The Seminary

All the girls at Ruth’s new school were expected to be sitting on nicely made beds at eight o’clock sharp, with their evening schoolwork resting on their knees.  Tonight Ruth was exactly on time.  She plunked her diapered bottom onto the candy-pink satin coverlet of the day bed.  It was in a row of other day beds just like it, lined up along the walls of the long bubblegum-pink dormitory.  The beds matched, except that the other girls had different pastel colors on their satin bedspreads – baby blue, buttercream yellow, minty green, delicate lavender.  

Ruth had always hated pink.  She wished she could trade with someone, have a blue or green bedspread, but she knew better than to ask, lest all her belongings be replaced with baby pink versions.  That was the sort of consequence Miss Teresa’s Select Seminary for Young Ladies dealt out for ingratitude.

She brought her legs together – one of the most important comportment rules was to keep the legs together, until told to “sit like a lady,” at which point the legs were to be spread for a diaper check – and placed her open workbook where the teacher on duty could inspect her evening’s progress.  

Schoolwork at Miss Teresa’s was very easy – coloring, simple vocabulary – but there was an awful lot of it.  It wasn’t easy to stay caught up on the workbooks.  Yet the simple tasks allowed Ruth’s mind to wander.

Her parents had chosen Miss Teresa’s after Ruth’s hasty marriage had ended just as they said it would: in a weary, acrimonious divorce.  She’d moved back in with Mom and Dad, wearied by the huge number of decisions she’d had to make.  And then she’d woken up one morning to find them discussing a brochure for this special school.

Some of Ruth’s classmates had wasted trust funds.  Some of them had grown up, gone to therapy, and announced that they had been repressing memories of parental abuse.  Some had gotten boyfriends their parents didn’t approve of – or girlfriends their parents didn’t approve of.  Ruth was the only one who had been married.  But every girl in the class was between 20 and 25 and had disappointed her mother or father.

All of them got the same treatment: two trips to the potty per day (which were closely supervised by a teacher), then the rest of their time in diapers.  Only clothing that exposed the diapers was allowed.  Most of their time was devoted to the childishly simple schoolwork.  On Sundays, they were given sparkle crayons and lined paper and allowed to write letters home.

And there was a complicated system of days they were expected to wet their diapers regularly, and days they were expected to be dry at the evening check.

The teacher on duty tonight announced, “Eight o’clock!  Workbook checks then it’ll be time for lights-out.”  She walked over to Ruthie’s bed and gave her a stern, raised-eyebrow look.  “Now, Ruthie, I hope you’ve worked hard on your schoolwork.  And I do hope you managed to remember this was an even-numbered day that didn’t end in a two or six, so your diaper is to be dry.”

Ruth gulped.  She hadn’t remembered that at all.  And today was a day she could have held it until her bedtime potty visit, too.  But she’d been peeing, thinking it was a wet day …

“You’ve widdled yourself, haven’t you?” sighed the teacher, and Ruthie could only, sadly, nod.  “What are we to do with you, Ruthie?”


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