I was well on my way to being my own man; nineteen years old, in a good college. But like anything else, it had to go one step at a time. My current step: staying awake through this lecture. Just to be clear; I wasn’t a bad student; I could keep my interest up in most classes. This teacher, though, was something special. The old raccoon, Dr. Dulles, must have been at least eighty, had made space exploration about as dull as the dullest, densest history lesson you could imagine. Each minute felt like an hour.
Finally, after it felt like eternity had come around a second time, it was over. As the fresh air started to return feeling to my brain, I ran into my friend, Miles, an unkempt border collie. “So, d’you make it out with all you brain cells?” he asked.
“I think so.” I grumbled, still not quite awake.
“Figures a clever fox like you could survive. Ugh, that dude could make juggling torches boring.”
“I know, the old *fart* should have retired a decade,” I laughed, substituting the word “fart” with a noise from my armpit.
“Now really, Rid,” said a voice behind me “with such immature behavior I might think you were a twelve-year-old rather than a college student.” I turned to see a female professor I had seen around campus, but didn’t really know. Before I could respond she quickly plucked a hair from my arm and stormed off.
I stood there stunned for a moment before muttering “Freak. How the hell did she even know my name?”
I waved goodbye to Miles as he went off to class. But me? I was free for the weekend. I went back to my dorm, which I had to myself for a few days, to plays some games and, I guess, to get a little reading done. On my desk was something I was sure wasn’t mine: a little fox doll. I picked it up and looked at it. It was a little red fox, not unlike me, with a tiny pencil in its hand and a tag on its chest with the number 19. Sticking out of its head was a little strand of hair. “Where’d you come from?” I wondered.
To my surprise, the doll replied in a squeaky voice, “I’m a gift from Dr. Jenner.”
“Who?”
“The one who saw that childish little display of yours.”
“So I suppose that’s my hair there. What are you, some kind of voodoo doll?”
“A sharp young fox aren’t you? You are just what I’d expect for your kind, but unfortunately, not for your age. That’s why I’m here. If you’re not going to act your age, then I’m going to make your age fit your actions.” With that, the doll erased the 19 on his chest and wrote in “12.” As soon as the pencil left the tag my surroundings became blurred and indistinct and I felt a bit like I was falling. Then it all stopped and I was back in my old bedroom at home. Only it was different. It looked more like it did when I was in middle school and everything seemed a bit…taller? I dropped the doll and went to the mirror to see myself.  I was about a foot shorter and definitely younger.
“Yes,” said the doll. “You are twelve years old again.”
“How? Why did you do this?” I was taken somewhat taken aback by my changed voice, but I didn’t let it show.
“Didn’t you hear me or Dr. Jenner? Your behavior has been quite immature, so I adjusted your age to something more fitting. As to the how, Dr. Jenner learned a few interesting tricks in her younger years.”
“That witch!” I shouted as I picked up the doll, gripping it tight. “Change me back!”
“No. I could, but then you wouldn’t learn your lesson, and it needs to sink in. Unless you are superb in showing your maturity, I see no need to rush things. If you behave yourself then you’ll be nineteen again in only seven years.”
“You little… Change me back or I’ll rip the stuffing out of you!”
“What? Are you going to throw a tantrum and break things like a little toddler? Because, you know, I could easily make that adjustment.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“So let me get this straight; if I behave, then I’ll have to wait the full time to get back to my real age, but if I don’t meet your standards, you’ll just make me even younger? I thought it was just that one thing.”
“Maybe that’s what started it, but my purpose is simply to make the appropriate adjustments if you don’t act your age.”
“Rid, honey,” called my mother from downstairs, “don’t forget about your homework.  Get it done so you have the weekend free.”
“Okay, mom,” I replied, still getting used to my voice. It took me a bit to figure out what my assignments were, having just be dropped into some sort of altered timeline of my life, but once that was done, the work itself was pretty easy. Despite being twelve years old physically, I still seemed to have all of my knowledge and faculties from before my regression. Nonetheless I was pretty tired by the time I finished, so I took a shower, noticing a few changes to my body, and got ready for bed. I would try to figure a way out of this tomorrow.
The next day was cold and rainy, so I had an excuse to stay inside and try to figure out my problem. Unfortunately, I didn’t make much headway. I asked the doll about how I could show my maturity to which the doll said: “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking of anything specific. I doubt there’s anything you can do to win such favor, but I didn’t want to rule anything out. But, if you do something mature enough I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Fat lot of help you are,” I grumbled.
“By now you should have realized that I am not here to help you.”
“Ugh,” I growled, throwing it across the room.
