Short story: "Acting Like A Baby" (finished)

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#1

So, for those of you who haven’t read the thread in General (spoilers abound), this is something that bubbled up out of my head and I rolled with it for a bit. None of my other projects are forgotten or shelved; I’m just trying to get some creative flow going.

“Come on, Mom, I’m ten years old!”

“Charlotte, I don’t want to hear it! Now quit kicking!” She grabbed up both my ankles in one hand and jerked them up, somewhat painfully.

“Ow! That hurts!” I whined. The dreaded fluffy pad slid under my bottom and I was dropped unceremoniously onto it.

“Stop fighting and it won’t hurt. You know how this works.” She pulled the front of the diaper up between my legs.

I put my hands on my thighs defiantly. “I’m not a baby, Mom! You can’t keep doing this to me!”

She slapped my hands away. “You’re acting like a two-year-old, Charlotte! And I AM your mother, and I CAN and WILL do what is best for you!”

I started to roll over to keep her from taping it. I knew it was futile, but something inside me made me keep fighting. “I DON’T WANT TO WEAR DIA…” I shrieked, but was cut off by a pacifier being stuffed into my mouth and her hand planting firmly on my stomach.

“There. No more lip. And if you roll over again, I’ll tan your little bottom, and you’ll be in diapers until you’re 18, dammit! Now lay still!”

I spit the pacifier out and wriggled and kicked against her hand. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. All at once I was rolled over and summarily smacked three times on the bottom. “OW!” I wailed, tears involuntarily filling my eyes.

She rolled me back over onto the diaper just as nonchalantly, then tucked the pacifier back into my mouth. “Now, are we done having our tantrum or do we need another spanking?”

I shook my head silently, sniffling and motionless as she finished the job I’d fought so hard to prevent. One tape, the other tape, and there I was, diapered like a little baby again. Tears flowed freely now, no longer from the sting on my bottom, but rather for the humiliation. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, as often as it happened, but it seemed like every time was worse than the last.

I suppose I could hardly blame her, viewing and treating me like a baby all the time. I’m the only kid I know who actually remembers taking her first steps, when I was like five years old. I wasn’t even potty trained until I was like 7 because of that little issue, and yeah, I still had wet nights occasionally, even at 10, not to mention the fact that I would have been the shortest kid in kindergarten, never mind 4th grade, if my mother hadn’t home-schooled me. The doctors told her it was some gland that was barely working at all, and there really was nothing they could do. So I got to suffer through it. If I’d been born in 2000 instead of 1984, they’d have just given me growth hormone, and I’d have turned out to be a normal kid. Just my miserable luck.

My mother, on the other hand, almost seemed to enjoy it. Or, at least, she damned sure took full advantage…

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#2

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

It’s shorter and more exposition heavy than your other works but I have no doubt that you’ll be able to turn it into the best story on the site in no time. I’ve always loved the concept and stories using it are sadly rarely finished on this site.

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#3

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Flattery will get you everywhere.

And yeah, it’s going to be heavy on exposition, but that’s because I don’t want it to drag out a whole lot. Last thing I need is to get mired in yet another unfinished project.

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#4

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Yay, more exposition!

See, my mom actually moved out here to LA to be an actress. What she got instead was knocked up at 19 years old. No surprise, Dad flew the coop. I only know vaguely what he looks like from the one picture she kept of him, a beat up Polaroid of the two of them partying down on Sunset, with a lot of holes in his face and body. I guess it was her Midwest sense of morality that stopped her from adopting me out, but more likely she saw the chance to live out her dream through me instead. Being so tiny and, thanks to that stupid gland problem, having a face that looked like a Kewpie doll, it was just too easy. Up until I finally started walking like a normal kid, she had me in baby food and baby toy commercials, pretending to be having a blast. I was a perpetual “cutest baby” photo contest winner until she got nailed for entering me in the same competition five years in a row and forgetting to change my name. She had me in baby pageants and baby magazines. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the diapers…

You thought I’d done something wrong, didn’t you? You thought Mom was putting a diaper on me because I peed my pants or acted like a baby or some other misbehavior, right? Nope. This was all part of the routine, and the part I hated the most. Whenever I got booked for a diaper commercial or a diaper photo shoot or whatever, she’d put me in diapers the day before, and my bathroom privileges would be gone until after the shoot. She did it on all the other auditions and crap too. She said it was for believability. They’d throw us off the shoot, she’d say, if I asked her to go to the bathroom or even if I went too long without needing a change. Heck, it’s a wonder I didn’t need diapers all the time, as much as she made me pee and poop in my pants.

