Wearing Diapers To School

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Wearing Diapers To School

2008-05-17 18:00:41

Author: Anonymous

Growing up as a diapered bedwetter there were many occasions when I experienced a sissy's shame. I was kept in diapers full time until shortly after my fifth birthday, when I finally gained control of daytime wetting, and I was in night diapers until my thirteenth birthday, by which point I had finally stopped wetting the bed at night. But there were many occasions up until my thirteenth birthday and even beyond when I experienced the humiliation of a sissy's shame: the feeling of self-consciousness that overcomes a bedwetter whenever he happens to be publicly exposed as a diaper-wearer.

While I had largely gained daytime control over my wetting shortly after my fifth birthday and was no longer kept in daytime diapers as a matter of course, I still had plenty of daytime accidents up until I was nine or ten years old. Occasionally, of course, I even had the misfortune of having an accident at school, especially in Kindergarten, but also in the lower grades of primary school. I think I was in Fourth Grade the last time I had a daytime accident at school. It was always embarrassing to wet your pants at school, but in Kindergarten and First Grade it wasn't really all that bad. Lots of kids still have accidents in Kindergarten and First Grade, and the other kids are still little enough that they don't make a big deal out of it. But certainly by the Second Grade it began to be tremendously embarrassing to have a so-called "accident" at school.

At least as early as Second Grade, boys are beginning to think of themselves as grown up, as little men. Encouraged by their fathers they strike out for greater independence. "Don't be a sissy. Don't be a crybaby. Act like a man." Already in Second Grade the other males in the class are beginning to draw distinctions on the basis of athletic ability, self-confidence, and independence. It goes without saying that by Second Grade the worst and most humiliating thing that could ever happen to a boy was to have an accident in public, to wet his pants at school. And for some reason, it was never one of the budding young jocks, already self-confident in his masculinity, who had an accident, but someone like me. In Second Grade I was neither very athletic nor very self-confident, and I

was firmly tied to my mother's all-powerful apron strings. In short, I was what many of the other boys would have recognized as a sissy. In Second Grade I suddenly found myself in the situation of a sissy who wets his pants.

And as if it wasn't bad enough to be humiliated and degraded in public, to be teased and humiliated on the playground for wetting my pants, I couldn't look to home for any comfort or support. My mother was not the least bit sympathetic to my plight, and she took a dim view of my daytime accidents. At first, when I had accidents in Kindergarten or even First Grade, my mother chalked it up to the fact that I was still such a little boy. She disapproved of my having accidents at school from the very beginning, of course, scolding me and telling me that I was getting too old to have accidents during the day, but she didn't really make a federal case out of it until I was in Second Grade. The summer before I started Second Grade, we moved to a different city, and I had managed to get through the entire summer without having a daytime accident. My parents were convinced that the days of my daytime wetting were behind me, and I started Second Grade at a new school with a clean slate. Then suddenly one day I had another accident at school, and my mother finally laid down the law. I was going to be punished for having accidents at school, and the punishment was going to fit the crime: literally fit the crime. I was going to be forced to wear diapers to school. My mother made it clear to me in no uncertain terms that if I was going to act like a baby I was going to be treated like a baby. If I was going to wet my pants at school, I was going to have to wear diapers to school. From that time on, the punishment for wetting my pants at school was wearing diapers to school for a full school day, so if I was sent home from school for having an accident, I was sent back to school wearing diapers, not only for the rest of the day, but for the following full day as well. And so it was that two or three times per school year up through the Fourth Grade, I experienced sissy shame for wetting my pants at school only to be further humiliated by being sent back to school wearing diapers and rubber pants.

As for my father, it goes without saying that I was too embarrassed to tell him of my own free will when I had had an accident at school. I idealized my father, and I didn't want him to know that I had disgraced myself in public by wetting my pants. A boy's behavior affects the male parent differently from the way it affects the mother, and my performance as a boy reflected on my father's

masculinity. It really upset my father to have a son who was a sissy bedwetter, and I didn't want him to know that I had disgraced myself in public by wetting my pants. But he always found out because my mother made me tell him. When my father got home from work, my mother would force me to tell him that I had wet my pants at school.

