Alternative Therapies - Chapter 10

"So, girls, we're going to play the game 'Shoe Salad'," announced Mrs. Weber enthusiastically as she knelt in the center of the circle. Our entire children's group had gathered around her, a total of 15 girls, including myself. "For those of you who don't know the game: each of you will first place your slippers, which you are currently wearing, into the middle of the circle."

The children, myself included, excitedly took off their slippers and tossed them into the center, creating a colorful chaos. "Great job," praised Mrs. Weber when all 15 pairs of shoes lay in the middle. "Now I'll mix them up a bit," she added, rummaging through the vibrant pile several times before continuing with the instructions. "And now, I'll close my eyes and blindly draw a shoe. For the game, it's crucial that you don't reveal who the shoe belongs to until it's your turn!" Demonstratively, Mrs. Weber squinted her eyes shut and wildly sifted through the jumble of shoes until she finally pulled out a beige slipper with a blue bow. "The girl who starts must now find the second shoe from the mountain of shoes and then locate the rightful owner. The shoe's owner will then take their turn. Who wants to start?" Several girls eagerly raised their hands, and Mrs. Weber ultimately chose Lisa, a red-haired five-year-old, to kick things off.

Enthusiastically, I watched as Lisa rummaged through the shoe mayhem, searching for the matching counterpart to the slipper she held in her hand. The longer I spent in kindergarten, the more I began to enjoy the games we played here. Initially, I had hardly or reluctantly participated in these activities, but after nearly six weeks in kindergarten, I had come to realize that these engaging games were entertaining and it was far better to join in than to sulk in a corner.

I know I had claimed that I would never set foot in kindergarten again once I had gotten through the first day. But I had grossly underestimated the cunning and ruthlessness of my mother. For when I had stubbornly refused to go to kindergarten the next day, she had, without batting an eye, threatened to send pictures of me on the changing table, captured by the baby monitor, to all my contacts in my smartphone. Since then, I had ceased any resistance and settled for counting the days until this whole ordeal was finally over.

After a brief but intense search, Lisa pulled out the matching shoe. "Well done," Mrs. Weber praised, "now you just need to find out who the shoes belong to." Puzzled, Lisa looked around and pondered. Even I had no idea to whom the shoes belonged. Judging by their size, however, they should belong to one of the younger girls here. Lisa seemed to come to a similar conclusion and pointed out three-year-old Melanie as the supposed owner. "Melanie, are these your shoes?" Mrs. Weber asked affectionately. Melanie shook her head. "Well, then you'll have to keep searching, Lisa." Lisa racked her brain once more. Several times, she looked around the circle until she finally had an epiphany. "Ah, I know now," she exclaimed excitedly and walked purposefully to Mia, who immediately acknowledged her with a nod. "Excellent!" praised Mrs. Weber. "Now it's your turn, Mia."

As Mia put her shoes back on, Mrs. Weber closed her eyes again and pulled out a pink ballerina-style shoe with a princess print. My heart pounded wildly. Mrs. Weber had picked my shoe. I tried not to show any reaction, but from Mia's facial expression, it quickly became clear that she already suspected who the shoe belonged to. It wasn't truly difficult to identify my shoes among the other children's, considering my feet were almost twice the size of the rest of the girls. As soon as Mia fished out the second matching shoe from the chaos, she approached me. "Are these your shoes, Emily?" she asked me shyly. I nodded. "You did a really great job, Mia," Mrs. Weber effusively praised Mia.

Excitedly, I put on my reclaimed slippers and stepped into the middle of the circle. Once there, Mrs. Weber handed me a gray shoe embroidered with little mice. Carefully, I got down on my knees and started wildly rummaging through the tangled shoes. It was easy to find the matching counterpart, but when it came to identifying the rightful owner, I was utterly clueless. Compared to the other shoes in the pile, this pair was neither particularly large nor small, nor were they so unique that I would have noticed them during daily kindergarten life. Nervously, I stood up to get a better overview and looked around the circle, pondering. It seemed that I had no choice but to try to reduce the circle of potential owners through clever elimination. I knew the shoes didn't belong to my little sister or Jana, as I was familiar with their shoes. Mia already had her shoes on, and the shoes were definitely too big for Melanie. The shoes might fit Marie. She was four and represented the group's average size quite well. The shoes also seemed to match the style of her other clothing. Marie seemed plausible, and if I were wrong, I could keep guessing.

I was just about to voice my suspicion when a subtle sensation made itself known in my bladder. Less than two months ago, this feeling would have merely been a gentle reminder for me to find a toilet in the foreseeable future. But now, this ordinary bodily signal triggered immediate panic within me. Hastily, I pressed my legs together to stop the impending disaster, which Mrs. Weber also noticed. "Is everything alright, Emily? Do you need to use the potty?" she asked with urgent concern. I nodded, but at the same moment, I could already feel warmth in my crotch.

