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by Les Lea
yawned and wriggled myself awake. I reached for my phone
to check the time - 7.28 - fantastic, the best
continuous night’s sleep I’d had for quite some time.
Well, apart from a visit to the bathroom for a piss but
otherwise, over ten hours. I was quite pleased with
I laid in my
warm cocoon knowing that any minute I had to get up for
school but so pleased with myself for catching up on
what had been a few awful restless nights, I wanted to
make the most of my bed’s welcoming comfort.
I slipped my
hand further under the blanket and rubbed up against the
thick plastic pants, the huge expanded bulk underneath
told me I hadn’t had the wonderful damp-free night I
thought I’d had.
How come I can
dream of going to the toilet and executing a wonderful,
no-hassle pee, yet in reality I can never rouse myself
from the sleep I’m having? Even when I’m having a
terrible night’s sleep, with constant wakeful
interruptions, it’s when I doze, even for a few seconds
that my bladder tends to operate under its own terms.
In my dreams I
can simply get up and go. Mind you, I tend not to be
wearing thick padding in my dreams so can easily access
my straining cock. I suppose that’s another thing; how
come I dream so much of taking a piss? There’s never any
huge build up to it, I just go and feel the relief
afterwards as if I’d naturally gone to the loo. I can
often hear my pee hitting the water or bouncing off the
porcelain so that makes me think that my dream is real
and I’m doing it for real. Except I’ve slept through the
entire event and flooded my nappy, though I have to
admit that is a lot better than a waterlogged bed,
which, in the past, I had to contend with on far too
I hope one day
someone can explain just how that works because so far
doctors, relations and even Google have been unable to
come to any agreement on the matter. I’ll grant that
they all have good ideas but the actual reason appears
to be one hell of a mystery.
I mean, how can
it be that for the most part of my life, well since I
was three to just a few months ago I slept happily dry
but not so now? As far as I can remember there’s been no
trauma or accident or anything that could have caused me
to suddenly lack the ability to get up in the night for
a pee. It’s simply ridiculous.
How can I
dream the action but not action the action?
My bedroom door
opens and in walks mum. A few weeks ago she used to
knock first but now I’m in nappies she seems to think
she can come in when she likes. I’ve tried to explain
this to her, that I need some privacy, but she just
ignores my request and simply refuses to see my
argument. She says that now I’m wetting secrecy is a
thing of the past. Apparently she’s there to make sure
I’m awake and remind me I have school (as if I wasn’t
aware) and to make sure that these unfortunate incidents
haven’t had an adverse effect on me.
sure you’re okay and slept well... and both your father
and I want you to know... this will pass before long.”
Actually, what I
think she’s doing is checking her plan of putting me
back in night time nappies and plastic protection is
working and that her precious bedding is safe.
I first wet the
bed almost three months ago and mum was quick to suggest
I wore a nappy. Of course I resented the very idea but
she said that her brother, my Uncle Tom (who now lives
in Australia), had a similar problem when he was my age
and their mother’s quick decision to make him wear
protection had saved everyone a load of heartache.
Like me he
disagreed with her solution to the problem, and also
like me found he had no option. It was simple, cheap and
completely effective in what it had to do, whilst a
consensus of family opinion meant that a nappy was the
answer so, as a shy teenager like me, he didn’t get a
say in that particular outcome.
My gran (a
strong-willed woman to say the least) had been definite
that the bed, bedding, jammies and the self-esteem of
not swirling around in a sea of urine made it so no one
but her son was affected by his burst of incontinence.
Apparently he wore that bedtime protection for another
twelve months or so before he seemed to “Grow out of
Mum applied the
same logic to me and despite my teenage tantrum, denials
and pleading, I was put back into nappies and made to
wear vinyl pants to avoid any chance of leakage. The
speed that mum had everything at her disposal was
frightening, as if she’d expected me to have this
problem at some point in my school life.
She alleged that
after that first morning of finding me in a wet bed she
remembered Tom’s problem and immediately went into
overdrive, locating everything she thought I’d need
online and spent the day collecting it. She said she
wouldn’t allow me to have a second night wallowing
around in a pee-soaked bed, especially when there was
such a simple preventative system she intended putting
I came home from
school to find my dresser just a pile of fabric nappies
and a couple of packets containing ‘baby’ pants.