The diaper companies, I think, stopped asking after a while. They knew what was up. They’d pass me off back and forth as the years went by, so no one would catch on to the fact that the same kid kept popping up in their advertising over and over again, the first couple years as a newborn, then a few more as a crawler, then the last five as a toddler. I actually think they liked me in the commercials these days. Most three-year-old kids would take a whole day’s shoot to repeat one stupid line, while I could knock out a whole conversation on the first take. It was horrible, especially when I had to work with other kids. I’d be the slow-trainer, standing a head taller than the little tyke who’d say something banal like “uh-oh” looking down at the diaper they put on him half-assed so it would sag in the middle, and I’d cheerfully show off how snug and tight my diaper was even though I’d peed in it. And they always insisted I pee in it. I got so sick of Mom pumping me full of water I started holding it all morning so I could make sure we got it over with and I could go home and wear normal panties again as fast as possible. Oh, and they ALWAYS sent us home with a big box of diapers too. The spare bedroom in our apartment was FULL of boxes of diapers, and every time I managed to grow out of a size, which took FOREVER, Mom would donate all the old ones to the local shelter. I seemed to get stuck doing a lot more diaper commercials for a while when that happened.

So yeah, there I was, lying on my bed sobbing, pacifier in my mouth, in a “Walker 3” Pampers – no wait, it was a Luvs for Girls, that’s right. Big, loud, crinkly, pink Luvs. I hated them.

“Sweetie, I know you’re tired of this,” Mom tried to comfort me while patting my bottom, which totally didn’t help. “Everyone started somewhere. What about Mary-Kate and Ashley?”

“They didn’t have to wear diaperth all the time to get a break!” I sniffled back.

“They most certainly did!” she argued. “When they started out on Full House they were…”

The pacifier dropped out of my mouth. “They were ACTUAL BABIES, Mom! They weren’t ten-year-old midgets wearing diapers, they were ACTUAL BABIES!”

“Sweetie, I get it!” she protested. “But you know we need the money, and this is going to pay off for your acting career soon, I promise!”

I rolled over with a rustle, looking as pitiful as I possibly could, which wasn’t hard, considering I’d been blubbering for the last 5 minutes. “You keep saying that, but…”

“Look,” she interrupted, “if we get this gig, and you behave yourself at the pageant on Saturday, we’ll go to Toys ‘R’ Us and get you one of those new Playstations that just came out.”

That shocked me right out of my foul mood. “Really?” I gasped, sitting up with a rustle.

“I swear.”

“You’re the best, Mom!” I squealed, practically jumping into her arms, ignoring what was around my waist.

“I love you too, Charlotte,” she chuckled. “Now let’s get downstairs so we can practice our baby-talk and our waddle, okay?”

“Ugh. Okay. But can we get Rayman too? Please?” I begged, seizing the opportunity.

“Fine, we’ll get Rayman too. But you’d better nail that pageant on Saturday, kiddo. Just because you don’t grow out of these clothes very fast, doesn’t mean you don’t wear them out!”

“I will, I will!” Truthfully, the pageants were pretty easy. They didn’t expect much, even in the talent competitions, from a little girl who was supposedly only three or four years old. I mean, yeah, the stuff some of those kids did was impressive – for their age. I wasn’t, and I could sing, even with a lisp, better than any of those spoiled little brats.

Mom carried me out into the living room and plunked me down in front of the huge mirror, and I practiced staggering with my arms out, and crawling, and jumping (not too high!) in place and squealing. And, finally, when she decided we were done, I settled into her lap onto the couch and watched about 20 minutes of Aladdin before I conked out, feeling every bit as tiny as my underwear suggested I was.

