First I'd like to tell you how much I enjoy your magazine 'Petticoat Discipline Monthly', and I am especially interested in the supplement 'Dummy Discipline Digest' to be published in the Christmas Annual. I used dummy discipline on my own husband, with excellent results, and I would like to tell you how it came about.
After the birth of our daughter, Samantha, I found that her care was something that was being more or less all left to me, and that my husband, who holds a fairly important position for his age at the city firm he works at, was not doing his bit at all. On one occasion I handed him Samantha, and told him that she needed burping after her bottle feed, and all he did was hold her rather uncomfortably, and then hand her back, saying in a rather supercilious manner that they 'had not had mothercraft classes at the school he attended'. It was a cutting remark, because he went to a rather prestigious public school, and I went to an ordinary government school where they did have mothercraft lessons, for the girls at least.
But that was not the worst part. He started to behave in a rather spoiled manner (as well he might - I know his mother of course), and I eventually realised to my utter amazement that he was jealous of the attention and care that I was bestowing on our baby daughter. The childishness of men never fails to amaze me.
I mentioned it to a friend, Sarah, and she told me it was not uncommon for spoilt husbands to be jealous of a new baby. I was aware of 'Petticoat Discipline Monthly' already, and I wondered aloud if petticoating him, and making him the baby for a day, would help. Sarah's eyes widened, and she gave a splutter of laughter. I think she had always found Keiran a bit of a pain in the neck. We gleefully worked out our plan, and got an appropriate outfit together, a few items knitted by me, and quite a lot of it from the auction sites on the internet. I didn't even mind his little tantrums over the next few weeks, because I knew what was coming. When I had everything ready, I asked him soothingly if he thought I had been neglecting him, and whether he would like some of the love that I had been devoting to Samantha. He nodded his head, and so I took him up to the bedroom, and when he lay on the bed, I produced a big flannel nappy and baby pins. His eyes nearly dropped out, but he was reminded that he wanted some special attention from me, and I would make sure he got lots of it. He let me dress him in the nappy, a pair of pink plastic baby pants, a frilly baby slip and dress, and bootees and mittens which tied in cute baby bows. Lastly I tied a bonnet on his head which I had bought on the net, and which was beautifully belaced, tying in a big bow under his chin.
I had recorded his dressing up on one of those 'eyeball' webcam cameras, so I had a full record of everything without him knowing. I told him I had recorded it, but not to worry, as long as he went along with things, he had nothing to worry about. In the spare room - we have a very nice house - I had set up a satin baby sling, which I had a theatrical dressmaker sew. In this he was seated and buttoned in, with his bootied feet a few inches of the carpet, and once I had tied his hands behind him, the poor thing was completely at my mercy. He got a terrible shock, and started to kick his feet about, when the doorbell rang. I pretended to be annoyed, but of course I knew it was Sarah, who intended to join me in putting him through his baby antics. She smiled broadly, her eyes twinkling, when she saw him, and she walked over and tickled him under the chin, saying, 'Who's a pretty baby then? goo goo goo goo goo!' And she tapped him lightly on the tip of his nose. He was in a state of shock, and then, whilst he wriggled and grimaced, we gave him a very generous afternoon of babying, including bottle feeds of baby milk and prune juice after Sarah had tied a pretty bib around his neck, dummy sucking accompanied by teasing and tickling from the two of us (he was firmly told that he mustn't drop his dummy while he was being tickled), cold water poured down his nappy, spoonfuls of warm, sticky rice pudding, and general petting and cuddling to show that we loved our big baby really!
Eventually we left a very grumpy and tear-stained baby upstairs swaying in his sling, with dribbles of cold rice pudding all over his chin and terry towelling bibby, and with his dummy held in place by a frilly, lace-trimmed blue garter that I had worn on our wedding day. Sarah and I went down to the living room and enjoyed a very nice afternoon tea, and discussed the success of our plan. I unbuttoned the sling in the evening, after Sarah had left, and he could barely toddle to the bathroom for a much-needed clean up. He slept in a long nightdress that night, and has ever since.
