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Lego trap

The Carousel of Infants

The humiliation was a living, breathing thing, hot and suffocating as it pressed against my skin. Being held by a stranger while completely bare from the waist down was a nightmare I couldn't have imagined even in my worst fever dreams. Sarah, Jonathan’s mother, shifted her grip, the wool of her sleeve rubbing against my hip. I felt like a porcelain doll that had been stripped and put on display, my dignity discarded along with my ruffled bloomers.

"Oh, you really are just the sweetest little thing," Sarah cooed, her face coming closer to mine. "Isn't she just a little peach, Jonathan?"

Jonathan, the five-year-old who looked like a giant from my new, shrunken perspective, just stared at me with wide, curious eyes. I tried to pull my legs together, to hide behind my own chubby knees, but Sarah was holding me in a way that made it impossible. I felt the cool draft from the air conditioner, a sharp contrast to the burning shame in my cheeks.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Emerson. She had crawled out of the playpen, her yellow ducky diaper crinkling loudly with every movement of her small legs. She reached the edge of Sarah’s shoes and looked up, her face a mask of toddler-grade confusion and lingering nine-year-old horror.

"Emmie?" Emerson squeaked, reaching a tiny, trembling hand toward me.

"Look at that!" Sarah laughed, adjusting her hold on me so that I was sitting more upright in her arms. "Your little friend wants to make sure you're okay. Well, aren't you precious? We can't have you feeling left out, can we?"

Sarah shifted her weight, and for a moment, I thought she was going to put me back on the changing table. Instead, she leaned down and looked at me with a playful glint in her eyes. "You're just so cute, I could eat you up!"

Before I could even process what was happening, Sarah took a deep breath and leaned in. She pressed her face against my bare tummy and blew a loud, vibrating raspberry.

The sound was deafeningly close, and the sensation was jarring. I let out a sharp, involuntary shriek—part surprise, part sheer, unadulterated outrage. My small hands flailed, accidentally slapping against Sarah’s shoulder.

"Oh, did that tickle?" Sarah laughed, pulling back. She did it again, even louder this time, her lips buzzing against my skin. "Bbrrrr-pt!"

I felt my face crumpling. The ten-year-old part of my brain was screaming, telling me to fight, to run, to demand my clothes back. But the four-year-old body I was trapped in responded with a high-pitched, wailing sob. I wasn't just embarrassed anymore; I felt completely powerless, a toy for the amusement of adults who didn't see the person inside the toddler.

"There, there, no need for tears," Sarah whispered, rocking me back and forth. "You're just a sensitive little soul, aren't you?"

The door to the nursery opened again, the heavy wood thudding against the stopper. Another woman walked in, this one wearing a bright pink tracksuit and carrying a toddler who couldn't have been more than two. Behind her was another mom, and then another. It was as if Miss Mary had invited the entire neighborhood's "Mommy and Me" group over for a viewing.

"Oh, Mary! You didn't tell us you had new arrivals!" the woman in the pink tracksuit exclaimed, her eyes landing on me immediately. "And look at this one! She’s nearly ready for her fresh diaper, isn't she?"

Miss Mary emerged from the closet, finally holding a stack of the thick, pink-bowed diapers. She had a look of triumph on her face that made my stomach churn. "She’s being a little bit of a handful today, Linda. I think she’s just adjusting to the new environment. She’s four, you know, though she acts much younger."

"She’s adorable," Linda said, walking over and reaching out her arms. "Can I? I haven't held a four-year-old this small in ages. My Leo is already such a bruiser."

"Of course," Sarah said, passing me over like a beach ball. "Just be careful, she’s a little ticklish on her tummy."

The transition was dizzying. I was handed from Sarah to Linda, the different scent of her perfume—something floral and cloying—filling my nose. I felt the rough texture of the pink tracksuit against my bare legs. I was being passed around like a prize at a fair, a nameless, voiceless thing that didn't need clothes or privacy.

"Oh, she is a dainty one," Linda remarked, bouncing me slightly. My diaper-less state didn't seem to bother her at all; to these women, I was just a baby, and babies didn't need modesty. "Look at those pigtails! Mary, you always did have a knack for styling hair."

"I try," Miss Mary said, her eyes fixed on me with a chilling intensity. "I think she needs to learn how to be a bit more social. She’s been very stubborn today."

Linda looked down at me, her smile wide and artificial. "Stubborn, are we? Well, we can't have that. How about a little game of 'Where’s the Baby'?"

She shifted me so I was facing her, then ducked her head behind her free hand. "Where’s Emmaleena?" she chirped. Then she popped her head out. "Peek-a-boo!"

I stared at her, my lip trembling. I wanted to tell her my name was Emmaleena and I was in the fifth grade and I liked science and soccer. But the words were stuck behind a wall of "goo-goo" and "ga-ga." The more they treated me like a baby, the more my brain seemed to accept the role. It was a terrifying, slippery slope.

"She’s a quiet one," Linda noted, then turned to the woman behind her. "Here, Brenda, you have to feel how soft her skin is. Mary must use that expensive French powder."