There was a small bowl with baby pins (pink,
green and blue) and an array of powders and creams, I
was stunned mum had garnered together this arsenal of
products to take care of my one night of bed-wetting. It
was a huge surprise for a fourteen year old schoolboy.
I found these
ranks of supplies for an accidental, once in a lifetime
wet bed, a bit over the top and quite wounded by just
how convinced she was that I’d need it all. Waking up to
such a mishap was an ordeal (and awful shock) in itself
and although I wasn’t expecting too much sympathy I did
think she’d see it as just a freak event. It wasn’t like
I’d been secretly drinking or got myself into a state...
it was simply misfortune.
As I lay on my
bed and looked at the stuff I wondered why, if she
thought I needed it, she hadn’t just bought a pack of
Pampers disposables and then seen how things progressed
from there. That pile suggested she was getting ready
for a long campaign, whilst I thought it was just a one
off, a misfortune and nothing to go to such extremes
over. As far as I was concerned this wasn’t a calamity -
just an unlucky accident.
I tried to argue
that point but she wouldn’t heed my objection and said
it was best to be on the safe side. She was of the firm
opinion that making sure my bed and bedding was defended
from ‘further urinary damage’ should I pee again,
was a worthy principle; laundry would be less and I’d be
the only one affected. She couldn’t see a downside to
her argument and I failed to defend my case with any
hope of success. She promised that if I didn’t wet for a
‘few’ (unspecified) nights then she’d re-think the
nappies. I looked at the supplies piled up on the
dresser and knew she was expecting the worst.
Actually, when I
think about it, this wasn’t the first time I’d wet the
When I’d just
turned twelve I was having trouble sleeping, I didn’t
know why I just was having such terrible interrupted
nights. My brain would fixate on one subject (usually of
no relevance to anything I could recall) and would lie
in bed tossing and turning as if trying to shake the
thing from my brain.
At the time mum
was also having trouble sleeping and was using a
programme of ‘natural sounds and delta waves’ to
enable a peaceful night’s slumber. It appeared to have
worked, as she was far more relaxed and offered the IPad
to see if it would do the same for me.
Mum herself was
against using pills and ‘medicine’ at the best of times
and preferred either to let nature take its course (as
with colds and flu) or try something natural, like
sounds and meditation. As the sounds had some effect on
her, suggested I give it a try.
I scrolled down
the ‘relaxing sounds’ section and found one I thought
would work for me – Rain Forest. I was expecting
the night calls and general wind-in-trees type of thing
but in fact it was just as it said; rain... in the rain
I don’t know how
or why it happened but I woke up in quite a large puddle
of my own pee. I was shocked and worried what mum would
say but she just laughed (yes laughed) and said she
found it funny that the rain forest had made me soak my
PJs. However, she also explained that was why all our
mattresses in the house had protectors over them...
because you never knew when a nocturnal mishap might
her good humour on that occasion, as she stripped the
bed and sent me to get a shower she did say that if it
happened again, for whatever reason, I’d be wearing
nappies to sleep in from then on. I think she was just
firing a warning shot because I didn’t pee the bed again
until, well, I’ve just told you. However, the speed she
got all the stuff together made me think that maybe she
had some items already.
dumped those little night rhythms and sounds and
slept without any help from the Amazonian Rain Forest or
any other supposedly relaxing therapy.
I can tell you
that at fourteen years old I dreaded any of my friends
finding out but in our small community, and mum being a
very chatty person with all the neighbours, my secret
couldn’t last long.
However, she did
say that I wasn’t the only one with such a ‘problem’ but
wouldn’t tell me who the other person(s) were. I spent
quite a bit of time scrutinising the washing lines
between my home and school for some indication. I
thought if my nappies were blowing in the wind, which
they seemed to be on a daily basis then there was a good
chance theirs would be too. I did see the occasional
pair of plastic pants and nappies drying on the line but
thought they were too small to belong to anyone but a
were others, but finding no evidence to back mum’s
declaration, I began to feel alone and a bit stupid. I
mean, staring at folks washing was definitely a bit
pervy. However, the main problem was... why should I
start pissing the bed? Suddenly I was waking up to a
soaked nappy (much to mum’s ‘I told you so’
attitude). It just didn’t make any sense unless I was
regressing back to my childhood.