After such an overwhelming session of nappy discipline, I didn't think I would have any more husband management problems, and I was right. I informed him that he would not be subjected to babying provided he did as he was told, and that he should now be aware of some of the restrictions and discomforts of a baby's life. He was told that his own babyish jealousy with regard to the attention I was naturally giving our daughter would occur no longer, because from now on he would be the nursery maid in our house. Of course I would take care of Samantha during the day, but as soon as he got home from his work, and for the whole weekend, it would be straight into his nursery maid's uniform, and Samantha would be his responsibility. That way there would be no possible cause for complaint about me giving her too much attention whilst he was at home.
He was dumbstruck, but I told him in a very no-nonsense way that it was time to get him dressed in his uniform, because he would have to learn a few basics of nursery craft as soon as possible, and we would start with nappy changing. The poor confused creature was marched upstairs into our bedroom, where his new clothes were laid out on the bed. First, a well-padded long-line bra, because I believe that babies prefer the feel of a woman's body, and so that was important. Then a soft womans' undervest tucking into thick black lisle tights. He was then ordered into a pair of plain white bloomers, nice and tight at the leg openings, and coming to about six inches above the knee.
Nothing very pretty, I admit, but his uniform was intended to be practical. He was then buttoned into a princess style slip with lace at the hem, and which did add a pretty touch, and a navy blue cotton overall dress. Finally, a well-starched white bodiced pinafore, to which I attached a few spare nappy pins, and a spare dummy pinned on as well. This was not for his own use, but I felt that having a dummy pinned onto the bodice by the dummy ring should be a part of the uniform of any efficient nursery maid. Plain black plimsolls completed his outfit. I had thought about a frilly little cap, but did not know where to obtain one. He was ordered downstairs, and given a big baby doll to practice on. Then started his first lesson in the mothercraft studies that he had not been given at school. He was trembling and uncertain at first, but after a weekend's tutoring, and a few smacks on his bloomered bottom, he was a passable nursery maid with regard to the basic skills, and by Sunday night he was able to give Sam her bottle, while she looked up at him and gurgled happily.
There were council baby care courses he could have attended, but the others attending were all young women, and I thought that his presence would probably be a bit annoying to them. However, he was told to get as many baby care books as he could, and study them. They were better than the Alistair McLean nonsense that was his usual fare. As a final touch, to ensure that he really understood his new baby-care maid status, he had to learn to knit, partly from me, and partly from a library book, so that he could make lots of woolly jackets, booties, mittens, and so on for Samantha to wear when she was taken out in cold weather.
I think that when he got over the initial shock, he began to realise that taking care of a little baby had its compensations, and his former arrogant self was a thing of the past. He really adored Samantha, and was very good at putting her nappy on and dressing her in her prettiest clothes for when we were visiting friends. My mother had to be told of his new status in the household, and she thoroughly approved. She has always thought that the husband should take a much greater role in baby care. And if ever there is any suggestion of protest, then the threat of another full babying session with Sarah is enough to bring him to his senses very smartly.
Last week, we were to go out to visit old friends of mine, and I was nearly ready, and put my head around the door to see my 'lord and master' still done up in his nursery maid's uniform, and playing handies with little Samantha on his knee. 'Are you ever going to get ready?' I said. 'We have to go in twenty minutes'. He carefully handed Sam to my mum, who was to babysit her while we were out, and got up, answering, 'We're not getting a little jealous, are we?'
Rather taken aback, I lifted his skirt and slip and gave him a smack on the seat of his bloomers, but it was only playful, because he really is a very good nursery maid now, and I probably had it coming.
We are a very happy couple now, and thanks to your excellent
Thank you Kathy, for a super letter I know that my lady readers will give you a hearty round of applause. And it is so good to hear that 'Petticoat Discipline Monthly' can chalk up another victory! Not so many years ago, husbands hardly took any role in the care of a baby, as if merely pushing a pram down the High Street was a threat to their precious masculinity. Things are changing, but if they are not changing fast enough then Kathy has the answer.
I think a frilly cap would
be quite appropriate for a young nursery maid (but not a nanny) and I would
try a costume supplier. I would love to see Kieran adoringly strapping
Sam into her high chair, and spoon feeding her her dinner; he must be a
perfect hubby now. Allow me to wish the three of you a very Happy New Year.