SweetLittleEmily
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Alternative Therapies - Chapter 14
🕑 Added 2023-08-10 14:55:15 +0000 UTCEven though I now saw that my rebellion was more like a child's defiance, I couldn't give in to my mother. I continued my passive resistance, even once we had arrived at the kindergarten. At first, my mother tried to encourage me to get out of the seat on my own and walk to the entrance by myself after she unbuckled my belts. However, she quickly gave in when she noticed that her words fell on deaf ears.
So, with a sigh, she took me into her arms once more, shouldering a bag of fresh clothes for me on her other side, and carried me into the kindergarten. In the cloakroom, she briefly set me down to put on my indoor shoes, only to then pick me up again and carry me to the group room for children under three years of age. I watched my sister enviously, who, as usual, headed into the group room for the older children - the very room I had attended up until yesterday.
As we entered the room, I felt like a stranger in a familiar world. I had seen the children and their caregiver almost daily through the glass pane that separated the two group rooms, but up until now, this world, though it had been so close, felt incredibly distant to me. Yet now, they expected me to become a part of it. In disbelief, I stared at the five little girls already sitting at the table eating breakfast, and for the life of me, I couldn't imagine that I was now one of them. Compared to my usual group, they seemed so much younger, almost like babies. Some even still wore bibs to protect their clothing from food spills, and given their clumsy movements as they consumed their breakfast, it seemed absolutely necessary.
"I'm sorry for the delay," my mother apologized to Mrs. Müller, the caregiver in charge of the younger group. She had immediately risen from the breakfast table and rushed over to us as soon as we entered the room. "Emily was a bit reluctant to come to kindergarten this morning."
Mrs. Müller, who appeared to be in her early twenties, contrasted subtly yet distinctively with Mrs. Weber, my previous caregiver. Though only a few years younger than Mrs. Weber, Mrs. Müller exuded a fresher, more youthful vibe and seemed less worn by the rigorous daily demands of working with young children. Her features were notably softer, and her smile conveyed such a genuine warmth and affection that it was immediately captivating. Unlike Mrs. Weber, who occasionally displayed a strict, somewhat teacherly demeanor with the older kids, Mrs. Müller, in the group of younger children, seemed to embody more of a nurturing maternal figure—at least, that's how I had always perceived her from a distance.
"Oh, that's no problem," Mrs. Müller replied understandingly in response to our tardiness. "I can understand that Emily might be a bit nervous about switching to a new group. It's quite normal for children." How I loathed it when people talked about me in my presence, as if I were incapable of understanding what was being said. And the fact that my mother still held me in her arms only made the situation even more uncomfortable and surreal than it already was. I should've just walked on my own.
Then Mrs. Müller lovingly turned to me and added, "But you'll see, Emily, that we have at least as much fun here in the small group as we do in the big group." I said nothing and continued my silent rebellion. I would maintain this stance at least until my mother had left.
Fortunately, it seemed that my mother decided to do just that – to leave. "I really would like to stay a bit longer to help Emily adjust to the new group, but I have an important appointment at my law firm and I'm already running late," she explained. "Oh, that's no problem. Emily is already familiar with the kindergarten; she'll surely adjust to the group quickly, even if you're not here," Mrs. Müller reassured my mother. "I hope so," my mother sighed, "I hope she doesn't cause you too much trouble today." "Don't worry, Emily is such a sweet girl; we'll manage just fine." "She's indeed sweet when she's asleep," my mother chuckled. My mother placed me in the last available seat at the breakfast table and handed Mrs. Müller the bag with my fresh clothes. "Alright, I better get going. Take care, Emily, see you this evening," she said, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and hurriedly marched out the door.
Thus, I was left alone on a chair that was much too small after my mother had closed the door behind her. The chairs in the older group had been small too, but these ones really took the cake. Even for me, who was barely 150 cm tall, it wasn't painless to sit on them. But I would probably have to get used to this because these chairs and this group represented my new reality. This would be my everyday life from now on. My only hope was that I would manage to use my potty again as quickly as possible so that I could get out of here quickly.
It fit the picture that Mrs. Müller served my desired orange juice for breakfast in a sippy cup. When I asked to use a regular glass, Mrs. Müller declined, although kindly, yet firmly: "I know, Emily, that you used regular glasses in the older group, and I'm sure you can drink wonderfully from them. But in this group, we exclusively use sippy cups. Anything else would just create too much of a mess and I'd spend all my time cleaning up."