However, like I
told you when I was twelve, any last thought at night
began to occupy my nocturnal deliberations and sleep was
difficult. When I did drop off I dreamt of babies (of
which I was one) and when awake that notion just kept
turning over in my mind. It was uncomfortable on so many
levels, none of which I was happy with... I just wanted
to sleep at night and wake up dry.
Don’t ask me why
that particular ‘being a baby’ theory should have taken
over my mind but it did. (I suppose the nightly nappy
and plastic pants made a bigger impression on my psyche
than I’d given it credit for.) I convinced myself that’s
just what I was and daily got more and more depressed as
I thought about it. I slipped from being a reasonably
outgoing lad, to a self-pitying toddler.
Each night, as I
fitted my nightly cushion of protection, I felt myself
slipping further and further back to my childhood. I’d
get upset if I couldn’t get the pins in right, or I’d
not fastened the nappy on tight enough. I was a mess
and, if no one else was around, I’d even shed a few
miserable, frustrated tears. Pulling up the plastic
pants (which mum insisted I always wore with a nappy)
more or less proved I was a baby. So that act and
thought would stick with me and the entire dream
scenario would kick off again. It was like that
particular theme was on constant replay.
Equally, if I
managed to avoid that specific dream the other one, the
one where I knew I was peeing into a toilet, took centre
stage. I’d confidently spray the white ceramic bowl,
listening to the splash that indicated my aim was true,
often zipping up and moving on to continue to do
whatever it was I was doing before my toilet break. It
was two very exacting dreams; one where I was a baby,
the other where I was myself, but both ended with a
wake-up call of soggy misery.
weren’t the only two because later I dreamt I was in
church, singing along with the rest of the congregation
when suddenly I felt the spirit of the Lord enter me...
except it wasn’t the spirit of the Lord. That nice
warming glow that was wonderful and uplifting was a
tepid sodden nappy when I woke up.
The reason this
was strange was that as a family, we didn’t go to
church. Mum and dad weren’t interested and the only
times I remember going was for a wedding and a couple of
Christenings, other than that my experience of church
was limited. However, I do watch a lot of television and
it is more than likely that I was influenced by
something I saw... but I don’t know what.
What was even
worse was that it wasn’t every morning that I woke up
soaked. For instance, last Monday and Tuesday I was dry.
I was jubilant for twenty four hours but Wednesday night
I wet, Thursday was dry but this morning... incredibly
soaked. Of course, the few weeks prior I’d wet almost
every night so even when I did wake up dry the feelings
of euphoria only lasted a short while.
Mum had gone out
of her way to make sure that the rubber pants she bought
were the most sturdy she could find, so the things I had
to wear at night gripped me tightly so there was no
danger at all of fluid escape. I even went back to
wearing jammies over them in the hope of disguising the
bulk a little bit but in the end I was so hot I could
hardly bear wearing anything to sleep in other than what
I had to.
were the first recourse for mum she did, after visits to
the doctor and a child psychologist (which she was dead
against but dad insisted I give it a go), she suggested
I try yoga.
Having had all
the other attempts at curbing my nightly flood fail:
From drinking less, to getting woken up in the middle of
the night - those relaxing tapes, to various ‘natural’
potions, it seemed an option I should at least attempt.
I just couldn’t
take seriously all these po-faced, loose-limbed women
(only one guy) stretching and being some kind of
‘downward dog’ or some such, left me mentally mocking
the entire group. I’m sure if they knew I was a fourteen
year-old still wetting the bed, they themselves might
have been ridiculing me.
Anyway, I left
them and tried visualisation. The trouble with this was,
as soon as I found my vision, it would be usurped by my
baby or toilet ‘situation’ and then that was all that
occupied my head. Someone suggested to mum that I try
hypnosis but she was even more sceptical about that and
told her friend that she’d keep that suggestion on the
back-burner for a while to see if I improved naturally.