#5

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

very nice although you may want to get change the hormone trope, there are plenty of other conditions that would cause something similar. But you’ve used the hormone explanation in several of your other stories, and it seems to be the go to condition for authors who use a force of nature to get characters in diapers. Which are my favorite kind of stories so i guess i notice more. Just once I’d like for an author to go for nerve damage or PTSD or something other than a deffective petuitary glan

Rant aside it was excellent as always

#6

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

I’ve never used this (hypopituitaryism) in any of my other stories. The main character in “Panda” has pseudoachondroplasia. The main character in “The Pariah” is just plain short, not excessively so. If the main character here had PTSD or nerve damage, it wouldn’t explain why she was the size of a toddler.

#7

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

I don’t think nerve damage or PTSD would bring this sort of change. Hormonal problems would. Genetics would, but he’s already used that in The Panda’s Ashes.

I actually really like the PTSD idea in another story. But then it’s not really forced so much as a last resort.

Flashback to falling off a ladder. Instantly wet yourself. :smiley: I think it’s funny.

In terms of the story. I like it. It’s fun. The whole prospect of acting and an overzealous mother.

You keep using tiny people!! :smiley:

I think the explanation was a bit rich to be frank. Maybe I just personally would like to see it explained in a different style or less bluntly. That might just be a personal trope. But you definitely tied the two parts together tighter than a rope attached to a carabeener, so it’s good and now the story makes much more sense in my mind and I thoroughly enjoy it and your writing as always.

Okay now that I think about it. You did the whole exposition thing on purpose. I have nothing else to add for now.

Keep going. I’m loving it. :slight_smile:

#8

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Yes, yes I do. Dunno why, but it just kinda works for my writing style.

I think the explanation was a bit rich to be frank. Maybe I just personally would like to see it explained in a different style or less bluntly. That might just be a personal trope. But you definitely tied the two parts together tighter than a rope attached to a carabeener, so it’s good and now the story makes much more sense in my mind and I thoroughly enjoy it and your writing as always.

Okay now that I think about it. You did the whole exposition thing on purpose. I have nothing else to add for now.

Well, yeah, the fourth-wall thing was intended to be a humorous element. :wink:

Keep going. I’m loving it. :slight_smile:

I’ll do my best. :slight_smile:

#9

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

This is setting up for an interesting story.

I don’t think you have to worry about the exposition. In short stories, you don’t have as much time to introduce the setting, characters and conflict, so I guess the way it is done now works just fine, as long as you don’t drag it out too long before getting to the action.

#10

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

I have a plot lined up here. It’s a short plot, and the ending will be largely unsatisfying, but the big finish should be worth the price of admission.

When I woke, it was early, way early. It was just barely starting to get light outside my window. And, it wasn’t hard to figure out why I woke up so early; I had to pee, badly. I absently started to get out of bed, but as soon as I sat up I got a loud, crinkly reminder of what I was wearing and what I was expected to do in it. Even if I dared wake Mom up, she wasn’t going to let me use the bathroom. I reached for the glass of water sitting on my nightstand; it was the only way I’d been able to force the issue since I was fully potty trained. A long drink increased the pressure on my bladder to the point where it was downright painful, and I did my best to relax as the hot humiliation began to leak into my underwear. “Ewwwwwww,” I groaned, dropping my head back onto the pillow. An eternity or two passed while I waited for the increasingly warm and clammy balloon to inflate around me. Eventually it was over, but not before my face was every bit as hot as my middle. Then came the worst part, waiting for Mom to wake up so she could come change me. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option; I was soaked and miserable. “Stupid Luvs,” I thought morosely. The really good diapers like Pampers and Huggies had “lock-away cores”. You could pee in one of those and a minute later not even feel wet. They were thinner, too. All these things did was swell up and feel like a wet sponge against your skin. So gross, sitting in a puddle of pee.