Unable to stop it, I relieved myself in my pull-ups. At first, I still hoped they would withstand my accident and at least keep my clothes dry, but in the very next moment, they collapsed under the amount that flowed out of me and leaked from the sides. Dark, wet spots appeared on my yellow butterfly shorts and grew larger and larger until my urine flow finally ceased. I didn't know what else to do with myself other than to stand frozen in place. Although I stared at the ground, trying not to look at anyone, I knew that all eyes in the room were on my soaked shorts. Mrs. Weber, who had already stood up to rush me to the potty, looked resignedly at my soaked pants. "Oh, Emily, this is already the third time today. You need to come to me when you need to use the potty!" she explained sourly, as if I had wet my pants out of sheer ignorance.

At the beginning of my time in kindergarten, I had at least managed to regularly use my potty during the day, even though I continued to wake up with a wet diaper every morning. Admittedly, I never managed to stay dry during the day for three consecutive days, so since my accident in front of my mother, my pull-ups had become my daily companions. Nevertheless, accidents during the day had initially been the exception. Most of the time, I made it to my potty, and if a few drops had landed in my pull-ups, I had always been able to stop the flow in time before they overflowed. But over time, this had changed. No matter how hard I tried, I increasingly failed to make it to my potty, and it was not uncommon for so much urine to leak from me that my pull-ups were simply overwhelmed by the amount. But three times in a single day was even a sad record for me.

"Alright, we'll take a short diaper-changing and potty break," Mrs. Weber announced loudly. "All children who need to use the potty, come with me. The rest of you can go play until I get back. Leave your shoes on the pile. We will continue the game as soon as I return."

Mrs. Weber took my hand, and together with two other girls who needed to use their potty, we went to the tiled side room. The massive wooden changing table, which stood in the corner of the room, had become a fixed part of my daily routine. It was the bitter pill I was forced to swallow due to my incontinence. Reluctantly, I climbed up the small ladder and lay down on the soft, child-friendly patterned changing pad.

After Mrs. Weber had helped the two other girls onto their potties, she came over to me. She pulled off my soaked shorts and placed them into a plastic bag that already contained the other two pairs of pants I had soiled today. Next, she tore the sides of my saturated pull-ups apart. In one smooth motion, she pulled them out from under me and disposed of them in the diaper pail.

I closed my eyes, trying to avoid watching the humiliating procedure. Even though Mrs. Weber had changed my diapers countless times, it still made me uncomfortable to expose myself like that in front of her. However, I couldn't help but feel her quickly wiping my private area with wet wipes. If I had to describe the way Mrs. Weber changed diapers in two words, I would say cold and efficient. Not that Mrs. Weber was rough, but my mother was definitely more gentle when changing diapers. But who could blame Mrs. Weber? After all, she had to take care of several children at the same time and couldn't afford to spend too much time changing just one child's diaper.

With my eyes still closed, I sensed her lifting my legs and bottom and placing something soft under me. This was unusual because, after cleaning me up, she usually pulled my pull-ups back on right away. Puzzled, I opened my eyes and was horrified to find myself sitting on one of the diapers I normally wore only for sleeping at night. Mrs. Weber had never put one of these thick nighttime diapers on me in kindergarten before. I didn't even know she had any of them here for me.

"Why am I wearing one of the nighttime diapers?" I asked, completely distraught. "There's only one spare pair of pants left for you, and if you soil those too, you won't have anything left to wear," she tried to explain the problem to me. "But I only wear diapers for sleeping. I want to wear my pull-ups," I whined, not understanding. "Do you want to go home wearing just your pull-ups if you have another accident?" Shocked, I shook my head. "You see," she replied, spreading some baby powder on my crotch and bottom. "But, but..." I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to wear a diaper. None of the other girls in the group wore a proper diaper. Only a few of them still relied on pull-ups, while most didn't need anything like that at all.

"But I don't want to wear a diaper! Why do they even have them here? I don't sleep here!" I continued to whine, not understanding. "We keep spare diapers for all children, Emily. It happens from time to time that someone has diarrhea or a bad day, and then it's helpful to have a suitable diaper available," she explained empathetically. "Please, please, can't I just wear my pull-ups? I promise I won't have any more accidents!" Mrs. Weber shook her head firmly. "Emily, I'm sorry, but I can't let you go home wearing just pull-ups at the end. I have a duty of care to you!" With those words, she closed the discussion and my diaper, then pulled on the last remaining pair of pants.

Frustrated and angry, I climbed down from the changing table. It wasn't fair. Just because my mother hadn't given me enough spare pants, I had to wear this stupid thing. I returned to the group room in a bad mood. At least I was lucky that my last pair of pants weren't leggings but rather wide, short overalls, under which even the thick diaper was hardly noticeable. However, it didn't change the fact that with every movement I made, an unmistakable rustling sound accompanied me.