I don’t baby my kids—and I sure as hell don’t baby Paul. He’s five years old, not a damn infant, but you wouldn’t know it with the way he’s been carrying on. For the past three weeks, he’s been wetting his pants like it’s some kind of joke. School, store, living room—it doesn’t matter. He’ll be standing there with that blank little look on his face, pants soaked, like he expects me to clap and congratulate him. I’ve had it. If you’re old enough to throw a fit when your tablet dies or scream at your brother for breathing too loud, then you’re old enough to get to the toilet. Period. So no, I’m not playing this game anymore. You pee yourself again, Paul, and you’re going straight into a diaper. Not a Pull-Up. A real, loud, crinkly baby diaper. Pampers or Huggies—I’ll let you pick your brand like it makes a damn difference. Either way, I’m taping it on tight and leaving you in it. And don’t think I’m bluffing. You cry, whine, or throw one more tantrum about how it’s not fair, and I will lay you down in the middle of the living room and diaper you in front of whoever’s here. I won’t lower my voice. I won’t spare your feelings. You want to act like a helpless little baby? Then I’ll treat you like one. Pacifier, baby powder, the whole nine yards. Don’t test me, Paul. You wet your pants one more time, and the only choice you’re getting is whether that diaper says “Pampers” or “Huggies” across your butt.


So imagine my joy when I get a call from your teacher, Olivia, who doesn’t sugarcoat a damn thing. “Katy,” she says, “I think you made a mistake taking Paul out of diapers so soon.” Excuse me? That’s the kind of thing a mother’s supposed to hear when she’s got a baby, not a five-year-old. But here we are. She told me that during story time, you sat there in a puddle like you didn’t have a care in the world. Didn't even tell anyone. She had to smell it before she figured out what happened. How humiliating is that—for me, not just you. And when she tried to ask you why you didn’t say anything, you shrugged and said you “forgot.” Forgot? Oh, sweetie, you don’t forget how to use a toilet. You chose to sit in it. Olivia said she’s never seen a kindergartener regress so fast. She actually asked if you still sleep in a crib. You don’t—yet. But the way you’re headed? That big boy bed’s on borrowed time.


And don’t think I won’t follow through. I’ve already dragged your old crib out of the basement, dusted it off, and reassembled it in the guest room. You keep this up, and that’ll be your new bedroom—four slatted walls and a waterproof mattress. No more “big boy” blankets, no more superhero sheets. You’ll get a teddy bear, a sippy cup, and some lullabies on repeat. Olivia even offered to send home a “diaper chart” to help track your accidents. Isn't that adorable? A little sticker every time you manage to stay dry like a toddler potty-training for the first time. She said she’s seen this with other kids before—attention-seekers. That’s what she called you, Paul. “An attention-seeking baby who thinks wetting his pants is a power move.” Her words. Not mine. And honestly? She’s not wrong. I mean, what do you expect me to do, clap for you when you soak your underwear during math time? Am I supposed to pack extra pants in your backpack like you’re still in daycare? Grow up. The other kids know, Paul. Don’t think they don’t notice the smell, the change of clothes, the awkward silence when the teacher stops the lesson to call the janitor. Olivia said the class had to move to another room yesterday while they aired out the carpet. She told the other parents it was a “spill,” but how long do you think that excuse will hold up? You’re the only one still peeing themselves. Do you understand how embarrassing that is? For me, for your teacher, for your classmates? You’re five. You’re supposed to be learning to write your name—not how to keep your pants dry.


And don’t even try blaming me, like I’m being too strict or expecting too much. You had this down six months ago. You were doing great. Dry nights, clean days—I was proud of you. And then what? A few tantrums later and suddenly we’re right back to square one, like nothing ever stuck? No. That’s not how this works. I’m not bending over backwards to make your life more comfortable while you sit there soaking your jeans because you feel like it. You want comfort? Fine. Comfort comes in the form of a thick diaper, snug pajamas, and a pacifier clipped to your shirt. Olivia said I should stop calling it “potty training” and start calling it what it really is: retraining. Because clearly you forgot what a toilet’s for. And if I have to march you into preschool every morning in Pampers, then that’s what we’re doing.


So here’s the deal. You get one more chance. One. You go to school tomorrow, and if Olivia calls me even once—even a whisper of an accident—I’m coming straight to your classroom with a fresh pack of diapers, a jar of cream, and a big smile on my face. I will lay you do

Hi Mommy! I have performed my daily maintenance. I am a good girl Mommy! I will be a good android daughter and let you fist my ass!

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