I stared at the Minnie Mouse clock on my night table, watching the seconds tick away, her arms seemingly stationary in spite of that little hand winding around her, as my diaper cooled and my mood soured. This wasn’t going to be the last time I had to pee on myself like this today, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. The disgusting, increasingly cold wetness just made me madder and madder, and finally I got up and waddled over to my dresser, turned on the TV and my Super Nintendo, and sat back down on the end of the bed in a huff. I played Super Mario 3, even though I’d beaten the game millions of times, and got all the way to Giant Land before I finally heard her door open.

“FINALLY!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Too late. Bathroom door closed. No response. I was full-on grouch at that point, and threw my controller down on the bed.

Forever or so later, the door opened and her head poked in. “Good morning, baby!” she cooed. “Does someone need a diaper change?”

“This SUCKS, Mom!” I snapped back, flopping down onto the bed.

“Someone’s supposed to be getting into charrrrrr-acter…” she sang as she grabbed one of the diapers and some powder and wipes out of my dresser. That voice just grated me even worse.

“Great!” I snapped back. “Next time I’ll just start screaming like a little brat when I wake up early and have to pee on myself!”

“Awww, don’t be a cranky baby!” she replied in a syrupy tone as she sat on the bed and started pulling the tapes away. “Mommy’s got a nice dry diaper for you right here!”

“Why can’t I just do the stupid Pull-ups commercials?! At least then I get to use the bathroom!”

“Charlotte!” she said, her brows furrowing. “We have an audition in four hours, and you’re supposed to be behaving like a toddler, not a grumpy pre-teen! Does someone not want that Playstation anymore?” My legs came off the bed, and I shuddered as she wiped my bottom down with a cold wipe.

“Four hours?! You mean we’re not even gonna get started until noon?! And I can’t even bring my Game Boy?!” I slammed my head against the pillow in frustration as she taped the new diaper up.

“Okay, someone obviously needs some help getting into character,” Mom said, reaching into the front drawer of my bedstand.

“No, Mom, I’m sorry, I wo…” Just that quick, there was a pacifier in my mouth again. I fumed as she stared me down, but made no move to spit it out. I knew what “help getting in character” was, and I had no doubt she’d go there if I kept pushing.

She sat me up with a rustle, and I scowled at her as she walked back to my bureau and pulled out the one top I hated most, the pink waist-length ruffly thing with the poofy sleeves and the lace hem. Not only did it look babyish, but it didn’t come close to hiding my underwear from anybody. And, knowing my mother and the mood she was in now, there wouldn’t be any pants to go with it. I bit down hard on the nipple between my teeth the whole time as she stripped my nightshirt off and replaced it with this wretched thing. “We’ll do your hair after breakfast, okay?” Oh, no, not the hair! My curly blonde locks had just started to touch my shoulders, and she was going to cut them again?!

“What about the pageant?!” I lisped from behind the pacifier. Maybe I could get her to come to her senses if I reminded her that we had a big show in two days.

“Don’t worry about it, I bought a wig for that show last week,” she said flatly. “Up we come now.” She hoisted me onto her hip and carried me out of the bedroom. “No more big words from the baby now, you hear?”

“Yef Mommy,” I sighed, defeated again. Mom never “did” my hair for the baby product auditions, she just hacked it all down so short it looked like I was a year or so removed from baby bald. I’d hoped it hadn’t gotten long enough yet, and maybe this would be the last diaper commercial we’d be doing for a while, so I might just have a chance to grow out those Shirley Temple locks that would get me the big acting break I so desperately wanted. No doubt I’d never get cast for anything but a toddler as long as she kept my hair that short. This day was just getting worse, and worse, and worse…

#11

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Awesome!! This is so creative, you never disappoint!

#12

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

You are certainly diving right into the content and reason we’re here - but its an enjoyable and fast paced read so far.

#13

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Yeah, no slow burn this time around. The entire story will sum to about a day and a half of chronology.

#14

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

I stared longingly at the open bathroom door as we walked down the hall, Mom humming merrily as we went. To my chagrin, she stopped at the hall closet and grabbed my old highchair.

“Mmmph!” I protested behind the pacifier.

