Quick vignette... no title... (finished 5/12/22)

I wrote this today (and intend to finish it tomorrow) just because I knew I hadn’t written anything in quite a while. It’s pretty cheeky, but hopefully you’ll have some fun with it.

“Do you think this is fun for me?!” I shout over the din of the rushing water, disgusted as I pick up her soiled jeans and panties off the bathroom floor.

“No,” she groans. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice, and it grates my nerves. “Sorry, Dad,” she huffs. Not a stitch of sincerity in it.

“All because you can’t be bothered to interrupt a goddamned VIDEO GAME to go to the damned bathroom! What is WRONG with you?!”

“I said I’m sorry, okay?!” she barks back. “Get over it already!”

That plucked my last nerve. I storm out of the bathroom and down to the basement, hurling the wet clothes into the washer when I arrive. I ordered the supplies for this online a few weeks ago, before school let out, but guilt prevented me from going forward with it. This was wrong, doing this to a 12-year-old girl, wasn’t it? Now it clearly was the only option. I’d tried buying her those bedwetting pants for older girls, but she only ever wore them if I checked up on her in the morning, and even then only after an extended screaming match. Half the time she’d ditch them later anyway. Of course, she never had “accidents” at school. Oh no, in fact the teachers complained she was constantly asking for a hall pass in the middle of class. If I hadn’t intimated to them all the toileting problems she had at home, they would have insisted she wait until between classes.

This, though, this is the end. No more of any of that, not for a long time. It’s the beginning of summer break, and I’m not going to deal with mountains of laundry and cleaning up puddles everywhere for the next three months. I listen; the shower is still running. Good. I have time, but I have to move fast. For once I’m grateful she has such a penchant for marathon bathing sessions.

By the time I hear the water cut off, the stage is set. Her underwear drawer has been properly reorganized; I’ll buy her new panties if and when she shows me that she’s ready to start using the damned bathroom on a consistent basis. Everything I need for this battle is sitting under the bed. I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom. This is going to be a fight to end all fights, but I’m ready. If I have to, I’ll take her over my knee, something I haven’t done in years, though I quietly wonder if that fact hasn’t contributed to where we are now.

“Dad?! What the hell are you doing in here?!” she shrieks as she enters the room, clutching her towel.

“Sit down,” I say calmly, patting the bed next to me.

“Can’t we save ‘the talk’ for after I get dressed?!” she snaps.

“I SAID SIT DOWN!” I command. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in a while, and she startles, just as I expected her to. She complies, but not without a huff.

“I can’t believe you’re still pissed. What’s the big deal?” she grumbles.

“I’m not still pissed about that. And it’s not going to be a big deal anymore. You’ve made it perfectly clear to me that you don’t want to be responsible for your toileting anymore. So I’m going to handle it for you.”

“What does that even mean?!” she asks, her face a picture of confusion.

“Lie down,” I reply flatly.

“Wait, wha…”

“LIE DOWN!” She complies hurriedly, and I reach for the towel.

“Dad, what are you doing?!” she protests, clutching it tighter against her chest.

“Let go of the towel, Melissa.” I glare at her fiercely, and she relaxes her grip.

“What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice softer but just as confused.

“Just what I said. Handling your toileting for you.” The towel is spread out beneath her, and she’s lying there, naked and blushing. I reach under the bed and grab my supplies. Her eyes lock on one in particular, and it crinkles softly as I drop it next to her.

“DAD! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” she shrieks, retreating towards the head of the bed.

“Get your butt back on that towel and don’t move.” I grab her ankle and lock on as she squirms.

“I’m not wearing that! No fucking way!” She’s trying to pull away, but my deathlock is holding her fast. I grab the other ankle and pull her back down.

I scowl at her darkly. “If that word comes out of your mouth again, you’re going to be a very unhappy little girl. Now lay still.”

“Dad! Daddy! Come on! I’ll wear the pull-ups! Just not that! Please!” she pleads. She starts to squirm again. I quickly swat her on the thigh. Not hard, just enough to get her attention.

“Ow!” she yelps. Her eyes are filling with tears. “This is ridiculous, Daddy! Please! I promise I won’t do it anymore! Just don’t make me wear that!”

“Roll over,” I instruct, ignoring her begging.

“NO!” she shouts back. “I’m not wearing diapers Daddy!”