As a bedwetter, I was usually diapered at bedtime, but on days when I had been sent to school in diapers as a punishment, my mother would strip me to my diapers and baby pants as soon as I got home from school. After I did my chores, she would make me go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet in my diapers and baby vinyls and think about where I was supposed to go to the bathroom until my father got home from work. And the whole time that I sat there on the punishment potty in my diapers and plastic panties, I knew that I was going to be punished by my father when he got home. When he finally did get home, I was forced to stand in front of my father stripped to my humiliating diapers and baby pants and confess that I had wet my pants at school. My mother had a real vindictive streak, and she always wanted my father to know "what your worthless son has done now." If my mother's goal was to embarrass us both, she certainly succeeded. When I stood in front of my father in diapers and rubber baby pants, my head hung in shame, and confessed my public disgrace, it embarrassed my father as much as it embarrassed me. I was disgraced in my father's eyes, while he was embarrassed by my sissy behavior. When my father marched me up to my room for the paddling he always gave me for wetting my pants at school, it made me feel that much worse knowing that I had publicly disgraced him. I felt as if I really deserved it when he bent me over his knee and pulled my diapers down in back, exposing my rear end for a good old fashioned bare-bottom whipping. As I lay there squirming on my father's lap waiting to have my bare bottom blistered, I knew it was my own fault. I knew how disappointed my father was in me when I wet my pants at school.

When I had an accident at school, my teacher sent me to the principal's office, where the principal would call my mother to make certain that she was home before sending me home to be changed. Blushing with shame and embarrassment, I would overhear the principal telling my mother that I had had another accident, and then I would be sent home for my mother to change me. We lived less than two blocks from the primary school where my brother and I

went to school, and I would walk home with a heavy step and an even heavier heart, dreading having to face my mother every step of the way. I knew that I could never expect any sympathy from her quarter, but only scorn and contempt. Obviously disgusted with my infantile behavior, my mother would scold and shame me. "Aren't you ever going to grow up? You're completely worthless. Do you want all of the other boys to know what a big sissy you are? You're a disgrace. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I'm ashamed to call you my son." Already having suffered the humiliation of wetting myself in public, I couldn't expect any sympathy from my mother.

Once I got home, my mother would lay me back on my bed on my rubber sheet, undress me, wash my crotch off with a wet wash cloth, and fetch a fresh cotton diaper from the pile of diapers neatly folded and stacked on top of my dresser. Then she would quickly and skillfully pin a thick layer of diapers on me. My mother would lift me up by the ankles with one hand while she slid the diapers under my bottom with the other. Then she would pull the folds of the soft cotton diapers up between my legs, up over my pee-pee, and pin the diapers tightly in place with a pair of safety pins. Then came the baby pants. I knew the drill and didn't have to be told what to do. I lifted my legs up to accommodate the plastic panties without having to be told. Around my mother I was already docile and compliant enough to begin with because she had long since made me that way. But--lying there about to be diapered as a punishment because I had been sent home from school for wetting my pants--I didn't want to irritate her in any way. As I submitted to a diapering, I lay there penitent, contrite, and obedient. As I hoisted my legs, she bunched up the baby pants and skillfully inserted my feet and ankles through the leg openings in the panties. She slid the bunched-up panties up as far as my knees, at which point I instinctively knew to lower my heels back down to the rubber sheet. Then she tugged my panties on up over my knees and pulled them up my thighs. Obediently and without having to be told, I lifted my bottom up so that my mother could slide the panties up the rest of the way. She pulled my plastic pants on up over my diapers, sealing me up inside the soft smooth baby vinyl, the panties spreading out evenly over my diapers. Last but not least, she would carefully and methodically check ail around the elastic waist band of my panties and all around the elastic leg bands, purposefully and methodically sliding her hands all the way around each

opening, tucking the diapers in as she went, making absolutely certain that the diapers were tucked inside the vinyl.

Finally it was time for me to put my pants back on, and time for the final humiliation. By Second Grade, boys hardly ever wear the kind of pants they wore as toddlers anymore: pants designed to accommodate diapers with an elastic waist band and no fly. But whenever I wore my diapers to school, that was exactly.

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