As I resignedly sipped the juice from the small opening of my butterfly-decorated sippy cup, I incredulously observed my new surroundings and the individuals who were a part of it. Next to me sat two girls who struggled to get their spoons into their mouths properly. It seemed to be quite a challenge for them to get the cereal they were eating into their mouths without scattering half of it across the table or the floor. A little girl to my right, whose bib was already colorfully adorned with cereal residues, milk stains, and juice spots, suddenly let her spoon drop into her bowl without warning. A milk-soaked clump of cereal was catapulted out, zipping straight towards me. I could barely dodge in time before the sticky projectile reached my spot. Disgusted, I slid away from her, towards the other side. But just as I felt safe, from that very new direction, a drop of milk splashed onto my arm.
I quickly wiped the drop away, trying to keep my composure. This couldn't be happening. I couldn't, for the life of me, imagine spending my future days with these little mess-makers. The fact that I managed to leave the breakfast table without getting dirty felt almost like a miracle.
After the chaos at the breakfast table, I had little desire to spend time with my new companions. So, I reverted to an old habit from my early days in kindergarten: coloring in coloring books. In the older group, I'd only colored when no other activities were available or when no other child wanted to play with me. Now, I deliberately chose a table as far away from the others as possible, just like in my first weeks of kindergarten
While coloring, I watched as Mrs. Müller placed the items from my mother's bag into my new spot on the changing table. Unlike in the older group, where the changing table was placed in a side room, here it was situated directly within the group room. Every piece of clothing and every diaper she put in that compartment seemed to cement my place in this new environment. To my dismay, my eyes searched in vain for any of the pull-ups that had been my daily companions up until yesterday. Their absence felt like a statement, suggesting that no one expected me to make significant progress with potty training anytime soon.
I won't let what others think bother me. Lea said others' opinions shouldn't matter. What's important is believing in oneself. Yes, moving to the younger group was a setback, but I'm still determined to achieve my goal and get dry. They'll see they were wrong about me.
It didn't take long for me to get the chance to prove it to them and to myself. Deeply engrossed in my coloring book, it took a moment for me to realize that the warm sensation in my lap meant I was wetting my diaper. However, instead of being discouraged by this unexpected realization, I summoned all my willpower to stop the flow of urine, and to my immense relief, I succeeded.
I hurried over to Mrs. Müller. "Potty," I blurted out, with my knees pressed together in panic. The fear that the rest of my bladder might empty at any moment made it impossible for me to say more. But fortunately, that one word was enough for her to understand: She quickly fetched my potty, opened the sticky tapes of my diaper, and helped me sit on the plastic seat. I sat there, feeling satisfied. Even Mrs. Müller's skeptical look when she noticed that some of the urine had already ended up in the diaper, which she then discarded, couldn't dampen my spirits. I was proud of myself. After all, I hadn't seen any other child use their potty today.
It was a bit odd to be sitting on my potty in the middle of the group room. In the older group, there was a separate side room for changing diapers and potty breaks. But here, everything was compactly located in a small tiled corner. Probably, this was to ensure that the caregiver could always keep an eye on the less independent, younger children during a diaper change or potty visit.
The situation wasn't made any better by the fact that, once I had sat on the potty, I simply couldn't manage to squeeze out even a drop of urine. I was certain that I had stopped my bladder before it had emptied entirely. But as nothing seemed to come out, I began to question that. Probably, my bladder had been completely empty, and that's why the urine had stopped, not because I had controlled it myself. After five unsuccessfull minutes on the potty, Mrs. Müller gently lifted my dress to take a peek inside. When she saw that the potty was still empty, she said with a warm smile, "I still think it's wonderful that you tried to use your potty. You have every reason to be proud of yourself, Emily!"
Her words felt like sheer mockery. How could I be proud of myself when I had just wet my diaper like a toddler instead of using my potty? My self-image took another blow when, only five minutes after Mrs. Müller had put on a fresh diaper for me, the remaining contents of my bladder emptied into it. "This can't be happening," I thought as I felt myself relieving into my diaper again. At least I hadn't been wrong in assuming that there was indeed something left in my bladder.
I decided not to mention my wet diaper to Mrs. Müller. It was easier to endure the discomfort of a wet diaper than to admit another failure, especially after my recent potty attempt. I kept my full diaper a secret, just like the other girls in my group. But while I did it out of embarrassment, they simply didn't seem to mind a full diaper. This became particularly evident when we sat at the lunch table, and a progressively intense smell began to spread. Pure disgust rose in me as the scent of feces first reached my nostrils. During mealtime, this smell was almost unbearable. However, apart from me, none of the other little girls seemed to be bothered. They continued to eat as if everything was normal.