“Throwing things isn’t going to be scoring you any maturity points; that’s for sure. Not even fitting for a twelve-year-old.” A wave of panic shot through me, “but I can understand your frustration, so I will let it go this time.” I breathed a sigh of relief and felt the fur on my neck go down, not realizing it had been raised. Realizing the futility of the situation, I placed the doll on my dresser and went to play some video games. I decided on one that I had not played in years. The rest of the day was uneventful. My mom seemed to notice something was off because she asked if everything was okay. I just told her that I was tired. Dinner was a broccoli-cheese dish, something I would normally have loved, but apparently I had the taste buds of a twelve-year-old as well. After helping with the dishes and watching TV for a while I drank a can of soda and played video games for another half hour. Then I showered and went to bed. I heard the doll taunting me “already resigned to your new age?” as I drifted off to sleep.
That night I dreamt I was sailing a small boat on a sea that was sweet instead of salty. I could feel the sugar tingling. I heard a rush of moving water and suddenly a fountain emerged from the surface. It quickly consumed my boat and I went under. As I sank I slowly found myself waking and cracked my eyes to the light of dawn. Even as the dream faded into oblivion I still felt wet. Wait a minute. Wet. I bolted up in bed and found my pajama pants and sheets soaked. I jumped out of bed and looked about the wet spot with a mixture of shock and disgust. I couldn’t believe I had just wet the bed. I looked down at my sodden pants and quickly stripped them off along with my equally wet underwear.
“My oh my, what childish behavior.”
I turned on the spot to face the doll, tugging down my shirt and curling my tail to hide myself. “I swear it was an accident,” I hissed, making sure nobody else could hear.
“It certainly looks like that to me. Aren’t you a little old to be wetting the bed?”
I shrank back, ears flattened in fear. “Please, no. It was just an accident.”
“And twelve-year-olds shouldn’t be having accidents.” The doll erased the number 12 on its chest and replaced it with an “8.” Once again my room blurred and I felt a falling sensation. When the world became clear again I was still in the same place, but things, yet again, seemed taller and the decorations and toys were more childish. I looked in the mirror again to find I had shrunk by another 8 inches or so and the loose T-shirt I had been wearing was now the top to some kiddie-looking pajamas.
“So I’m eight now.” My voice sounded even more juvenile.
“Yup,” said the doll, “you’re lucky I didn’t make you younger, but it seems that eight is a fairly common bedwetting age.”
“I still can’t believe you did this for something I couldn’t even control.”
“Self-control is a big part of maturity. I also think drinking that soda so late showed poor judgement.”
“Ugh, you are impossible.” Then I noticed that I was still wearing nothing but shirt, covering myself with my tail. Blushing, I quickly threw on some day clothes and went down to breakfast. It was a nice day and my parents all but ordered me to go outside. It was for the best, I think, as I was able to distract myself by looking at bugs. After all, I had been studying biology before my encounter with the doll. The day went by quickly and it was soon time for dinner. My distaste for vegetables had apparently only grown with my … anti-growth? Not long after dinner it was bedtime. It was Sunday night, so I had to go to bed early for school. As I opened my dresser to get my pajamas I found that half of my underwear drawer was taken up by pullups, the DryJams brand to be specific.
“Well,” said the doll somehow peaking from atop my dresser, “it appears that you are now a regular bedwetter. I think I made the right age adjustment.” I blushed, ears flattened, as I picked up one of the pullups. I remembered, to my apprehension that I had wet at night quite often when I was eight and that I had worn pullups. Seeing that I had no real choice, I slipped on the pullup I was holding. Despite the shame I felt at how far I had regressed, I noted that the pullup felt soft and rather comfortable. It made a slight rustling when I walked, but I could have been worse off. Resigned to my fate, I turned off the lights, tucked myself in, and soon fell asleep.
When my alarm woke me up and I sat up in bed I felt the squish. I climbed out of bed and pulled down my pants. Yep, the pullup was wet alright. I could even feel the weight of it and see it sag slightly.  “It seems the pullup was a good call,” taunted the doll.
“Shut up,” I grumbled as I removed the soaked garment. I tossed it in the diaper genie, which I had only just recognized.
“Childish comebacks? You finally seem to be acting your age.”
“Sure, whatever,” I replied as I grabbed some clothes and headed to the shower. After getting dressed and having breakfast I looked at the calendar. At least there were only two weeks left in the school year. The bus ride and most of the school day were mostly a blur. One thing that stuck in my mind through: if I thought seventh grade work was easy, third grade was even more elementary (pun intended). I avoided the other kids as much as I could.  At recess I saw the way they behaved. The doll said I was immature? That little freak of nature should take a gander at some real eight-year-olds. The day went by quickly. Soon I was home doing some review homework (easy-peasy) followed by some games, dinner, and bedtime again, which meant another pullup. Tuesday morning, like the day before, began with a wet pullup. 