So, a dry
well-padded nappy with thick and durable vinyl pants
became the last thing I saw at night and a wet bulky one
the first thing I saw in the morning. To feel the
morning tightness of an expanded pair of slippery
looking plastic pants let me know, in a totally unsubtle
manner, that I’d flooded again. I could have done
without that particular wake-up call.
that, despite that firm grip being annoying in the
beginning, it didn’t take me too long to come to terms
with that particular sensation. Mum had said that I
should think of them like a knight relies on his armour
for protection and he wouldn’t be daft enough to wonder
into a battle zone wearing just his vest and pants (we
both giggled at this bizarre comparison).
parents were resolute in their actions they just took it
as read that these things happen. Punishment or angry
voices were never part of their dealing with what was
going on. I suppose with Uncle Tom to point to as proof
of this philosophy, I didn’t get any negativity at home.
However, before they retired for the night mum or dad
would come and check to make sure I wasn’t already wet
because mum said I should try and prevent laying around
in a damp nappy for too long. I don’t think they ever
changed me whilst I slept because I’m sure I would have
woken up if they’d tried. However, I wasn’t certain if I
thought it weird or comforting that they checked.
As I say, mum
had bought in all new stuff to cope with my situation.
Mrs Pradesh, our neighbour, whose own family had grown
up and moved away, offered some of the stuff they’d worn
as kids should I need it but mum declined. Apparently,
they’d been late in toilet training and she had quite a
collection of preventative clothing. Just how late they
were in coming to terms with the potty she never
revealed but, judging by the size of their colourful
nappies, they were at least as old as me.
I’d got around a
dozen white terry fabric nappies and half a dozen
different pairs of vinyl pants, some of which seemed a
little more robust than others. Waking up saggy and
soggy, whilst these stout pants made sure I was
leak-proof, was an interesting way to start the day. I
say interesting, what I mean is...not very ego boosting.
My self-esteem dipped and the need for that night
time force-field was all I could think about... and
became indebted to.
paraphernalia of making sure the required area was
clean, dry and (mum insisted) smooth, together with the
thick preventative creams, lotions and powders I had to
administer each night made bed time a complete
Mum had talked
me through the nappy operation at the beginning but then
said she trusted me to do it properly myself. Then,
having had one or two leaking problems because I hadn’t
been thorough enough, threatened to come up and do it
herself, which would mean an early bedtime of 7.30. At
fourteen I didn’t want to be called in for bed that
early as it would have been total humiliation for my
mates to know about it... especially if she’d added that
my nappy needed sorting. So, I knuckled down and made
sure I did as good a job as mum in getting my nappy and
protection up to speck.
threatened there’d be sporadic, unannounced checks and,
should it not be in place correctly, it would be a 6pm
bedtime and she would supervise every aspect of getting
me ready “Like I did when you were a baby”.
She smiled as she said this but I’m convinced
she meant it.
As you might
imagine this focused my attention on every detail mum
I tried to get
dad on side but he was in complete agreement with mum
and, in an effort to stop my constant grumbling promised
that I’d be wearing a nappy all day as well as all night
if I didn’t do as they said... and ‘stop whining’.
Dad saying that,
and mum threatening a 6pm bed time, made me take my
wetting a bit more seriously. I had been thinking that I
shouldn’t be punished for something I had no control
over but they said I wasn’t being punished for that...
my wet nights were being contained. What I would be
punished for was my constant complaining and miserable
face, which they said they shouldn’t be punished
having to look at when my wetting wasn’t their
Why do parents
have the clever come backs?
I have to admit
since I’d started wetting I was constantly in a mood. I
couldn’t see any upside to my problem and I dreaded my
friends catching on... although one or two might have
known, no one said anything... to my face anyway. Either
side my immediate neighbours didn’t have kids my age.
The Wilsons at Number 14 had twins almost two years ago,
whilst the Pradesh’s at Number 18 had grown up kids
who’d left and had families of their own. What this
meant was that the washing line wasn’t over-looked by
any of my school friends so my daily laundry was hidden
from any possible prying eyes. However, both sides
offered mum their support and empathy having a teenager
still in need of protection.
So, as I
mentioned, last night I dreamt I’d gone to the toilet
with no problem, yet woke up as normal sopping wet.
After three months it was all getting too much and I was
severely depressed not wanting to do much or go
anywhere. Then it happened, the one thing I was positive
would never happen, Saturday morning I fell asleep in
front of the TV and, wearing only a pair of cotton
briefs under my P.E. shorts, peed myself and soaked the
I woke up
feeling snug and warm only to see the concerned and
angry face of mum looking down at me.