It wasn't until the scent reached Mrs. Müller that something happened. Initially, Mrs. Müller asked aloud who had soiled their diaper. But when no one came forward, she started circling the table with a detective-like determination, her nose slightly scrunched up, inspecting every child seated there. She didn't even spare me. As she approached me, she leaned down slightly, took a brief sniff, lifted my dress, and gently felt my diaper. I felt mortified as she pulled back the diaper's waistband to peek inside. Was she really suspecting that I had been the one? She noted my diaper's dampness but said she'd change me after lunch. After this brief yet endlessly embarrassing moment for me, she moved on until she eventually found the culprit. Taking the girl's hand, she led her to the changing table.
Without hesitation, Mrs. Müller stripped the girl of her clothing, revealing the bulging diaper. The sight of its dark contents, clearly outlined, made me freeze on the spot. My hand, previously en route to my mouth with a forkful of pasta, now hung suspended in mid-air. The diaper change was like witnessing a car accident — I didn't want to look, but I couldn't pull my eyes away. My stomach churned at the sight, and I felt like I might regurgitate the meal I'd just eaten. Why was the changing table positioned directly in my line of sight? I remained paralyzed throughout the entire ordeal. Only when Mrs. Müller had finished changing the girl and turned back to the table did I return to reality. And then, disaster struck. My fork tilted, sending pasta tumbling onto my chest. Frantically, I tried to remove the mess, but the stubborn, dark red stain from the tomato sauce refused to budge from my dress.
I was so engrossed in trying to clean my dress that I didn't notice Mrs. Müller suddenly stepping up behind me. "I think I may have overestimated your eating skills. Let me put a bib on you before you leave any more stains on that lovely dress of yours," she said, as she draped a large bib over me and tied it around my neck.
I felt as if the rug was pulled out from under me as I incredulously stared at the brightly decorated bib around my neck. This was a new low in what already seemed like an endless chain of humiliations. One minor slip-up during a meal, and suddenly I was treated as if I had forgotten how to eat. Just because I was struggling with incontinence didn't mean I was incapable of other basic tasks. Such a mishap could happen to anyone while eating. My fingers trembled as I reached for the bib's string. "This really isn't necessary," I murmured, my voice tinged with a mix of anger and plea. But Mrs. Müller remained unimpressed. She held my hand with a gentle yet firm look. "Emily," she said in a soft but resolute tone, "your mother surely doesn't have the time to constantly wash stains out of your dresses. Show me you can eat without getting your clothes dirty and maybe... maybe we can think about leaving the bib off again in the future."
I knew I could have continued to rebel and simply taken off the bib. However, the constant condescensions and corrections I'd experienced in the past weeks had completely broken my will to resist. Challenging such a directive seemed as unthinkable to me as it would be for a toddler to defy a parent's order. So, the bib remained around my neck. As if it wasn't enough to prove that I could make it to my potty on time, now I was also expected to demonstrate how neatly I could eat.
After what had happened, all I wanted was to leave the dining table as quickly as possible and get rid of that stupid bib. I ate the remaining pasta in my bowl so hastily that I almost choked. "May I get up?", I asked Mrs. Müller, after I had gulped down my portion. "Already done?", she replied, surprised, as the other children hadn't even come close to finishing their meals. I nodded. "Alright, wait, I'll help you with the bib." She undid it and examined it closely. "Do you see these little red spots? Without the bib, they would have all ended up on your beautiful dress," she explained in a tone that sounded as if she had known all along that this would happen. If only I had eaten a bit more slowly. Now, I had stripped myself of any argument against having to wear a bib next time. How could I be so foolish!?
I wanted to quickly retreat to my drawing table to escape the embarrassing situation, but Mrs. Müller held me back. "Wait a moment, young lady. I need to put a fresh diaper on you. You surely don't want to spend the rest of the day in a wet diaper." As we made our way to the changing table, she added, "And after lunch, we all take a nap anyway. So, you can continue drawing afterward."