It was pretty much the same the rest of the week: easy schoolwork, dinner, a pullup and bed. I woke up wet almost every morning, but by the end of the week it didn’t really bother me. I’m ashamed to admit that I liked the way the pullups themselves felt. I felt secure knowing I didn’t have to worry about wet sheets. Even the softness and leftover warmth of the wet pullups was becoming vaguely comforting as a daily routine. In fact, the one time I woke up dry, on Friday morning, it felt strange, almost out of place. That was the one time I woke up to use the bathroom. On Saturday morning I actually got as far as watching TV before I realized that I had forgotten to change out of my pullup. The next week passed much as the first did, except classes were finishing up with final tests. Friday was the last day and then, freedom. That time also meant more wet mornings, which I had gotten even more used to. Saturday morning came again and I woke up dry. I ate breakfast and watched TV while still in my PJs. I felt the growing urge to pee. When I got upstairs I found that my mom was taking a shower, and I knew she took long showers. As I waited the urge grew stronger. I could have held it longer, but it was getting pretty uncomfortable. So, seeing no other chance of relief soon, I retreated to the privacy of my room and used the pullup. The relief was instant as I let go. Part of me was appalled at what I was doing but another part wondered why I hadn’t relieved the discomfort sooner. I felt the pullup grow warm and swollen. I pulled down my pants to get ready to change and paused to survey the damage. I gave it a little poke. It was quite full.
“Now just look at you,” said the doll, “That was very childish of you. Wetting the bed is one thing, but peeing your pants in the day while wide awake is not the sort of thing eight-year-olds do.” I mentally berated myself for how stupid I had been. Why had I done that? The doll continued, “I think another adjustment is in store.” It erased the “8” on its tag and wrote in its place a “4.” For the third time the room blurred and I felt the falling sensation. My room had changed yet again to something more childish. I found the mirror again. As I expected I found myself younger and smaller. I was still wearing a wet pullup, but of the potty training sort. I went to my dresser to change and found no underwear, just pullups. “Now that’s more like it,” taunted the doll, “four years old and not fully potty trained. You’ll be in those pullups for a while I think.”
“When is this going to end?” I asked as I discarded the old pullup for a new one.
“As soon as you stop this increasingly childish behavior.” Saying nothing, I removed my wet pullup and slipped on a fresh one. Just as I was finishing up, my mom, having finished her shower, came in to the room wrapped in a towel. 
“Hello, sweetie, just here to check on you.” She paused. “Where are your pants, mister?” I blushed, feeling very small as I looked up at her. She glanced around the room and asked “Did you have an accident?”
I nodded shyly.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I should have known better than to take so long. I’m sorry. But, I am also very proud that you got changed all by yourself.” She gently poked my nose and left to get dressed. 
With nothing more to do I went outside, with some supervision, to look at bugs again. It seemed the only thing that could distract me from my current situation. Perhaps it distracted me a bit too much. After a couple hours I felt the urge to pee again. It quickly went from almost nothing to urgent. Before I even made it to the door I was wetting myself again in my first true daytime accident. I stood still for a moment as my bladder emptied, currently beyond my control. After finishing I headed inside and saw my mom, who had been watching me from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I had another accident,” I said softly.
“Do you need me to change you, or can you do it?” If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it.
“I can do it.” I felt a little indignant at the suggestion that I couldn’t.
“Alright then, just try to pay more attention next time.”
“Okay, mommy.” As I went up to my room I realized what I had just said. Was my regression more than just physical? 
After changing I started to feel hungry. My mom had apparently anticipated this and made me a PB&J for lunch. Once finished I went back outside for a while. Dinner was mostly good, except for the broccoli, which I now found revolting. As I was finishing up I felt the need to pee again. I excused myself and was able it make it in time. I read for a little bit after dinner, but all too soon I heard my mom say, “Riddy, get into your nighttime pullup and get ready for bed.” Curious, I went to my dresser and found a set of pullups off to the side that were thicker and had night-themed designs. I discarded my old pullup for one of these. The increased thickness was noticeable, but not unpleasant. The pajamas I had were quite childish, all covered in cartoon figures of one sort or another. I put on some spider-man PJs and went into the bathroom where, much to my embarrassment, my mom brushed my teeth for me. Then it was off to bed, where I quickly succumbed to sleep.