“Get up, get up,
get to the....” she yelled.
I wasn’t too
sure what was happening as she pulled me to my feet and
pushed me towards the doorway.
um... what’s up?”
toilet...” mum indicated with a sense of panic.
The warming glow
at my crotch had registered but it was only as more warm
piss trickled down the inside of my thigh I realised the
I dashed from
the living room up to the bathroom but it was too late,
I’d emptied my bladder into my shorts and all over the
sofa. I was both shocked and horrified and after a few
moments of reflection... terrified as to what would
I closed the
bathroom door (we didn’t have locks on internal doors)
and sat on the loo with my yellowing shorts and briefs
around my ankles wondering what was to come. There was
nothing left in me so I shrugged off my pants and
t-shirt to take a shower. Mum came in, gathered up my
wet stuff and told me not to be long. The panic had gone
so there was no anger in her voice and this worried me.
I tried to make
the shower last as long as I dare but when I returned to
my bedroom mum was waiting. To say I was apprehensive
would have been an understatement. I knew mum could and
did get angry but she appeared very calm and in control.
“Sit,” was her
only command and I sat on my bed waiting for the
punishment I knew would follow.
calamitous event was new. I’d never wet during the day,
and especially at home on the sofa. I expected a smacked
arse (even though I’d only ever received a couple of
those during my lifetime) or something physical that I’d
remember for years to come... perhaps that was what I
was hoping, something instant and then forgotten, but in
reality I already knew the direction this would be
She went to the
dresser and pulled out two nappies and folded them then,
without telling me to, I lay out, lifted my bum and let
her powder and pin me in. She appeared relieved that I
wasn’t putting up an argument or fighting the situation.
How could I after what I’d just done?
She flapped out
a pair of colourful but thinner vinyl pants than I wore
for bed and slipped them over the thick bulk. I lay
there, not so much terrified, but whimpering with tears
rolling down my cheeks. I’d never felt like I did –
useless, stupid, childish, ridiculous and guilty. She
retrieved another pair of P.E. shorts and told me to put
“Not a word...
no arguments... you have no say in anything until I tell
you otherwise. Do you understand?” She was being firm
and sympathetic but adamant that I knew why this was
I was too
ashamed to say anything. I was blubbing so could only
nod my agreement.
“I’m glad you
realise these are the steps that need to be taken but,
at the moment, I am angry with you for letting this
happen even though I know this...”
finish her speech.
At that moment I
desperately wanted a hug. I wanted to know that even
though I’d possibly ruined the furniture she knew I
hadn’t done it on purpose and it was just an awful
accident. She just squeezed my padding and softly told
me I could return to watch TV. I hesitated for a while,
hoping she would say something positive but she just
waited for me to leave.
I left her in my
room as I ambled down stairs crying and wondering what
lay in store for me for the rest of my life. There was
something else; these new plastic pants under my loose
and very short shorts were much noisier than the other
type I’d been wearing. The crinkle that followed each
movement was a reminder of what I’d just done to the
sofa... what a baby might have done on the sofa.
As I entered the
living room, and as if to hammer home my situation,
there was an advert for Pampers on the TV. A baby was
happily being put into nappy pants that promised
‘twelve hours of protection’.
padding I now sat in promised more than that and I
realised from that point on, I wouldn’t be trusted to
manage my own toilet arrangements. I burst into tearful
sobs which only that small but joyful baby on screen
would have heard.
Mum had turned
up the heating and set the fan pointing towards the
sofa. I sat on the floor and wondered if this would be
where I’d be directed anytime I watched the TV in
future. Although my padding made it reasonably
comfortable to be down there this was a place for babies
and toddlers not a boy my age. However, a boy my age
wouldn’t normally be wearing a nappy now would he?
Later I heard
mum on the phone to some company asking if they had an
emergency cleaning service... before the afternoon was
out a large van with ‘All your cleaning needs’
scripted down its side arrived and took the sofa away.