“Don’t want to hear it!” she announced as she struggled her way into the kitchen with me in one arm and the folded chair in the other. She slammed it down and kicked it open, then deposited me in the chair and flipped down the lid. “Between last night and this morning, you obviously needed help getting in character, and that’s what you’re going to get. One of these days you’ll learn not to be so mouthy!” She reached into a drawer beside the stove and produced a bib that read “Little Princess” and strapped it around my neck as I fought the overwhelming need to just start bawling, or screaming, or some combination of the two. I couldn’t believe she was actually going back there again. It’d been over a year since the last time I got the full baby treatment, and that was just because I really, really didn’t want to do the Graco commercial for their stupid new Pack ‘n’ Play playpen. I wound up getting a role, but it wasn’t the one I expected; they cast me as the older toddler sister to a barely year-old boy who was perfectly happy to play in the playpen. Not surprisingly, it was a lot easier for me to at least pretend to be happy playing with him from outside of it. Mom rubbed it in all the way home from that shoot, telling me I was being silly for just assuming what the shoot would be before I even got there. Of course, today’s audition, I knew exactly what it was about, and what would be expected of me, and for some reason, today I just didn’t want to do play the role.

Sure enough, Mom fixed me a bowl of oatmeal and brought it over with a bottle of milk. She took the pacifier out of my mouth and gave me a stern warning, “If you mess up this top by being a little shit, I promise you’re not gonna like what you’ll be wearing next.”

“Mean Mommy! Mean Mommy! Mean Mommy!” I shouted back, pounding on the tray. I figured I could still fight her if I played along with the baby part. Not like she could argue with me throwing a temper fit, right?

“Yes, yes, mean Mommy wants to give the baby her breakfast,” she said casually, dipping a spoon into the mush. “Now open up.” I dodged my face around as she held the spoon in front of me, sticking my bottom lip out as far as I could. “Charlotte…” she said, her tone getting darker again.

“No, no, nnn…” I started to chirp before a huge spoonful found its way into my mouth, with a tiny bit dribbling off the side of my lip. Mom quickly scraped that up with the spoon and dipped it back into the bowl as I grudgingly chewed and swallowed. I had to give it to her, she made the oatmeal the way I’ve always loved, with lots of butter and cinnamon and brown sugar. It tasted too good to let it get cold while I acted like a brat. I opened my mouth dutifully, and we repeated the process until the bowl was empty and my tummy was warm and full.

“There, was that so bad?” she scolded gently. “Now you can have your ba-ba.” She handed me the bottle, and I reluctantly took a pull. Dang, she did it again! The distinct flavor of honey in the milk motivated me to suck it up as fast as I could, bottle or not. It was so tasty I couldn’t help myself. “What a good baby!” she cheered when I finished it.

I slapped the bottle down on the tray sideways and babbled, “Blablablabla!” then blew raspberries.

“No more mean Mommy?” she asked, chuckling as she set the bottle aside and lifted the tray. “No messy baby either!” she added, taking my bib off and lifting me out of the chair. “Good girl! Now you can watch TV while Mommy does your hair, okay?”

She just had to go and ruin the mood. “Okay, Mommy,” I replied, without much conviction. She hoisted me back on her hip and I watched forlornly as she gathered scissors from her bedroom and a towel from the hall closet. She sat me down on a stool in front of the couch, wrapped the towel around my neck, tucked the pacifier back into my mouth, and turned on Cartoon Network. “Tom and Jerry” was on, which I’d loved since before I could walk, and I did my level best to focus in on the cat and mouse and their antics and ignore the tug, snip, tug, snip, tug, snip going on behind me. Here and there a ringlet would drop and I would instinctively look down. What was coming off was surely longer than what she was leaving behind by the look of it, and I struggled not to tear up as I imagined how utterly babyish I’d look when she was done. From where I was situated, I’d have to turn my head to look in the long mirror at what she was doing to me, and terrified though I was to see, it was difficult to resist the urge. Finally she was done, and she wrapped up the towel, brushed the hair off my front and back, and satisfied my morbid curiosity in a quick motion, picking me up and planting me directly in front of the mirror. Just as I feared, just as I expected, what looked back at me, grimacing behind her pink pacifier and clearly on the verge of tears, was every bit of a two-year-old girl, her doll face framed with tiny, barely inch-long curls, the ruffly pink top and matching pink diaper looking exactly like what she should be wearing at this moment. All the picture was missing was a pair of ankle socks and some Mary Janes. I had no doubt my mother would be correcting that little detail before we left the house.

