Pyjama Punishment Monthly provides an insight into how a wife treats her husband as a babyish toddler complete with nappies and dummies.

Dear Nanny Smackbottom

As a firm believer in discipline for males, I do not simply dress my husband Peter in babyish clothes. I also insist that he behave in a manner befitting his very juvenile status in our household. When properly attired he is required to speak in a soft, childish tone and to use a vocabulary appropriate for a five-year-old. His baby name is Peterkins Winceyette and he must curtsey before entering or leaving a room occupied by “grown ups”. He must ask permission to do most things, such as leaving the dinner table or “going potty.” 

These and many other rules of perfect behaviour enforce his petticoat discipline as effectively as his pretty clothes.  He has become used to wearing his sweet baby outfits, but he still blushes with shame at having to act like a young child, particularly in front of others. Of course, I make sure he has plenty of opportunity to do just that.
 
The other day Peterkins was washing up in the kitchen after lunch.  He wore a pink ruffled pinafore over a crisply starched, back buttoning white blouse with a broad Peter Pan collar.  A precious little pink bow marked the front centre of the collar. Then, high waisted, fly less velvet burgundy shorts buttoned onto the blouse and showed a hint of the heavily frilled pink bloomers he wore underneath.  A dummy hung on a pretty ribbon that buttoned on to his pinafore above the left breast while a lace-edged pink bonnet framed his face and tied in a big bow under the chin. Frilly white anklets and black Mary Jane shoes completed the pretty outfit.
 
As he finished his cleanup chores, Peterkins was looking nervously at the time. I like to get him ready for beddy-byes by four o’clock this is the time when I am at my most gently maternal with him. I undress him, put him into his soft winceyette night clothes give him lots of cuddles on my lap and tuck him into bed at six o’clock.

Peterkins has been taught to suck his thumb whenever he feels anxious, and the sudden ringing of the doorbell made him very anxious indeed.  His thumb leaped into his mouth, and he began sucking vigorously. (He is permitted to use his dummy only when directed to do so.)  He looked at me fearfully, hoping against hope that I would not make him answer the door.  One sharp glance from me dashed any chance of that. He knows from bitter experience that in his sissy clothes he simply cannot resist my wishes.  If I want to display him to a stranger at the door, then I will do so. He knows, too, that any attempt at resistance will only make matters worse for him.  Seeing my determined gaze, he realized there was no escape from his predicament. His eyes lowered, and his face registered sad resignation.
 
Terrified at having to answer the door, yet even more terrified not to, he was actually crying as he toddled to the front hall.  He reached the door just as the doorbell rang a second time.  He opened it timidly, and in strode my sister Jean. She has often seen Peterkins in his baby clothes and nightwear, indeed it was she who named him Peterkins Winceyette after she helped get him ready for bed one afternoon, but she never fails to find new ways to tease and embarrass him.  He is dreadfully afraid of her – dreadfully for him, quite delightfully for Jean and me.
 
Removing his thumb from his mouth, Peterkins managed a timorous curtsey for Jean.
’How vewy nice to see you again, Auntie Jean’, he said softly.
She smiled broadly, relishing the sight of her brother-in-law dressed so babyishly and so obviously intimidated by her.  She approached my petrified husband, untied his bonnet, and retied it tightly under his chin.  His head moved under her firm touch.   She fussed with the little bow on his blouse. She straightened the frilled, crossover straps of his pinafore and fluffed out his collar.  Satisfied with her efforts, she stepped back to view him again.
’Oh Peterkins Winceyette’, she teased, ‘you look so very masculine today, with your cute little shorts.  They are very sweet indeed, but I’m afraid they’re not very grown up, are they, dear?’
Moving behind him, she encircled his waist with her arms and toyed with the big buttons holding the shorts and blouse together. 

‘Only very little baby boys wear button-on's like these, don’t they Peterkins Winceyette?’ Peterkins looked as if he might swoon, and never did manage to answer her questions.