“Roll over, or I will do it for you, and then I’ll warm your little bottom up for you as well, Melissa,” I growl, deep and low. The tone that she knows means business.

“Daddy, please,” she whimpers as she turns over onto her stomach. She’s crying now, and a pang of guilt shoots through me as I pick up the tube of rash cream and gently apply it to the insides of her little butt cheeks.

“I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up,” I lied, picking up the baby powder and sprinkling it liberally all over her backside and the tops of her thighs. “This way, you’ll be able to sit there and play your little video games and not have to worry about going potty anymore.”

“I’m not a little kid Dad!” she snaps back through her tears. “I don’t need stupid diapers!”

Ignoring the protests, I unfold the diaper and spread it out next to her. It’s a noisy little thing, for sure, crinkling like a ball of grocery bags the whole time. Truth be told, I was rather surprised to discover that companies actually made larger-than-infant-sized diapers with cute prints like this, and I was downright tickled when I finally found one that produced a size small. Still yet, this thing was going to be huge on her. The better to keep her aware of it, I think to myself with a chuckle. “Roll over please,” I instruct.

She does, and more rustling ensues. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take more bathroom breaks, I promise. Just don’t do this, please!”

More cream and powder in the front, and it’s fairly obvious she’s panicking now. I draw the front up. It rides right up above her belly button, just to the bottom of her ribcage. “Daddy PLEASE!” she shouts. She tries to stick her hand in between the two side panels, and I give it a sharp swat. She yelps, but tries again. This time I give her a firm smack on the thigh.

“Do it again and I’ll turn you back over and give you a real spanking,” I warn her. She whines an incoherent protest, but her hands return to her face. Recalling the video I watched on how to deal with four-tape diapers, I cinch the bottom tapes across and slightly down, then the top ones across and up. I run my fingers along the leg elastics; they’re snug, but not too tight. On her skinny frame, all the tapes comically overlap, obscuring the cute little pictures of baby animals printed all over them.

“I HATE YOU!” her shriek through the pillow breaks the moment. “I HATE YOU DADDY!” She flops over onto her stomach, the diaper rustling loudly in reply.

“I know you do, Pixie. I know,” I offer sympathetically as I rub her back. “Pixie” has been my pet name for her ever since she was able to walk; she’d always been long and gangly, and as soon as she had her feet, she flitted around the house and the yard like a little fairy, constantly on the run.

“Don’t call me that!” she pouted from under the pillow.

“I know, I know, Daddy’s a big meanie.” Thoughtlessly, I patted her bottom gently, and it responded with dull, hollow sounds along with the plastic rustling.

“How long do I have to wear this stupid thing?” she grumped.

“Well that’s entirely up to you, Pixie,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means that, after you’ve had a chance to try out Daddy’s solution to your wetting problems, you’ll get to decide for yourself if you like this arrangement or if you’d rather handle them yourself like a responsible young woman.”

“Well I don’t like it. I want to wear my pull-ups!”

“Silly Pixie. You haven’t even given it a chance yet. In a week or so, we’ll talk about how you feel about this arrangement.”

I’d never seen her flip over so fast. “A week?!” she shouts, sitting back up with a loud crinkle.

“Or longer if you need.”


“That’s fine, a week should be long enough.”

“I have to wear diapers for a whole week?! This is so unfair!”

“Melissa, stop. This has been going on for nine months. I took you to the doctor, he sent you to the urologist, both of them said there was nothing wrong. It never happened at school, only here at home when you were lazing around playing your video games. I asked you to handle the problem yourself by wearing your pull-ups, and you refused unless I threatened to ground you, and even then you still took them off the first chance you got when my back was turned. And all the while Daddy was stuck washing two, three extra pairs of jeans and panties every day. So, now that school is out, Daddy’s going to handle the problem for a while, and a week from now you can decide if you like this arrangement better.”

The picture in front of me is downright adorable. She’s sitting there in a lotus position, her tear-streaked face hanging low, staring at her feet while she picks at the fuzzballs on her socks, the huge, colorful diaper engulfing her middle. Twelve going on three; I can’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whimpers.

“Sorry for what, Pixie?” I ask.

“Sorry for being lazy and not wearing my pull-ups.”

“Come here, Pixie.” She rustles over and straddles my lap, wrapping herself completely around me. I return her embrace, though I can’t help but pat her crinkly bottom with one hand. “I know you’re sorry, sweetie. And I know you’re not happy with this right now. But you also know why I had to do something, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whimpers into my shoulder.