I woke up to the familiar feeling of a wet pullup. I changed out of it and, after cleaning up and using the bathroom, into a fresh daytime one. The rest of the day went much as the previous one did, though without an accident. I was somewhat relieved that I was able to get to the bathroom in time even if it was just barely on a couple occasions. The following days were pretty much the same as well. I made it to the bathroom most of the time during the day, but still had an accident or two more days than not. Of course, I was never dry in the morning. Just as with wetting the bed, I was growing accustomed to my occasional daytime accidents. They no longer upset me that much. This development worried me somewhat, as part of me still held out hope of returning to my college days, but I was mostly resigned to my fate. The doll noticed this tendency as well, commenting; “I think I have made the right adjustments. The life of a four-year-old suits you. You don’t even have to worry so much about getting to the bathroom in time.”
These words drove me to try to avoid accidents, more out of spite for the doll than anything else. Now how low had I sunk that it took spite to motivate me not to pee my pants? My efforts were to little avail, perhaps saving me from one accident.  After a few days I had given up my little rebellion. I still tried to make it to the bathroom when I could, but I accepted that accidents were inevitable. The accidents themselves did not bother me, though my resignation to them saddened me at times. I didn’t terribly mind wet pullups either. A couple times I even waited for a bit before changing if I was invested in what I was doing. I was caring less and less.
One night was the start of a newer sort of “accident.” Sometime in the middle of the night a noise outside woke me. Its source was not important, but my waking brought my attention to my bladder, which needed to be emptied. My pullup was dry. I was warm and comfortable and I didn’t feel like getting up to use the bathroom. So, I just went in my pullup, feeling the warmth spread through it, and drifted back to sleep. A couple mornings later, I woke up to a pullup that was wet, but not fully soaked. I also had to use the bathroom, as I usually did in the morning. After having spent more than three weeks wearing pullups in some fashion, I could pretty easily tell how full one was. This one was between a third and a half of its capacity. So, I decided not to let the rest go to waste and just about filled it up the rest of the way. “You seem to be adjusting to life in pullups quite well.” Said the doll, “Convenient, isn’t it?” These words made me worry briefly on how much I had regressed, but I brushed the notion aside. So what if I was starting to enjoy this life? It was fairly easy and worry free; I could live in the moment. What I did that morning became a new routine. If my night pullup wasn’t too wet when I woke up, then I would use it instead of the toilet. My habits during the day changed a bit, too. At least a few times during the following week or so I went in my pullup if I didn’t feel like stopping whatever I was doing. I still made it to the bathroom enough times so that my parents didn’t notice anything amiss. 
After spending about three weeks as a four-year-old I had my most blatant “accident” yet; I wet my pullup simply because I was in the mood to. Besides, it was already damp and didn’t want the rest to be wasted; that bothered my for some reason. After I had changed the doll warned, “I know that wasn’t really an accident. If you keep this up, I might have to take you back another year.” I considered that I might have to return to my older bathroom habits, but for the time being decided to play with some Legos. After a bit of time I started to feel the need to poop. I decided it could wait for a little bit, as I had much better control of my bowels than of my bladder. Before long I felt I could no longer ignore it and went over to the bathroom. It was locked. I went back to the Legos in my room, keeping my ears alert for the sound of the door opening. I waited longer as the pressure started to build. It was even starting to hurt and I could no longer contain it. I stood up in alarm as the warm, mushy mess filled the seat of my pullup. Of all the times I had used my pullups, I had not wanted to do this. 
“Ooh!” said the doll. “This was not expected! This is not merely childish; it is infantile!” My fear increased as the doll continued. “I didn’t think you’d go this far in your regression, and better yet; it was your own fault for ignoring it. Little kids may wet themselves from time to time, but this, mister poopy pants, is the behavior of a toddler.” For the fourth time the doll erased the number on its tag, this time changing it to a “2.” The room blurred and again I felt like I was falling. When reality came back to me, I had once again shrunk. I still felt the mess in my pullup. No, wait. I tugged down my pants to discover that I was not in pullup any more but a diaper.
I wanted to grab the doll and somehow force it to change me back, but I couldn’t reach the top of the dresser. All I could do was helplessly plead from the floor. “Please, enough! Just end this!” I said, almost in tears.
“You’ve brought this on yourself. Given your actions lately, I don’t see why you’re so upset. You didn’t seem to care so much about your potty training any more, and now you don’t have to worry about it at all.”
“But I didn’t want this.”
“Then perhaps you should have acted in a more mature manner.” 