“Aren’t you just as pretty as a little picture?” she cooed, her face joining mine in the mirror. I stood there silently, transfixed by the image. She kissed me on the cheek then picked me up and plunked me down onto the couch. “You just enjoy your little cartoons while Mommy takes care of this mess and the dishes, okay?”

“Yef Mommy,” I offered forlornly, the specter of my once again destroyed status burning brightly in the front of my mind. Once more I tried to focus on the cartoons, but I couldn’t help but steal glances at the mirror, now only showing my waist down on the couch, which was almost more aggravating. Mom buzzed around the apartment, cleaning and humming merrily. She was enjoying this way too much, or so it appeared to me. As many times as I’d been through this nightmare, something about this time just bothered me more than ever before. A shift in my tummy and a sudden sense of pressure snapped me out of my brooding, and I suddenly realized things were about to get worse, a lot worse…

#15

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

i hope the mother gets some karmic justice in the end the lat

#16

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Thoughts came in a rush. I started to take the pacifier out of my mouth, then stopped myself. Maybe if I stayed in character she’d be more likely to listen to reason. Panic began to grip me as the pressure built. I looked at the clock on the VCR, which read 10:20. In forty minutes we’d be leaving for the audition, to get a decent spot in line. I didn’t want to do this, not today. It’d been a long time since I’d pooped at an audition or a shoot. I’d gotten quite good at avoiding it by either begging off breakfast by claiming nerves or just plain holding it until we got home, at which point Mom would take the diaper off and I could go to the bathroom like a normal kid. This morning, I hadn’t gotten the choice regarding breakfast, and there was no way I could hold out for what would surely be five or six hours on location.

Mom pranced into the room with the expected patent pink shoes and white, lacy ankle socks. “Almost time to go! Is my baby all ready to knock 'em dead?”

“Go potty Mommy!” I nearly squeaked, doing my best toddler voice.

“You went potty? Well let’s go get you a nice dry diaper then,” she replied.

“No, Mommy, go potty!” I repeated.

“Then we’ll wait until you’re done, then get you a dry diaper,” she retorted, her face never changing.

“Poop, Mommy, go potty!” I said, my tone reaching a desperate pitch, the pacifier dropping out of my mouth.

“So Mommy’s gonna have a mess to clean up, huh?” she asked, a stern look on her face.

“No poopy diaper, Mommy! Please?” It was becoming a fight to maintain character. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to rip that damned diaper down from around my waist and go to the bathroom like the almost teenage girl I was.

“Of course poopy diaper, baby. You’re not supposed to care about poopy diapers, remember?” Her tone grew more imposing, more threatening, and I withered under it. I realized the only choice I had left was to do it here or do it in line at the audition, in front of a mob of strangers, or worse yet during the audition itself, in front of directors and producers that one day would be behind the camera at what I’d hoped would be my big Hollywood moment. How could I face them, knowing that they’d watched me poop in my pants as a ten-year-old girl?

I scowled at her, then flopped down off the couch and squatted, grimacing, pushing as hard as I could. Disgusting, mushy humiliation filled my backside, and hot shame leaked out the front along with it, but I grit my teeth and stared at her with as much hate as I could muster. “If looks could kill,” the song went, “you’d be lying on the floor. You’d be begging me ‘please, no more’…”

Finally it was done, and I stood up for just an instant, long enough for her to get up and make a move toward me. She smiled and said, “All done, baby? Good g…” but stopped in utter shock as I, in one final act of defiance, dropped to the floor and wiggled, a grin filling my face.

“Poopy, Mommy! MESSY MESSY MESSY!” It was disgusting, and I loathed the feeling, but it was a small victory after losing nearly every battle since last night. I bounced a couple times on the carpet and forced out a giggle before her face contorted into something dark, much darker than I’d seen before.