“And you know I still love you, right?”


“Does my Pixie still hate me?”


“Daddy’s glad to hear that. Now why don’t you go find a t-shirt to wear, and then you can go back to your Fallout or whatever you were playing, okay?”

“And some jeans?” she asked.

“You can sure as heck try to put jeans on over that, but I’ll bet you the next Destiny DLC that none of them will fit.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she whined.

“It’s summer, you’re in the house, you don’t really need pants.”

“But what if we go out?! I only have like…”

“One dress, no skirts. Which is why you’re going to wear that dress tomorrow when we go down to Goodwill and get you some more.”

“But I hate that dress!” She’s getting worked up again, and I have to stop it.

“Would you rather go in a t-shirt and diaper?”

“NO!” Her arms drop away and now she’s pouting up at me again.

“I know you hate the church dress, but you’re the one who decided she was too ‘cool’ to wear skirts or dresses to school anymore and filled your closet and dresser with jeans and t-shirts. So tomorrow, after you have a chance to get used to our new arrangement, we’ll fix that problem, okay?”

She’s still pouting, but she mutters, “Okay.”

“Go find a t-shirt, Pixie.”

She huffs as she slides off my lap with a crinkle and waddles over to her dresser. “Oh my god, this thing is huge!” she complains. “It’s like I got a big pillow between my legs!”

“Why do you think I’m giving you the rest of the day to get used to it before we go out in public?” I ask, doing my best not to laugh.

“Hmph!” she grumps, no doubt frustrated at my lack of sympathy. Several rustles later, and she’s sliding something I’m sure she used to wear as a nightshirt down her skinny arms and poking her head out of the top. It still doesn’t hide her puffy new underwear, despite all her tugging and hemming and hawing over it. She turns back to face me and sticks her tongue out, half a diaper poking out from under the shirt, before stalking out of the room, the crunching plastic announcing her departure and echoing the whole way down the hall. I finally let loose the laugh I’d been holding back the whole time. The more a little girl grows up, the more she’s still a little girl at times, and nothing could ever prove that point more perfectly than the spectacle I just witnessed. All that’s changed are the toys she plays with now.

The TV in the living room quietly announces that she’s back to work shooting up hapless players from all over the globe, and her trash-talking confirms it. I have another job yet to do, and I may as well get it done now rather than wait until the issue actually arises.

I get up and head back to my bedroom, removing a Lowe’s bag from my drawer. Three key lock doorknobs; one for my bathroom, one each for her door to the second bathroom and the hallway entrance. I couldn’t trust her to wear the damned bedwetting pants I bought for her, I’m certainly not going to give her a chance to try and take her diaper off to go to the bathroom now. With her headset on and engrossed in the game, there’s zero chance of her hearing me replacing the knobs. I get straight to work, quickly and quietly popping the screws, starting with the door in her room. Once the new knob is in place, I lock it from the inside and close the door firmly. Half an hour later, I’m finished. I peek into the living room; for all her consternation over her new underwear, it certainly hasn’t affected her fixation on the Xbox.

Chuckling, I head over to the kitchen and get started on dinner. The work day is pretty well shot, but I’ll make up my production later on tonight, after the next big fight I’m quite certain is coming.

1 Like

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I definitely want to see the second half. This is cute though. The father’s perspective is rare in these stories, a biological father even more so. If you do bring the series to term, I hope you really play on that angle.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

There may wind up being more than two parts here, I’m not entirely sure. Depends on which way the story decides to take me. :wink:

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom.

I only found this error, shouldn’t it be ‘sat’ down?

Although, I have say I liked the story and would like to see more of this story to see where it leads. Also it is an interesting concept. Thanks WBDaddy

1 Like

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I’m narrating in present, not past tense.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Ah ok. I have been writing in the past tense.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Sure thing, and thanks for the encouragement. :wink:

Primary purpose here is to set a scene that actually ticks off all the boxes in terms of realism, as opposed to the wildly abusive backdrops so typical of diaper punishment stories. Granted, I’ve only given you limited backstory so far, but there’s certainly more coming. Unfortunately, I haven’t finished the second segment yet, though I’m close.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