No matter.  She got his full attention by clapping her hands sharply and announcing,

‘Teapot!’  Peterkins knew only too well what that meant.  I have trained him to perform several babyish songs, as I believe they are another excellent way to instil in him the proper attitude and demeanour.  At the top of the list is ‘I’m a Little Teapot’, complete with the appropriate hand gestures. Jean likes it so much that she insists on him performing it whenever she visits. He doesn’t like doing it, but of course, that makes his efforts only more entertaining.  He knows he must perform with a pretty smile and proper infant like enthusiasm, this particularly embarrasses him.  He is several years younger than us and there was a time when she was my rival for his affection. Now she can look at him only with amusement tinged with disdain, particularly when he becomes our charmingly reluctant ‘teapot’.  It must be a cutting reminder to him of how far he has fallen in her eyes.  I love watching him perform, his shyly lowered eyes unable to meet Jean’s commanding gaze.
 
Jean was not quite satisfied with his ‘Teapot’ rendition this time, so she stood him face to the wall in a corner and instructed him to keep practicing.  She and I sat down to tea in the living room as his gentle childish patter serenaded us from the hall.  She occasionally called out from the couch to correct him, a reminder that she was still keeping an eye on him.  He made a fetching sight, chirping away in the corner and adding the obligatory curtsey after each rendition.  His plump bottom, perfectly moulded by the sweet little velvet shorts, bobbed enticingly up and down with each curtsey.
 
When Jean was almost satisfied that he had achieved the proper gestures, the doorbell rang again.  Of course Peterkins was once more reduced to tears.  Not knowing what to do, he put his thumb back in his mouth, and Jean and I couldn’t help laughing aloud at the silliness of it. 

 
Jean left him in the corner and answered the door herself.  This time it was Grace, the 22-year-old young woman who used to baby-sit for the neighbours children. Grace had not met Peterkins, but Jean had told her about him and so we invited her around to see him when Jean would next be visiting.
 
Grace took one look at Peterkins in the corner, paused in disbelief, and started to laugh.  She tried to restrain herself, covering her mouth with her hand, but that only made her laugh harder.  She could only point at him and continue laughing helplessly.
Poor Peterkins didn’t know what to do.  He remained in the corner, furiously sucking his thumb and casting furtive sideways glances at Grace.  He couldn’t bear to look at her yet couldn’t seem not to.  He might have stood there all day if Jean hadn’t taken him by the hand and introduced him.
 
’Grace’, said Jean, ‘I’d like you to meet Master Peterkins Winceyette isn’t he sweet?’

The absurd name prompted another titter from Grace, as did a shy curtsey from Peterkins.

‘How do you do, Peterkins Winceyette’, Grace smiled.  ‘What a perfectly lovely name!’

It was all dreadfully and delightfully unfair. He was trying so hard to be good but was finding only more embarrassment for his trouble.   As Grace looked at him delightedly, Peterkins hung his head in defeat and a tear trickled down his face.
 
Now it was my turn to comfort him. Catching his tear with my finger, I sat him upon my knee and cradled his head against my chest. Peter is small in stature and  I find it easy to accommodate him this way. I popped the dummy into his mouth and made him nurse quietly as I soothed him with baby talk.

’Oh my poor ickle Peterkins.  Mummy knows ‘ow tewwibly frightening it is when big stwange ladies see just how ickle and pwecious oo are . . ..’

Jane quickly picked up on my baby talk and began to tease him.

‘Ickle Peterkins is like a fwightened bunny wabbit, vewy scared of the gwown ups’.

Upon hearing her words I immediately remembered his new pyjamas as I had sewn for him. A pair of  lacy, frilly, yellow winceyette pyjamas with a bunny rabbit motif. Of course as soon as I mentioned the existence of the pyjamas Grace and Jean were insistent that he should be dressed in them at once.