I was passed again. Brenda was a shorter woman with glasses that made her eyes look enormous. She took me with practiced ease, tucking my bare bottom against her forearm. I felt the world spinning as I moved from one set of arms to the next.

"She’s like a little doll," Brenda whispered, poking my cheek with a finger. "Does she talk yet?"

"Only when she’s complaining," Miss Mary said, stepping closer. She reached out and took my hand, squeezing it just a little too hard. "But she’s learning. Aren't you, Emmaleena? You're learning that it's much easier to just be Miss Mary’s good little girl."

I looked over Brenda’s shoulder and saw Emerson. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by the other mothers' children. A two-year-old was trying to take her stuffed rabbit, and Emerson was just sitting there, her thumb back in her mouth, her eyes glazed over. She was giving up. The "milk" Miss Mary had given us was doing its job, erasing the nine-year-old girl and replacing her with a blank slate.

"I think she’s ready for that diaper now, Mary," Brenda said, handing me back to the woman who had stolen my life. "She’s starting to get a little heavy."

Miss Mary took me back, her grip familiar and suffocating. She carried me back to the changing table, the other mothers gathered around like they were watching a demonstration at a store.

"Now, watch this," Miss Mary said to the group, laying me down on the pad. "These diapers are specially designed for older toddlers who still have... accidents. They have extra padding in the back and a very secure fit."

She shook the powder bottle again, and another cloud of white dust settled over me. I coughed, the sweet scent filling my lungs. I felt the familiar crinkle of the plastic as she slid the fresh diaper under me.

"See how the tabs are reinforced?" Miss Mary pointed out to the other moms. "It makes it very difficult for them to take it off themselves. It keeps them nice and secure."

*Click. Click.*

The diaper was on, tighter than the last one. It felt like a heavy, crinkling anchor, making it impossible for me to move my legs freely. Miss Mary then pulled the ruffled bloomers back up, followed by the white dress. She smoothed out the fabric, patted my pigtails, and then picked me up, turning me toward the crowd.

"There," she said proudly. "All fresh and ready for playtime."

The women clapped softly, as if she had just performed a magic trick. They began to move toward the center of the room, where a large colorful rug was laid out with blocks and stuffed animals.

"Why don't we let the little ones play together while we have some tea in the kitchen?" Sarah suggested. "The nursery is child-proofed, and we can keep the monitor on."

"A wonderful idea," Miss Mary said. She walked over to the playpen and dropped me inside next to Emerson. "Now, you two be good girls and play with Jonathan and Leo. No fighting, or there will be no treats later."

The women filed out of the room, their voices fading into a distant hum as the door clicked shut. The nursery was quiet, save for the sound of Jonathan banging two plastic trucks together and the soft jingle of the toy Emerson was batting at.

I sat there, my heart heavy. I looked at the door, then at the high windows, then at my own chubby, dimpled hands. The memories of being ten were still there, but they felt like a movie I had seen a long time ago. The names of my teachers, the layout of my school, the feeling of my real shoes—it was all fading, replaced by the immediate reality of soft blankets and the smell of baby powder.

"Emerson," I whispered, crawling over to her. The ruffles of my dress bunched up around my waist, and the bulk of the diaper made every movement awkward. "We have to... we have to find the machine."

Emerson didn't look up from her toy. "Machine?" she echoed, her voice small and airy. "The light one?"

"Yes. The one that made us small. If we find it, maybe we can make it work the other way."

Emerson finally looked at me, but her eyes were different. They were wider, simpler. "I like being small, Emmy. No homework. No soccer practice. Just... just snacks."

"No!" I grabbed her shoulders, shaking her gently. "We aren't supposed to be here! Your dad is coming back in a month! He won't know who we are!"

Emerson tilted her head, a stray tear rolling down her cheek. "Daddy said stay. Miss Mary says stay. I... I'm hungry, Emmy."

She turned back to her toy, the conversation over. My heart sank. I was losing her. I was losing myself.

I looked over at Jonathan. He was watching me, his trucks forgotten. "Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice much deeper and more confident than mine.

"I want to go home," I sobbed, the four-year-old part of me taking over. "I want my big clothes."

Jonathan walked over to the playpen and reached through the bars, patting my hand. "Don't cry. Miss Mary has cookies. And we get to watch cartoons after lunch."

He didn't understand. He was a real kid, and he thought this was just a normal day at a babysitter's house. He didn't know that the girl in the ruffled dress was actually twice his age.

I slumped down against the mesh wall of the playpen, clutching a stuffed bear to my chest. The fog was rolling in again, thicker than before. I tried to think of the word "fifth," but all I could think of was the number "four." Four years old. Four pigtails. Four cookies.

I looked at the pink bow on my shoulder again. It really was a pretty bow. Maybe Miss Mary was right. Maybe it was easier this way. No more worrying about tests or what to wear to school. Just naps, and milk, and someone to take care of everything.

As the sun moved across the floor, casting long shadows over the Lego bins in the corner, I felt the last of the ten-year-old Emmaleena slip away. I closed my eyes, the sound of the crinkling diaper becoming a comforting rhythm in the quiet room.

I was four years old. I was at Miss Mary’s house. And I was a very good girl.