A certain amount of suspension of disbelief is required to read a diaper punishment story however you slice it. People just don’t do that to their older kids/lovers/friends/random strangers. It’s astronomically unlikely, so you have to come into the story willing to accept it. I’d prefer the term “verisimilitude” to realism, because I think it’s impossible to “tick off all the boxes in terms of realism” and still have it remain a diaper punishment story. Even if a father were to decide his daughter needed diapers because she kept peeing her pants, he wouldn’t storm in when she’s fresh out of the shower, force her to strip and forcibly diaper his 12-y/o daughter - and then lock her out of all the bathrooms. That’s just so beyond the idea of psychological realism, it’s ridiculous on the face of it. It’s like reading a science fiction or fantasy story, almost. Oh, dragons and hyperdrives? Ok, cool. The reader comes into it expecting a certain departure from accepted reality, and the author’s job is not to convince them it could really happen, but rather not to break that unspoken contract.

None of the above is a specific critique of your story, just a perspective on fetish stories in general. I’ll be interested to read part 2.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Okay, I can buy into that. :wink:

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Actually, Regardless of, (Maybe Because Of) her Age
NINE months of this!!
How long would You have put up with it??
I don’t mean Making Her clean up after herself
But having to DO the cleaning yourself

I would have had her in Diapers Sooner!!!
And I would have had her wait 2 weeks to a MONTH before
Getting the "pull-ups’ back
How long will she keep Diapers at night??

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

That was the reaction I was hoping to get out of the back story… :wink:

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I’ve seen worse, and stranger punishments in person.

As far as checking off realism boxes, this really does just that. Fetish related or not, diapers are the solution to wetting, especially wetting that comes from laziness.

1 Like

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Key also being that Dad tried to make her deal with it herself, but she refused over and over…

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

This gets right down to it. :smiley: If this is all you end up writing for it, it works as a stand alone piece. It’s a more realistic than the typical, generic diaper story (where a character wets their pants once then parental unit freaks out, puts them in diapers full time, long list of rules and somehow transforms bedroom into nursery in the process). You’ve set up a more believable scenario.

1 Like

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I enjoyed this one so far. Good to see more of your writing.

Since you seem to be trying for (near) realism, I’ll go into more detail than I might otherwise. The long standing issue does make it a good deal more believable. After months Dad gets too fed up, and takes his chance when the surrounding situation changes such that the risks of social consequences from wearing diapers drops substantially. One unanswered question is that of why Dad is the one picking the wet clothes up in the bathroom. Is it because he hasn’t really tried to make Melissa do it, or because she flat refused? In the former case, then perhaps there should (in a perfect world) have been an intermediate step between the pull-ups as described and the result in the story. In the latter case, why didn’t this happen by Christmas break, or failing that due to remaining uncertainty as to the cause, spring break?

As for forcibly diapering, problematic though that is, when is enough enough, and it remains the only reasonable choice? If there exists a time for it, you’re certainly doing a good job of setting up a situation where it is needed.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

The inferred answer is, just like with her actual wetting, leaving it to her to deal with hasn’t yielded particularly good results. There are other things going on too, as the first chunk of the next installment will reveal. I’m kinda mulling over this part, though, as it almost reads like a “delayed” info dump right now, and I’m not really happy with that…

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I’m happy to hear there’s going to be more! ;D I run into the info-dump frequently when I write. A way to break the info up a bit is to have a character doing something- cleaning, cooking, whatever- and intersperse information within the character’s musings and physical actions as they clean, etc or whatever. Not sure if that’s any help or not, it’s just a suggestion. ^^ Or maybe break it up with the dad checking/ peeking in on his daughter?

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Here ya go. Screw it, if it’s too much, it’s too much. It starts out as ruminating anyway, and the train of thought is fairly linear and reasonably well-connected to the situation, so… :wink:

The chicken is in the oven, surrounded by leeks and carrots and potatoes, seasoned beautifully with butter and rosemary and sage, but Melissa hasn’t moved from her spot on the floor in front of the TV. Sure, it only took me an hour or so to prepare it, but I’m still a little surprised she hasn’t attempted the bathroom yet. May as well try and get some work done in the interim; those reports aren’t going to transcribe themselves. I head to the spare bedroom, AKA my office, but I can’t shake the nagging thoughts. It’s been so hard on her, growing up without a mother. My beautiful wife died when Melissa was just a tiny thing, and I had to change my entire career path to prevent some minimum-wage daycare worker from raising her. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it; she did pretty well in school, though she constantly complained of boredom. What could I do? I was just as bored in public school when I was a kid. I just assumed it was a rite of passage; they treat you like you’re stupid until they figure out you’re smart, right?