Grace volunteered to undress Peterkins and she gently removed his bonnet, shorts and blouse before helping him into his quite delightfully frilly babyish pyjamas which were adorned with a pattern of fluffy baby bunnies. Jane and I looked on with amusement as Grace popped his head into his pyjama top and he emerged surrounded by the froth of a large floppy frilly collar. Three Mother of Pearl buttons secured the neck and a long pink ribbon fastened into a pretty bow at the neckline. Even more lace decorated the bodice and Grace commentated as she dressed him. The cuffs of the sleeves were lightly elasticised and fringed with more outrageous frilliness. When he was all buttoned into his pyjamas, I once again cradled his head against my chest, gently stroking his cheek as I did so

Peterkins does like to be babied but only in my presence, he becomes ashamed when others are here as he is exposed as the complete baby he is.  Closing his eyes, he managed to escape his shame momentarily, and melted into my arms as I cuddled him. Slowly his sobs subsided. Then he opened his eyes to discover Grace bending forward and looking directly at him only inches away from his face.
’Boo!’ she said playfully and pressed her index finger against the tip of his nose. Grace could not have been gentler, but her overtures made the big baby dissolve into tears again. We roared with laughter.  
‘He does seem to be the perfect cry baby’ observed Jean. 

‘Ickle Peterkins has lost his cuwwidge, hasn’t he?’ she teased, ‘I wonder where it could be? Have the bunny wabbits on Peterkins jim-jams got his cuwwidge I wonder?’

She waited for him to answer; ‘come along answer Aunty Jean,’ she ordered.

Poor Peterkins was forced to shake his head no in reply and then Jean proceeded to make my poor hubby hippity hop around the room like a bunny rabbit, looking high and low for his lost ‘cuwwidge’.

Unfortunately his pyjamas bottoms were a tad too large and Peterkins had to hang on the waistband whilst hopping to avoid them falling down. Jean’s seemed oblivious to his plight as she set about making him look for his ‘cuwwidge’ all over the house.

It didn’t seem to be on the mantelpiece, or under the couch, or in the magazine rack.  Peterkins was required to inspect each area and to tell ‘Auntie Jean’ that no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there and he didn’t know where it might be. Jean pretended to be stumped, but a mischievous sparkle in her eye told a different story.  Announcing that Peterkins must have accidentally thrown his ‘cuwwidge’ away, she brought a rubbish basket from the kitchen, placed it on the living room floor, and told Peterkins he had better look in there.  Peterkins glanced nervously into the basket and said no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there, Grace and I couldn’t help laughing at my pathetic husband and he once again burst into tears.

 
Grace took pity on Peterkins.  She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her arms then kissed his tears away. As we sat down to tea, Grace placed him into his high chair tied on his baby bib and set about feeding him. Tenderly she encouraged him to eat up his pureed vegetables. Then she patiently sat and ensured he drank a full baby bottle of his special sleepy time milk. Responding to her gentleness, Peterkins became a charming, docile baby and even formed a shy liking for his new mistress.  All agreed that we had found a new babysitter for Peterkins that afternoon.
 

Jean insisted on one more round of ‘Teapot’ before his six o'clock bedtime and Peterkins managed to get through it this time without blubbering, smiling timidly in response to our applause.

‘Come along Baby Peterkins, time to prepare for beddy-byes, go fetch your potty.' Peterkins once again looked slightly fearful but I ushered him through to the cloakroom. He returned momentarily clutching his pink potty and his dry-nite. We three ladies watched delightedly as Peterkins removed his pyjama bottoms and squatted on his potty looking like an overgrown toddler.

'Who's a good boy den?' I praised as I sent him scurrying off to discard the contents and when he returned it was time to put on his dry-nite pyjama pants. At first Peterkins was going to be petulant but  Aunty Jean soon had him stepping into them and she pulled up his pyjama bottoms.

"There now, Peterkins needs his nappy-wappy on because he spends such a long time in beddy-byes doesn't he?" I said sitting him once again on my lap. Now be a good boy and  kiss Aunty Jean and Aunty Grace night-night and we'll get you tucked in shall we?’

It took another five minutes to get him into his bedroom as the two ladies made such a fuss of petting him and telling him how sweet he looked all ready for beddy- and then kissing him goodnight umpteen times that when I eventually got him upstairs I had to smack his botty to calm him down..

I tucked him in then sat on the edge of the bed pushed his dummy into his mouth and gave him a dire warning about the consequences of getting out of bed once he was tucked in. A kiss on the forehead and I left Peterkins in his darkened room to reflect on another eventful day as Peterkins Winceyette.

 Geraldine Harwood (Mrs)