I realized I could not make any progress arguing with the doll, so I decided to look around my room to figure out a way of changing myself. I saw that my room was now childproofed, and there was a changing table in the corner. My bed was now a crib. I did not look for long as my mom, with her impeccable timing, soon came in. After a brief pause she said “I think someone is stinky.” I knew what was coming next. She lifted me up onto the changing table and then removed my messy diaper, cleaned me up, and put me in a fresh diaper with almost machine-like efficiency. “There you go, nice and clean,” she said as she slipped a pair of pants over my diaper. It was definitely thicker than the pullups, but fairly comfortable. She picked me up and carried my toward the door. “Why don’t we go outside for a bit?”
We went out into the back yard, and my mom watched as I looked at bugs around the garden. After I while, as I watched the scurrying of an ant colony I started feeling the slight need to pee. It quickly escalated to urgent and within seconds I was wetting my diaper. I stood up for a moment and looked around as I finished. It had been a good wetting, but my diaper was nowhere near full. Nothing, I thought, that would require a change, something which I wanted to put off for the time being. Soon it was time for dinner. As I walked in, much to my embarrassment, my mom checked my diaper. She too seemed to think it could wait. Dinner wasn’t bad, except for the peas, and I got a nice dessert of chocolate ice cream. After dinner I watched TV with my parents. Suddenly I found myself peeing again. I hadn’t even felt the need to go. Now my diaper was pretty wet, and I had to consider my predicament. I realized that I probably couldn’t change myself, but I didn’t want to go through the embarrassment of being changed. Finally, at an ad, I said “Mommy, I think I need a new diaper.”
“Okay, honey,” she said tenderly, “It’s about your bedtime anyway.” She carried my upstairs, and changed me into a thick nighttime diaper and a set of blue footed pajamas. Then she tucked me into my crib, kissed me goodnight, and left.  I looked over at the doll, sitting silently on my dresser, still visible with the light from my nightlight. I closed my eyes and was soon asleep.
I woke up to that familiar feeling of being wet, but now thicker and heavier. Apparently my wetting was now heavier, at least proportionately, so the extra padding was necessary. I drifted back to sleep, but was soon awoken as my mom came in to get me ready for the day. She changed me into a fresh diaper and some rather cute day clothes. It was raining, so no looking for bugs in the yard. After breakfast we sat on the couch together for a while, reading. Or at least she read; I had a picture book with no words. It was a childhood classic, though, so I enjoyed it nonetheless. Soon, I noticed that I had to pee. Strangely, the sensation grew gradually, as it often did during my days in pullups. I was about to get up to go to the bathroom when I remembered that I was in diapers now and was not expected to use the toilet. So, I just let it go in my diaper. Again, it was not enough to warrant a change, so I kept looking through my book. After lunch my mom put me down for a nap.
After the nap and a diaper change I set myself to playing with some toy cars while my mom made series of phone calls, though still checking on me every few minutes. After playing for a bit, I started to feel the need to poop. While I was fine with wetting myself, I did not want another mess, so I went into the bathroom, only to stare at the toilet. I was short enough that getting on the toilet would be difficult and I would be at risk of falling in. I contemplated how I could safely get on as the pressure quickly built. Within a minute I could no longer hold it, and I found myself in a poopy diaper for the second time. I returned to my room, head low. The doll told me that I should get used to this sort of thing. 
The days went by and I started to get used to the routine. I had regular naps and kiddish meals. Not being able to bathe myself took some getting used to. At times I seemed to have a bit of bladder control, not that it mattered at this point; even if I did feel it coming, I didn’t bother to holdit. Once or twice a day I would end up pooping in my diaper. I still seemed to have some control, so for the first few days I made futile attempts at getting to the bathroom, but I soon realized that these messes were inevitable. I would still hold it while I could so that I could minimize my time in a messy diaper. Even that eventually came to an end. After a little more than a week in diapers, I felt the need to poop once again. At first I held it, as I usually did, but it occurred to me that I would end up pooping in my diaper regardless, and being in a messy diaper no longer bothered me so much. Trying to hold it was actually more uncomfortable and I would be changed soon anyway. So I just let my load loose in my diaper, sighing a bit in relief.
“So,” said the doll, “you have finally accepted your toddlerhood. Just so you know, if you are going to willingly soil yourself from now on, I can’t allow you to become older than you are now. If you want to reconsider, now is the time unless…you’re okay with this situation?”
“Yes, I’m fine with that.” And I was. While I would never admit it to the doll, I had actually come to like wearing diapers, especially now that I had cleared the last hurdle. I no longer had to concern myself about my potty needs. While I had lost my independence, I now had a pretty much worry free life. I was content.