Although I was
used to wearing a nappy to sleep in, this thick bundle
of fabric between my legs during the day felt cumbersome
and annoying. It wasn’t too bad when I was sitting but
if I moved or was asked to do something, it really felt
like a heavy, noisy weight I had to manoeuvre around.
two men from the cleaning service came in, took one look
at my obviously padded stance and smiled in
acknowledgement, whilst nodding to mum as they lifted
and removed the sofa. It seemed quite surreal and I
didn’t realise why until they’d gone. Throughout their
short but intensive visit I’d been holding mum’s hand as
if a toddler. My plastic pants peaked out from the top
of my shorts... uuurrggg... I’m so relieved they never
Mum made me help
bring in the garden furniture to act as temporary
replacements for the sofa and struggled with the nappy
as I bent and twisted to keep my end of the furniture
steady. It wasn’t that it was actually falling down but
because of my inexperience dealing with such a bulky
thing when doing more than simply laying down or
sleeping, it just felt like it would fall to the ground
if I didn’t keep a hold. Actually, both the plastic
pants and the shorts made sure that wouldn’t happen but
I couldn’t stop grabbing the material and yanking it up
a bit more. I spent the rest of the day rearranging the
thick padding but dare not complain to mum.
She was very
civil but I knew that from that day on, a nappy was
going to be my constant companion. When he got home dad
saw my predicament, and the lack of a sofa, and patted
my thick padding as if to indicate I should be safe from
now on. I asked him if I’d have to wear a nappy the
following day as I was sure it was simply an accident
and never happen again. He smiled a reassuring smile but
simply hugged me and told me not to worry, everything
would sort itself out but in the meantime precautions
had to be taken.
He asked me if I
I wanted to
argue or cry or do something but he looked at me as if I
should understand by now what needed to be done so I
nodded in agreement.
As dad spoke and
hugged me I had a problem... I unintentionally filled my
nappy. My sudden stillness and feeling of surprised
horror must have communicated directly to him as he
pulled away and looked intently at my crotch as I felt
the warmness spread.
“Oh dear... not
a good sign son... your mum was right all along.” He
patted my warm and wet bulge.
I wasn’t sure
what he meant that mum had been right all along...
but he deftly guided me back upstairs, stripped me down
and cleaned me up and, without thinking about it, folded
a couple more nappies and pinned me tightly in. Now I
was nothing but a big baby whose daddy had to keep him
clean and dry. It was six o’clock in the evening and he
put me to bed and told me to rest. I must have needed it
because I slept right through until six the next morning
and of course woke up soaked.
dreaming that same annoying dream over and over again.
It was the one where I was in church and receiving the
blessing of a very physical Lord. I
heard his hallowed words and felt the inner warming
miracle of his love flood throughout my body... no
wonder I was so wet.
Even though I
was awake, for some reason, I didn’t dare get out of
bed. I suppose because dad put me to bed I thought I’d
better wait for one of my parents to get me up. The
bulky, sodden nappy was irritating me but I squirmed and
tried to get back to sleep, which I must have done
because when I woke again mum was already in my room
tidying things up and putting washing away or stacked on
sweetheart... let’s get you changed and into something
nice and dry.”
She hadn’t even
checked but assumed I’d be wet but I didn’t care to put
up a fight as she, like dad had done the previous night,
stripped me down, cleaned me up and pinned me into an
even thicker double nappy. She slipped a pair of
extremely thick clear plastic pants over the cushion I
was now wearing and indicated that breakfast was ready.
She never passed me any jeans or shorts and I knew not
to ask because from that moment on, whilst in the house,
I wasn’t allowed to wear any pants.
plucked up the courage. “Mum, this is embarrassing...
can’t I wear shorts at least... I mean...”
“Look, I said no
arguments and I mean it. We’ll be able to keep an eye on
you better if we know what’s going on in your nappy.”
Mum explained. “We don’t want our sweet boy to suffer
from wearing a wet nappy for too long.... a nappy rash
would be an awful thing to have to deal with as well as
having to wear...”
herself from stating the obvious.
The thing was
both my parents were being incredibly sympathetic; there
were no outburst or accusations, no punishment or raised
voices. They’d decided what needed doing. I was their
fourteen year old son so they would do just that. I may
not have liked it but they weren’t doing it to embarrass
me. They simply wanted to minimise the disruption,
however, at the time I didn’t appreciate this.