This year, though, she hit middle school. And it all started coming unglued. She didn’t do well socially, though she managed to keep her grades up. At home, she lived on that damned gaming system. Skryim, Destiny, Fallout, Call of Duty, she played all of it. I drew the line at Grand Theft Auto. Didn’t matter, though, she still camped out in front of that TV. At first, I thought maybe it was anxiety that caused her wetting problems. Maybe she was just too wound up after school. I took her to her pediatrician, and he said it might have something to do with puberty, though it was certainly strange that she was wetting during the day and not at night, but he referred her to the urologist anyway. I hated it, watching her suffer through all the horrible tests the urologist put her through, but I held on to the hope that there was something physical that could explain it. No such luck. He suggested a psychiatrist, but I wasn’t going to let some jerk put her on drugs that not even the people who invented them couldn’t say for sure what they did, just what they “thought” they did, and they damned sure didn’t know what kind of effects they had on kids who were still growing, still developing.

So I put up with it. I bought her the bedwetting pants. And I did the best I could to make her wear them, despite her prideful rebellion. And I did laundry every day. Every. Single. Day. Because it was at least two or three times a day she’d be changing her pants, less on the weekends when I could lord over her and be sure she kept those damned pull-ups on. It was only the last couple months when I started putting the pieces together, though. Never an accident at school. Never when she went out with friends, never on sleepovers, never at parties, never when anyone else was around. She only ever peed her pants at home, when it was just she and I. At first I thought maybe it was an attention thing, that I wasn’t plugged in enough. So I shuffled some hours around and tried to be more involved, help her with homework, sit next to her when she was playing those stupid games, talk to her, at least when she wasn’t talking to her gaming friends on the headset. Nothing helped. One day, I even watched her sit there and pee on herself while she was in the middle of a raid. I shook her, shouted at her, begged her to realize what she was doing, and she had the nerve to get mad at me for making her team wipe!

I decided that night that this wasn’t anything but laziness, and that was the night I went shopping online. I searched out diapers, but all the ones in her size looked just so clinical, so medical, so not at all the point I was trying to make to her. She wanted to be independent, to be grown-up, to have more freedom, but she wouldn’t even get up and go to the bathroom when she had to pee? No, I wanted proper baby diapers, to make her see herself the way she’d been acting all this time. How utterly silly this was, peeing her pants because she was too busy playing a stupid video game.

By the time that box arrived at my door a few days later, I lost my nerve. When I clicked “order now”, I was all set to send her to school with a bag full of the damned things to drop off to the nurse so she could get her diaper changed when she needed, since she cared so little about going to the bathroom. But when I opened that box, I couldn’t do it. If one of the other kids found out, her life would be ruined. So I put them away, until now. Four days since school let out, and she’d gone through at least three pairs of jeans and panties every one of them, despite my insistence that she wear a pull-up every morning. Really, what else could I do?


The tell-tale alarm on the digital meat thermometer snaps me out of my thoughts. Another 90 minutes gone. That made three hours since I put that diaper on her, and she hadn’t so much as made a peep. Here I am expecting a nuclear war over her suddenly deciding she wanted to go to the bathroom, and there’s been nothing. I head into the kitchen, peeking over the island into the family room when I get there. Her mouse-brown curly mop is still locked in on the TV, in the same spot as the last time I looked. I take the chicken out of the oven and shuffle it onto the serving plate I laid out to let it rest, and I begin to wonder; should I check? Does she need a change? Confusion sets in for a moment. I didn’t really think this part out when I decided to do this. Do I ask? Or just go over and look? Should I make a big deal of it? No, it’s been this long, she almost certainly needs a change, and I’ve got time while the bird rests anyway. I’m not going to make her sit in a wet diaper at the dinner table. I go back to her bedroom and fetch one along with the powder and cream and wipes, making a mental note to get some kind of bag to stash that stuff in while we’re out and about tomorrow. Once I reach the family room, I toss the stuff over onto the couch and walk up behind her, peering over her head to get a glimpse. Sure enough, her spindly legs are splayed out, and the diaper between them is swollen and yellowed. I tap her on the shoulder.

