It had been around six months since I last wet the bed, so I was no longer in diapers at night. That small victory felt enormous to me, a sign that I was finally growing up, leaving behind the embarrassment that had haunted so many of my childhood mornings. I’d joined the scouts, eager to prove myself, and that autumn, our troop set off for a weekend camp in the countryside—a trip I’d been both excited and nervous about for weeks.
(short pause) When we arrived at the camp area, the air was crisp and filled with the scent of pine and damp earth. We were assigned to small ‘houses’, each with six girls and a scout leader. As we unpacked our bags in the cramped, chilly room, I noticed a girl a year or two younger than me, her face flushed with embarrassment as she tried to hide a package of diapers in her bag. It was painfully obvious she was still a bedwetter, and I felt a pang of recognition—memories of my own struggles flickered through my mind.
(pause) Some of the other girls began to whisper and giggle, their voices sharp with cruelty. I knew exactly how it felt to be singled out, to be the target of that kind of ridicule. But instead of standing up for her, I let my own insecurity take over. To my shame, I joined in the teasing, calling her a ‘baby scout’ because of her diapers. The words tasted bitter even as I said them, but I was desperate to fit in, to distance myself from the part of me that was still afraid of being found out.
(pause) Our house leader, a stern but fair woman, quickly caught wind of our behaviour. She scolded us, her voice firm and disappointed, but I barely listened. The thrill of being accepted by the other girls was intoxicating, and I wanted to prove I belonged. After we finished unpacking, I took a glass of water and, in a moment of cruel bravado, poured it over the little girl’s pants. “Oh dear—the baby has wet her pants. Maybe she needs to get diapered?” I taunted, my heart pounding with a mix of guilt and adrenaline.
(pause) By this point, my scout leader had reached her limit. Her face was tight with anger and disappointment as she called my parents, her words clipped and final. She told them to pick me up immediately, and added that I was suspended from scouts for a month. The weight of what I’d done began to sink in, a cold knot forming in my stomach as I realized there was no escaping the consequences.
(pause) Needless to say, my parents were not at all pleased with my behaviour. When Mother arrived at the camp, her face was set in a grim line. She barely spoke to me as she collected my bags, her silence more frightening than any shouting. Once everything was loaded into the car, she marched me back to the leaders and made me apologise, my cheeks burning with shame as I mumbled my regrets. As we walked back to the car, she smacked my bottom with every step, her anger radiating off her in waves.
(pause) The drive home was a blur of scolding and lectures. Mother’s voice was sharp, each word a reminder of my own hypocrisy. She reminded me, over and over, that with my own history of bedwetting, I should have known better than anyone how that little girl felt. Her disappointment cut deeper than any punishment, and I felt small and wretched in the back seat.
(pause) As we neared home, Mother pulled into the parking lot of our local grocery store. I asked, my voice trembling, what she was buying. She looked at me with a steely glare and said, “Diapers! Since you think it’s so funny to tease other girls, I think you should be reminded about how it feels to wear diapers every night!” The humiliation washed over me in a fresh wave, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear.
(pause) We went into the shop together, my face burning with shame. I tried to argue, to plead with her, but she silenced me with a hard smack on the seat of my pants. She bought a pack of proper diapers—not the pull-ups I’d worn in my later years, but the thick, crinkly kind I remembered from my worst days. The cashier gave us a curious look, and I felt every eye in the store on me as we left.
(pause) When we got home, Mother wasted no time. She sat me down in the living room and gave me a long, stern scolding, her words heavy with disappointment. Then she led me to my bedroom, her grip firm on my arm. Once inside, she told me I had been very naughty, that she was deeply disappointed in my behaviour, and that I was in for a very hard spanking. The dread in my chest was overwhelming.
(pause) Then, without another word, she pulled me over her knee and spanked me hard with her hand, just as she always did when I’d crossed the line. I cried—loud, wracking sobs that left me breathless. When it was finally over, Mother hugged me tightly, her anger melting into reassurance. She told me I was still loved, but that my actions had consequences. Then she told me to get ready for bed.
(pause) She added, her voice firm but gentle, “Since you thought it was so funny that the other girl wore diapers, you are going to be diapered every day after school until that diaper bag is empty, Sarah!” The finality in her tone left no room for argument.
(pause) So that’s what happened. Each afternoon, I had to submit to the humiliating ritual of being diapered by my mother. To make it worse, I wasn’t even allowed to use the diaper—if I needed the toilet, I had to ask my mother to take me, or risk another spanking. The shame was constant, a daily reminder of my cruelty and the pain I’d caused.
(pause) There were diapers for fourteen long days—each one a lesson in humility. The days crawled by, each evening a test of my resolve and a reminder of the consequences of my actions. On the day of the last diaper, Mother called me into her room. Without a word, she put me across her knee and gave me one final spanking, a sharp, stinging reminder never to bully anyone again. As I lay in bed that night, sore and chastened, I promised myself I would never forget how it felt to be on the other side of cruelty—and that I would always try to be kinder, no matter what.