I didn’t know
where I stood or what I could or should do... I just
went along with what was organised. I know once there
was a rebellious fourteen year-old somewhere but now
there was just a nappy-wearing toddler who needed his
mummy and daddy to watch over him.
earlier predicament came to mind and I sighed heavily
when I remembered he wore protection for over a year.
My parents took
it all in their stride and I was encouraged to not let
wearing a nappy hold me back at all but it did. I became
solitary and insular, I refused to meet my friends or
engage in sport, even the games I loved. Wearing a nappy
became who I was and I hated it but found that it would
be wet when I had no idea I’d done so.
Because of this
the padding was quite thick and was impossible to hide
what I was wearing. My self-confidence disappeared and I
was nervous and anxious about everything and everyone...
even my best friends.
I couldn’t take
the ribbing at school and cried almost nonstop at what I
thought was class and teacher cruelty. In fact it was
nothing worse than what I’d dealt out at one time or
other in the playground. I’d hide in the toilets for
long, long periods.
Mum and dad were
very supportive but as soon as they saw that I was about
to get swallowed up by depression they made sure I
attacked it with venom. They insisted that I got out and
played with friends, joined in games and stopped feeling
sorry for myself.
wearing a nappy for heaven’s sake - it’s not the end of
I was at my
lowest ebb. I tried to stay in my bedroom, or sit
quietly and watch TV but they wouldn’t have it.
“If you stopped
making it such a big deal no one would even know...”
I just wanted to
curl up and hide, let the world pass me by but my
parents would not let me wallow for too long.
In the house
they may well have been keen to track my ‘toilet’ habits
but wanted me to get out and play so not be governed by
what they saw as a necessary, but in no way a
(and reluctantly) tracked down a hypnotherapist to give
it a go. I was brought into a very relaxed state but
unfortunately, I peed my pants whilst under her
influence. At her suggestion, and to give me confidence,
I hadn’t been wearing a nappy on that occasion so the
result was obvious and disastrous. She was horrified but
not quite as horrified as I was when I came out of the
trance and found what had happened. Thank god it was
only urine and nothing more substantial.
I didn’t go
back, mainly because I was embarrassed but also because
of what happened next.
The thing was,
from that moment, I seemed to actually be wetting myself
more, even during the day and knew nothing about it
until I felt the radiating flush around my genitals. Mum
insisted it would pass and should not let it control me
but I was finding that advice hard, although I did now
appreciate the need I had for a nappy. I would have
hated wetting my pants in public... that would have been
more humiliating for sure.
occasions I couldn’t make out what my parents expected
from me; the clear plastic pants and obvious nappy at
home, yet they wanted me to live a ‘normal’ life outside
and at school. Sometimes the two things didn’t feel
compatible. However, mum and dad
presented a united front, calm and reasonable, so it was
difficult to fight. Besides, I couldn’t be sure what I’d
be fighting against - they were encouraging,
non-judgemental and insistent that life should go on as
One of the
things that became a constant reminder of my situation
was my padded bottom. There was also my smooth crotch
but it was my padded bum that caused me to be aware of
my situation. It felt like I’d filled the seat of my
pants and when it got soaked, it seemed to hang there
accusingly. Sitting down was either a padded experience
or a soggy one, neither of which I really liked, as it
always felt like I was carrying a weight in the back of
dressed as always in my nappy and see thru plastic
pants, I was sat on the (now well cleaned) sofa and was
scratching at my slippery crotch. Mum, who’d been
observing me for a couple of minutes, asked if I had an
itch. However, before I could answer “No” she was
pulling down my nightly armour to reveal my hairless
looks like you’ve got a bit of a rash.” She said easing
everything back up and pulling me to my feet. “Best not
let that get any worse,” and guided me back to my
Lying naked on
my bed and with mum giving me a total inspection, every
crease and crevice was examined with her opinion that
I’d been less than scrupulous drying those places. She
went on how this or that area was particularly
susceptible to infection and applied loads of cream and
lotion. She then went on to add that from that moment
on, she would be in charge of my nappy changes and that
I had to ask for a change when I was wet. There was no
hostility, like always it was just something that needed
to be done. She smiled and said that it was like having
her little boy back, which didn’t go down well with me
but seemed to brighten up her day.
rash had been quite itchy but I just didn’t want to
admit to it. Now mum had discovered my festering little
secret, and that I was to blame for it, she’d taken on
the responsibility of curing the problem. It was another
thing that proved in my mind at least that I was
regressing; another task that I was regarded as too
young or incompetent to complete.