“Hang on, Dad! We’re almost done here!” I look up at the screen; she’s right, there’s less than a minute to go in a PvP battle, and her team is leading by a fairly wide margin. I can wait. I arrange the supplies on the carpet and kneel down, watching the timer tick down.

As soon as it ends, she pulls her headset off and turns toward me, “What’d you… Oh.” She takes on a mild blush when she sees what I laid out. Comicaly, she slides over on her bottom and lays out in front of me.

I get started pulling the tapes loose, and I can’t help but comment. “See, now isn’t this better than having a big blowup because you peed your pants?” I playfully scold her. She rolls her eyes with a huff and stares off into space. As I clean her up, I notice the look on her face, and it’s a stunningly familiar one; if she had her thumb in her mouth, she’d be the very picture of herself ten years ago.

Once she’s taped up into the fresh diaper, I take my time stuffing the wipes into the soiled one, wrapping it up into a ball and taping it down snug. She’s still under that spell, and I let her lay there for a minute, doing my best not to chuckle. Finally I gather the changing supplies and stand up. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes, Pixie. Mind setting the table for me right quick while I wash up?”

Her head snaps back and she scrambles to a sit, loudly rustling the whole time. “Uh… sure Dad…” she stammers, crinkling her way to her feet as I toss the used diaper into the kitchen trash and head back down the hall, sneaking a little peek over my shoulder as she waddles into the kitchen and reaches up into the cabinet for plates, her shirt riding up and revealing her adorably puffy bottom in all its glory.

As I unlock the bathroom door and go in to wash, it occurs to me that there had been no fight, not even when I changed her. She was completely demure, passive, almost accepting of it. And I hadn’t even told her the bathrooms were off limits except for bathing and teeth-brushing and, well, probably for bowel stuff as well. I definitely would prefer not to be cleaning up that sort of mess. I still feel conflicted somehow; even with my rational brain telling me that this is proof she’s okay with my solution, I still feel guilty over my emotional side celebrating the return of Daddy’s little Pixie. Like I’m just rationalizing it all. I promise myself that I won’t try to go any further with it, that I won’t do anything goofy like buy her a pacifier or something.

I come back out as she’s pouring herself a glass of pop. “Beer, Dad?” she asks.

“No, I’ve still got work yet to do. I’ll take Coke as well.”

She pours mine, sets the two-liter down on the end of the island, and climbs onto her stool, rustling the whole time. She seems to have adapted somewhat to the bulk; her movements are much less clumsy, despite still being slightly bow-legged. Her big, brown, doe eyes lock with mine, and I’m a bit staggered by them. For a minute, it was like looking at her mother. So strange, to look into one pair of eyes and see her tweener self, the grown woman, and the baby all at once.

“Um, yeah, so plate on table maybe?” she asks, breaking the little spell.

“Oh… right.” I set the serving platter between us. She grabs the big spoon and starts piling veggies on her plate while I carve the bird, serving her a couple slices of breast meat and hacking off a leg quarter for myself. She’s never been much for meat, but I long ago decided that wasn’t a fight worth having, considering how hard it is for most parents to make the kids eat vegetables.

She squirms in her seat a little as she starts digging in, and the subtle rustle put my mind on a different track. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask for the bathroom,” I offer casually, hoping to probe her a bit without causing a confrontation.

“Would you have let me go if I’d asked?” she replies, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“Well, no, I…”

“Which is why I didn’t bother.”

“Oh,” I fumble, unsure what to say.

“I don’t like it, but what’s the point in fighting about it? You’d just make me wear them even longer, right?”

“Well, that’s true.” Am I that transparent, that she can read me that easily? “Either way, I expect the Xbox to be off at 10:30 tonight.”

“Aw come on, you’re not gonna do the early bedtime thing now too, are you?” she whined. “I’m not a….”

“No, you’re not. But you need to take a shower before bed, and then I need to get your diaper on for bed, and both those things take time. So 10:30, or tomorrow it’ll be ten o’clock. We clear?”

“We’re clear,” she grumbled, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork and stuffing it into her mouth as if to announce that she didn’t really want to talk anymore. And I was happy to oblige.


Re: Quick vignette… no title…

I take it this is going to continue, then? Nice to see a light piece from you without so many mind games, makes nice easy reading.

Re: Quick vignette… no title…

Yeah, the story decided it wasn’t happy being a quick couple thousand words, so now I’m (and, by extension, you’re) stuck following it to whatever its little conclusion is going to be…

1 Like