"A nap!?" I exclaimed incredulously as I climbed the ladder to the changing table and lay down on it. "Yes, in our group, it's customary to rest for two hours after eating," Mrs. Müller said. She gently removed my dress and placed it in a small plastic bag. She would later hand it over to my mother, so she could wash the dirty dress at home. I had dirtied clothes often enough to know the process well. "But I'm not tired!" I continued, hoping to avoid the nap. The last thing I needed was more sleep. Because of my early bedtime, I was already sleeping more than I liked. "You don't have to sleep," she assured me as she undid the adhesive strips of my diaper, "you can just rest your eyes."
"Can't I continue drawing while the others are sleeping? I promise to be very quiet." Mrs. Müller tossed my old diaper into the diaper pail and then shook her head firmly. "During nap time, every child stays in their bed. As I said, you can just rest your eyes if you don't want to sleep." With that, she ended the discussion, and my fate of taking a nap was sealed.
Mrs. Müller carefully cleaned my intimate area, applied some baby powder, and then put on a fresh diaper for me. Before she let me get up, she opened a compartment in the changing table and pulled out my Minnie Mouse nightgown, which she promptly put on me. Reluctantly, I followed her to the beds lined up on the opposite wall of the room. There were a total of four high bed frames, each offering two sleeping places – one bed below and another one above. The beds themselves were covered with clean, white-lilac bed linens, and each bed was equipped with a soft blanket and a stuffed animal. At first glance, the sleeping quarters even looked inviting, albeit just as childish and girly as my bed at home.
Mrs. Müller led me to one of the bottom beds. "This is where you'll rest," she said gently. As I lay down, it quickly became apparent that the bed wasn't sized for adults. For the other children, these beds might seem enormous, but for me, they were clearly too short. I had to lie diagonally and bend my knees just to fit in.
Just as I was adjusting myself, I heard a soft click. Before I could realize what was happening, Mrs. Müller had pulled down a set of wooden slats that I hadn't noticed before, much like the side of a crib. The feeling of confinement was immediate, as was the sensation of being trapped. A cage, I thought. I'm in a cage. "How do I get out of here if I want to get up?", I asked, barely concealing the panic in my voice. Mrs. Müller smiled reassuringly. "You can call me if you need something, like if you need to use the potty. I'll let you out then."
"Can't I open these bars myself?", I persisted, gripping the wooden bars in front of me and futilely trying to push them back up. She shook her head. "The mechanism is on the outside. It would be chaos if all the children could decide to get up during rest time on their own. It's better this way, believe me." Mrs. Müller then leaned slightly down towards me, briefly stroked my forehead, and said, "Try to relax and get some rest. I wish you a good sleep." I lay back down, searching for a more comfortable position. But no matter how hard I tried to push away the feeling of being trapped and ignore the reality of my situation, the disconcerting confinement and discomfort simply wouldn't fade.
Through the narrow gaps between the wooden bars, I watched as Mrs. Müller now tended to the other girls. Some of the girls seemed as reluctant as I was, while others appeared to have already grown accustomed to the routine of naptime and obediently went to their beds. Mrs. Müller moved with a routine and skillfulness that showed she had done this countless times before. Once the other girls had finished their meals, Mrs. Müller cleaned their faces one by one, changed the diapers of those who needed it, and dressed them in their sleepwear. Then she gently laid each girl in her respective bed. Soon they all disappeared from my field of vision, tucked away in their little cribs.
After all the girls had been taken care of, Mrs. Müller went to the window and drew the heavy curtains. The room was immediately bathed in a soft, dim light. She double-checked to ensure all the children were securely and comfortably positioned in their cribs. Then, she turned on a quiet music box that played a soothing melody. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The children, once lively and full of energy, became subdued. A deep peace enveloped the room, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the music box and the occasional rustle of a diaper.
While the others seemed to drift off to sleep shortly after, I tossed and turned in my little crib. Every time I found a somewhat comfortable position, I was haunted by the thought of lying in a child's bed, enclosed by wooden bars. The idea of napping in the afternoon felt downright demeaning. I wasn't a baby; I didn't need a nap!
Bored, I watched through the narrow bars of the crib as Mrs. Müller quietly cleared the lunch table. When she finally finished and briefly left the room, my gaze drifted to the small plush toy beside me, which I had barely noticed until now. In the absence of other distractions, I picked it up and examined its soft fur and cute button eyes. It was a teddy bear, adorned with a red bow around its neck. Playfully, I let my fingers glide through its fur, getting lost in the childlike fantasy that it might come to life and keep me company. As absurd as this thought was, it provided me with a brief diversion. Still, I was aware: a long two hours lay ahead.
