Sunday, March 5th

207.)

"How was your weekend?" my mom asked. It was dark outside when I finally got home, and I was exhausted. The whole weekend felt like a bust, and I was still feeling guilty about how much trouble I caused Blossom. Of course, I couldn't tell my mom any of that. And I couldn't tell her that it had been two weeks since I'd worn a diaper either. So I said:

"It was fine."

"Mm." She sounded unsure. "How are things with Blossom? Did you guys do anything special for your birthday?"

"No," I said flatly, hanging up my coat by the front door and trying to skate past the living room toward the stairs.

"Hey, c'mere," my mom said, motioning with her hands like children do when they want a toy. My exhaustion pulled me toward my bedroom like gravity, but my guilt was a big invisible wall on the bottom step. I couldn't just leave without talking to her a little bit. So I took a deep breath and went into the living room.

"You okay?" she asked, taking my hand in hers.

"I'm fine, I'm just... exhausted. I'm ready for winter to be over."

"Did you and Blossom have a fight or something?"

"No..." I sighed. Her hands were warm around mine. Probably because it was cold outside. Or my blood sugar was low. I hadn't eaten dinner.

"Sit down and catch me up on your life," my mom said, pulling me by the wrist until I walked around the sofa and sat down on an empty cushion.

I didn't know what to say. Blossom and I didn't have a fight, and there wasn't any drama I could really get into. I didn't want to talk about my birthday, and the topic of ageplay and diapers was completely off the table. Thankfully, my time with Stephanie had taught me the value of silence. After a while, my mom asked me something instead, something I could answer.

"How's therapy going?"

"Uh... alright, I guess. I like my therapist."

"What do you guys talk about?" she asked. We had never really talked about my therapy since I started; maybe once or twice in passing. I think she was trying to respect my privacy.

"Mostly coping strategies, ways to minimize my anxiety... recognizing when my thoughts are being stupid."

My mom nodded along. Then she asked: "Do you have any suggestions? Work is stressful this time of year."

"Uh... well, right now I'm working on judgments. Things aren't good or bad, they just are. That helps a lot. And being able to recognize when I'm anxious before my anxiety gets too bad."

"Hm... sounds handy. And kind of difficult."

"It is," I admitted. "But Stephanie says it takes practice, and that I can't be good at anything right away. Which I absolutely hate. But she's right."

"You always were a perfectionist," my mom smiled.

"I was?"

"Sure. Like, in elementary school you had this science project to do. The one with the flowers. Do you remember that?"

I shook my head.

"Everyone in the class had to make a poster, and the school hosted a science fair. You had to have been in... I don't know, fourth grade? But your poster was amazing, better than the fifth graders'!"

"I think I remember that..." I used glue and glitter to write my title at the top. I had glitter all over my backpack for years, until I got a new one in middle school.

"I offered to help with the experiment, but you wouldn't let me. You didn't even show me the poster until the science fair. And of course, it was amazing. You got an A. But the teacher knocked off two points because–"

"I didn't label the pictures," I recalled. "What a stupid oversight..."

"Yeah, well. The whole car ride home, you were so upset with yourself. I told you that I thought your poster was beautiful, but you wouldn't say anything for hours."

"Huh..." I didn't remember it that way.

"You've always been like that," my mom said again. "You hold yourself to such high expectations. Higher than any expectation I've ever held you to, that's for sure. I don't think you're perfect, but that's okay. And, hey. You're my kid. How perfect can you be?"

I nodded in agreement. Not with that last part, but with the rest of it. I've always had high expectations of myself; I don't know where I learned that. It sure wasn't from my mom. Maybe a teacher or something? Or maybe TV?

"Did I turn out the way you expected?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know..." my mom said wistfully, a little lost in thought. "I thought, since I raised you all on my own, that you'd turn out like me. But you always surprise me. You're smarter than I am. You're more intuitive. And you're so much more creative. I think you can be a little too hard on yourself sometimes, and you worry too much. But maybe those things are a package deal: smart and creative and worrying."

"Probably."

"All in all," she said, "I just wanted you to be happy. I still want that."

"I am," I reassured her.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded. I was sure. It was a rough weekend, but I was probably happier than I had ever been. I had Blossom. I had my mom. I had money for once, and my grades in school were really good. Sure, I didn't know what I wanted to be, and I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I was still writing stories. I was still following my happiness.

"Keep it up," my mom said. "And remember, you can always talk to me."

That should have been the end of the conversation. I wanted it to be. I wanted to go upstairs and sleep for a whole week, until I could see Blossom again and until I could cuddle up to her in a diaper. But the weight of the weekend was still heavy on my shoulders, and I... I guess I felt like I needed my mom.

"Birthdays freak me out," I admitted. "Getting older freaks me out. Like, there are so many things I'm supposed to do, and so much has already happened, and I'm... I'm worried that like, the best of everything is already gone. Things like science fairs and baking cookies with my mom, and... and all this other stuff."

Tears filled my eyes. I didn't expect that I'd start crying like that.

"Yeah, I know how you feel," my mom laughed, taking my hand again. "I don't think it hit me until you became a teenager. Until I saw you growing up, and I realized that soon you'd be off to college. You'll find a cute guy - or girl - and get married and have your own kids, and I'd only see you on the holidays. Every year, when you get older, I get scared too..."

I never thought about it like that. I wiped my eyes and blinked up at the ceiling, trying not to embarrass myself in front of my mom. I didn't want either of us to be sad.

"But Amanda," my mom said, holding my hand even tighter. "No matter how old you get, or how far away you get, you'll always be my daughter. A part of me will always see you as my little girl. Okay?"

I nodded. I was crying. I really didn't want to be crying, but everything felt so numb and empty the past few days. I couldn't keep my cheeks dry any more than the characters in my stories could keep their diapers dry. I should just accept it, huh?

My mom pulled me in for a tight hug, awkward with the way we were sitting on the sofa, and kissed me on the forehead. I thought about how Blossom was always so surprised by the affection my mom gave me, and how she never got forehead kisses like that from her dad. I thought that maybe, next time I saw her, I'd give her one.

"Hey," my mom whispered in my ear. "Wanna bake some cookies tonight?"

I nodded. I'd like that a lot.