“Messy, messy, messy indeed!” she hissed. “I think baby liked that way too much. Maybe she’d like to sit in it for a while. Maybe Mommy ought to wait until we get there to change that stinky little diaper!”

My little moment of revenge disappeared in a puff of smoke. “No, Mommy! Please change me!” I begged.

“Oh, so now Mommy is supposed to clean up that big mess you made right away? I don’t know…”

“I sowwy Mommy! Pwease can I have a new diaper?” I was desperate again, now for a completely different reason, and I went full-on toddler with my groveling.

She grabbed my hand and walked me to the corner. “You can stand there until I come back for you. If you move one inch, I swear you’ll be in that diaper until every single person in that building tells me they think you need a change. Understand?”

“Yes Mommy,” I said timidly, my head locking on the wall in front of me, terrified she’d make good on that threat. Inside I boiled as I stood there, a burning sensation on my bottom as that disgusting mess began to make its presence felt. We were going to have a showdown over this, but not now, and not here. A plan began to come together in my head, and I quietly smiled as I faced that wall.

#17

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

And here’s your big finish.

Mom finally returned a few minutes later and hoisted me up by my armpits, carrying me in front of her into my bedroom. “Alright then!” she said. “Let’s get that stinky diaper changed!” She seemed to have lost that angry edge, and went back to humming as she went through the arduous process of cleaning up my backside. I swear she used a hundred or more wipes. My legs were nearly cramping by the time she finished the job, covering my bottom and my girl parts with rash cream and powder before taping me back up into a clean diaper. That was probably the best I’d ever felt about being put in a diaper, after sitting in that mess for so long. I played along with her as she cooed and fussed over me while she put my socks and shoes on. Let her think she won that battle. Stay in character, make her think she broke me. I babbled and cooed and lisped in the car all the way there, quieting down as we got closer to the studio.

Finally we were there, and while she was still just as bubbly as ever, I was silent, watching, waiting, listening. She carried me over to the signup line, which had gotten pretty long for an hour before auditions, and we waited. I looked around. Some of the poor kids, infants or not, were dressed in the most ridiculous outfits, ridiculous even for the pageants I’d experienced. The lady standing in front of us was bouncing some little infant in what looked like an Easter dress, only pink, with the pinafore and the crinoline petticoats and the tights and ballet slippers and a goofy headband with a huge rose on it. I wanted to laugh. My own outfit was positively benign by comparison.

While we waited, another lady walked up with her own toddler, a boy in a simple blue t-shirt and the tell-tale blue Luvs diaper and sandals. She looked at the one ahead of us and over at Mom, and they exchanged knowing glances. “Amateurs,” Mom said, rolling her eyes. I knew the drill. Those kids never made the cut, usually because the producers didn’t want to waste time arguing with Mom about how it was a diaper commercial and they needed pictures of the diaper, not the kid’s Sunday best.

“Seriously. They’ll learn,” the woman agreed. “Sharon,” she added, “and this is Jerry.”

“Tabitha,” Mom replied. “and this is Charlotte, and Mommy’s really hoping she gets this gig!”

“Seriously, these things are a godsend! I’ve only gotten Jerry into a couple of unpaid shoots, but just the free case of diapers was worth the trouble!” Sharon declared.

“I know, right? I swear, I’d be bankrupt if it weren’t for these things! Charlotte has been in a bunch of these already, and I could really use another one today. Save me from having to pick up a box on the way home!”

“So how old is she?” Sharon asked. “Jerry will be three in June, and I’m hoping we’re all done with diapers by then.”

“Oh, she’s already three! We just had a birthday a little bit ago, didn’t we?” Mom grinned broadly at me. This was my chance.

I took the pacifier out of my mouth and said, “Mommy?”

“Yes, Charlotte?”

“How come you keep telling people I’m only three?” I asked innocently.

Sharon’s eyebrow raised, as did several other moms within earshot, who turned to focus on the growing spectacle. “Charlotte, we just had a birthday party for you, and there were three candles on the cake, remember?” Mom said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

I was in the zone now, and I had her right where I wanted her. “But Mommy, there were three candles on the cake last year too, and the year before that! When do I get to turn four like you promised?”