Of course she
couldn’t do all that whilst I was at school but I
noticed (and could feel) the extra soaker pads she
shoved in my nappy first thing in the morning. This
meant that my padding became even more obvious but, as
mum insisted, it was imperative that we get any rash
under control before we sought other avenues.
I just looked
like a huge-assed boy when we did any games or gym as my
well-pillowed area blossomed out from the waist and leg
holes of my shorts. The teachers had been told by my
parents that they expected them to treat me in no way
dissimilar to any other boy so I was on display
throughout the session. To be honest, the gym teacher
didn’t make a big thing about it... well that is...
after he’d explained to the rest of the class that any
comments would be severely dealt with. It was a threat
but no one, least of all me, took seriously. The kids
would do and say what they liked and I’d just have to
put up with it.
plastic pants held things in place as I ran, climbed,
kicked, vaulted, cartwheeled or the hundreds of other
activities I had to do during gym or games. There were
times when I’d wet my nappy whilst taking part in these
actions and my clear plastic pants became a sort of
window for the noisy appreciative boys who gawped in
amusement as I’d tried to hide myself in the changing
obviously some degree of interest because my padding was
constantly being squeezed or patted. The plastic pants
(or ‘baby’ pants as they were called by most) were
another object of both discussion and frenzy as they
pulled at the elastic waistband and letting it snap back
against my naked skin. It got annoying.
Just about every
day I’d go online to try to find an explanation for
those original dreams and why I still woke up wet? I
couldn’t find anything that helped and things were
getting worse. It was frustrating and soul-destroying;
although my pants were dry the nappies were not.
predicament meant that I might have a year or more of
this but, my parents insisted, I would get over it. They
weren’t worried, in fact, they seemed resigned and at
ease with my predicament and expected that I should be
comments, cute comments, funny comments and not just
from my fellow ‘supportive’ pupils followed me around.
The bulge in my pants was a cause for laughter (for
them) and tears (for me), although I wasn’t going to cry
in front of anyone else if I could help it. At school I
just had to put up with the taunts. In the street, when
anyone who didn’t know suddenly discovered a fourteen
year-old still sporting that tell-tale padded groin,
their ridicule hurt.
Dad offered this
advice on several occasions.
“If you don’t
see it as a problem... no one else will.”
I tried to adopt
a different approach. I thought if I made a feature of
it... you know... pretend I was sporting the latest
fashionable accessory, somehow I could convince others
to think the same.
No one was
Frustrated by my
lack of progress I asked mum again if they ever got to
the bottom of Uncle Tom’s wetting problem.
were several theories.”
I waited for her
to continue but she seemed a little cagey.
well, your granny thought it was either
I had no idea
what that meant or entailed.
finally thought, perhaps, maybe, he, ermm, ummm, just
wanted to wear a nappy.”
looked at mum in astonishment.
believe she’d said that... or the way she was looking as
if that was the same for ME.
I fought to get my breath back as the wind had been
sucked right out. “I don’t want to wear these bloody
I pressed on the
bulky material hidden under my pants. There was a slight
but noticeable crinkle.
sweetheart, it doesn’t matter to...”
“Mum, honestly I
don’t want to wear...”
It was then I
burst into tears at the very idea mum even imagined
it was something I wanted.
love... whether you do or don’t... we know you need
She was trying
to comfort me but I thought she was telling me to accept
the situation like they had.
She was patting
my well-padded bottom and I just cried all the more.
Then, when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I
flooded my nappy, which mum knew I’d done so cried and
cried in humiliation until she said she’d change me.
upstairs, mum understood I’d had a bit of an emotional
breakdown of sorts, so gently removed all my wet clothes
and replaced them with a super soft terry nappy and
thick white rubber pants.
sweetheart, we understand. You’ll grow out of it like
your Uncle did...”
A little voice
believe the voice was mine it was so soft and childlike.
“Well, it was a
month after his eighteenth birthday and he’d gone an
entire four weeks without wetting... so... your
grandmother let him out of them and he never went back.”
but... I’m only fourteen...”
“Yes we know
love... don’t worry.”
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