to get it over with. I pulled one out and set it next to me on the bed.

This wasn’t something I ever thought I’d be doing on a clear summer night. I should have been outside in the yard, lying on a blanket, listening to my ipod, staring at the stars. The truth is that I wasn’t. I was trying to psych myself up to try on the first nappy I’d worn since I was three years old. My dexterity seemed to flee me as I stood to my feet to remove my jeans. My frustration built as my subconscious fought me. It seemed like I’d never had such a difficult time removing my clothes. In retrospect, I realize I was rushing to get it over with and forewent the smoothness of simple patience. It seems silly, but it was happening. I tugged and tugged to get my foot out of the leg of my jeans and suddenly lost my balance and hit the floor, bottom-first.

Why was it so difficult? All I had to do was change my clothes but there I sat, naked from the waist-down, defeated. Feeling completely overwhelmed, I sat on the floor and wept. My mom knocked on my door. I sniffled and cleared my throat enough so I could say loudly enough,

“Come in, Mum.” I sounded pitiful. She tried the doorknob, finding she couldn’t turn it.

“Erm, it’s locked.” She muttered through the door at me and continued on inaudibly. I took a moment to be thankful that she wasn’t walking in on me bottomless.

“You alright?” She asked a little louder, but heard no response from me. I rose to my feet and immediately heard the door unlock. My dad had a key on his person and let Mum in. I didn’t really have the quickness to tell them to wait, so my nervous-system opted for a clumsier reaction. I stumbled backward and this time managed to land on my bed. As they walked in, I quickly grabbed the pull-up and placed it on my lap to cover my private area. My father noticed I wasn’t exactly decent and quickly retreated from the room, mumbling an uncomfortable “Oh, excuse me, sorry” on his way out, closing the door behind him.

“What was that noise? Are you alright?” My mother asked as she speedily gathered what was going on. She didn’t have words for me right away. It was rather apparent that she’d never had to deal with anything like this before, but she wanted desperately to help me through it. I sat quietly as a tear rolled down each of my cheeks. Feeling reduced, ashamed, and even more broken than I’d felt before, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through this with my chin up. Mum knew me though. She grabbed Pony from me bed and handed her to me. I grabbed onto the fuzzy purple plushie and squeezed her tight to my chest. I looked up into my Mum’s eyes in a submissively interrogative way. It was almost as if I was asking her if it was okay that I just wanted to feel little.

To my family and nearly everyone who spent any great deal of time around me, it was certainly no secret that acting like a child made me feel secure. At the very least, people understood that I liked acting like a child. My mother of all people knew this very well. She nodded and held me tight against her chest and tried her hardest to make me feel secure and accepted. I instantly felt better being in her arms. My thumb found its way to my mouth and a couple of minutes later I heaved a contented sigh that signaled my imminent relaxation. We sat like that for a moment before my mother broke the silence.

“I could help, if you like.” She suggested. I loved my mother’s voice, so ageless and sweet; to me, her accent sounded like sincerity, as I’d never known her to lie to me. She sounded unsure of what to say, but she sounded resolute in wanting to help me, so I agreed.

“Where are the other items?” She asked, looking around my room.

“Other items?” I asked, confused.

“Talc? Ointment?” She jarred my memory, hoping that I had these things and hadn’t left them at the store or something silly like that. I quickly reached under the bed and grabbed the Walgreens bag that I absently stowed away and handed it to her. She grabbed the talc and pulled the seal off of it.

“Hold out your hand Emmy…” She commanded. I obeyed and she poured a small pile of it into my hands.

“…powder yourself so you don’t get a heat rash.” She instructed. Clearly she’d changed enough nappies in her time and knew how to go about it. It seemed interesting to be changing her baby by proxy, so to speak.

“How? Won’t it spill onto the floor?” I debated.

“Emmy, it’s a white carpet and it’s talc for goodness sake. Not like it’ll leave a stain.” She soundly argued right back. I followed through and powdered my private area, spilling what seemed like quite a lot of talc onto the carpet. Not really sure if I was doing it right, I just let my mother take control of things. She didn’t protest my method, so I must have been doing alright. She opened the pull-ups and they were much bigger than she had anticipated.

“Erm, Emmy… I’m not sure these are the right size.” She held them up to me and they looked to me like they would fit. I took them from her and stepped into them carefully. She held my arm to steady me. Just as when I was removing my jeans earlier, I felt again like I’d never changed my own clothes before and felt my balance waver. Once I had my feet through both leg holes, I pulled them on. Mum tugged on them here and there, checking for gaps and making noises of doubt and disapproval as she spot-checked every opening.

“These will do for tonight, but we may have to go back to the shop tomorrow if these don’t hold up.” She stepped back and looked at me, smiling.
“You’re a very brave girl, Ember. We’ll get through this together. Remember what Dr. Wilmont said. You’ve got to do your exercises three times a day and keep a log of your trips to the loo.” She recited the doctor’s orders, reminding me of my personal responsibility in this mess. At the same time, it gave me hope that the hardship I was facing was only temporary. I nodded in agreement and took a few steps over to my dresser to grab some pajama pants. I was startled on the way.

“MUM!!!” I half-shouted and then quieted to a whisper “You can hear them when I walk!” I was dreadfully embarrassed by the deceitful knickers I had just donned. They were supposed to offer me “discreet protection and security” but they made me sound like I was a three-year-old toddling across the room. My mother shrugged and sat silently, thinking of something to say that would make me feel better about my current situation. I pulled on a pair of pajama pants and looked them over. You could see a faint bulge, but nothing I was willing to fret over at that point.

“We’ll see how they hold up tonight and we’ll reassess them in the morning. Let’s have supper.” She dismissed my horror and embarrassment, reminding me that it was only the two of them and me at home. My two older brothers were working at a camp in California for the better part of the summer and my younger brother was visiting some of his birth family members in Arizona. I wasn’t so embarrassed about wearing nappies under my clothes around my parents, especially if I was going to have to grow accustomed to wearing them around everyone.

So where does that leave me tonight? Well, before I bore you with any more back-story, I’ll tell you where I am in life right now. I’m technically single, even though I would argue to the death that I’m in a relationship with two people with whom I’m desperately in love. I’ve had a rather successful year. I’ve made over $100K over the past year and have not really a penny to show for it today. I’m at home with my birth parents and have a full belly and a comfortable bed to sleep in and am surrounded by love, but I feel dreadfully homesick. Tonight I wish I was in Vegas because I miss my Mommy and Daddy.


I hope you liked chapter one. Chapter two is in the works right now. Hopefully I'll have it done soon. Comments are always greatly appreciated!!!

Miss Piss

Dirty Diaper Girls