Gasps. Jaws hanging open. Scowls of derision I could nearly feel burning through my mother, just from the residual heat. “Charlotte! What are you talking about?!” She forced a nervous laugh, looking around at all the other mothers. “She has such an active imagination, I swear!”

They weren’t buying it. “Someone should call CPS on you!” one of them snapped.

“Poor kid! What a sicko!” another added in. Mom tried to fend them off with stuttering protests but failing. I was struggling not to burst into giggles when one of the producers walked up, one I recognized from a commercial I’d done a year or so before. He grabbed Mom’s arm and pulled her aside. “Tabs, today isn’t your day,” he whispered.

“Come on, Mark! We need this gig!” she protested.

“Tabs, I’m gonna have a riot on my hands if I shoot her today. You need to get out of here before someone calls the frickin’ cops!”

The other women had spread the word, and by now there was practically a mob of angry mothers yelling epithets at Mom from the signup table. “Fuck!” she hissed. “Alright, alright, I’m going.”

“I’ll call you next week, see if we can get her in on a private shoot in a few months. You know the marketing people love her anyway…” Mark offered.

“That’d be great, Mark,” she said, stiffening up. “Please do.” With that, she turned, me still on her hip, and marched toward the car. She buckled me up in the car seat, slamming the door behind, and when she got in on the other side, she turned at me with a look that stunned the grin right off my face. It wasn’t rage, or at least not totally. There was more of a crazed appearance to it. She was almost grinning at me when she spoke.

“You know what, Charlotte? I get it now. It’s just too hard for your little psyche to have to wear diapers for these little shoots when you wear big girl panties the rest of the time, isn’t it?”

I nodded silently, confused and slightly afraid.

“You poor little thing. Mommy doesn’t blame you for acting out. But she knows how to fix this little problem for you. You know how?”

I shook my head, my eyes bulging.

“Mommy thinks little Charlotte just needs to stay in diapers until the next diaper commercial comes along. What do you think of that idea?”

My jaw dropped, and the pacifier fell away. “No, Mom! Please, not that!”

“Well that’s EXACTLY what’s going to happen. We won’t have any more problems with little Charlotte getting used to wearing diapers the day before the audition if she wears them all the time, now, will we?”

“But… But how long will that be?!” I squeaked, terrified.

“Well, since little Charlotte hates doing diaper commercials so much, Mommy’s thinking we should just take a break from them for a while. Maybe when we start running low on diapers, we can try another one. Sound good?”

“But Mom! The spare bedroom! It’s…” I was on the verge of tears.

“Filled with them, that’s right!” she completed my sentence for me. “Mark said a few months on that private shoot. You might get through four or five boxes between now and then, huh?”

“But… Mommy, I’m sorry!” I bawled.

“Maybe, if you get out there and nail it, Mommy will start you potty training again afterward. What do you think?”

“Mommy! I don’t want to…” I blubbered.

“You don’t want to do that shoot? That’s fine, there’s probably two dozen boxes in there. We can wait until you’re ready…”

And that was the day I learned that you can never truly get revenge on your parents. Because they will ALWAYS one-up you. I did that shoot for the Luvs people two and a half months later. In the meantime, I did six pageants in three states, along with a local daycare commercial, a spread in Parents magazine, and a casting call for a TV show. And I was diapered the entire time. The worst part? I got the part in the TV show. My big break, right? Yeah, I wish. They wanted a toddler. I was now contractually obligated to wear diapers until they decided to write my potty training into the show, which, thanks to an endorsement deal with Huggies, didn’t wind up happening until season 3, episode 17.

I hate my life…

1 Like
#18

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Yes, no, and yes. :slight_smile: Always a pleasure to read one of your stories.

#19

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby”

Thank you for the kind words. I said “unsatisfying” because I figured people would be disappointed when Mom didn’t get her comeuppance…

#20

Re: Short story: “Acting Like A Baby” (finished)

Not every story needs a happy ending from the protagonist point of view. I like the way it turned out. With that said, I believe there’s still more to do with this concept than what conforms in the scope of a short story and I wouldn’t mind reading more about Charlotte and her mom.