Peeing to Motherhood

 He would approach the area. He saw a sign that said maternity and nursing room. It was right next to a Victoria's Secret, which was convenient because that meant plenty of foot traffic to mask his movements. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the muffled sound of a baby crying inside. His bladder screamed at him—this was happening now, no time for second thoughts.

Collin hesitated at the threshold, glancing around. A group of teenagers laughed loudly by a pretzel stand, oblivious. The scent of cinnamon and salt hung thick in the air. He pushed the door open just enough to slip through, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room was warmer than the mall, humid, with the faintest hint of baby powder and antiseptic.

Inside, a woman sat in a rocking chair in the corner, her back turned, cooing softly at the fussing infant in her arms. The bathroom door stood ajar—just three steps away. Collin held his breath and tiptoed forward, his shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum. The woman shifted; he froze, imagining the scolding, the security escort, the humiliation. But she only adjusted the baby’s blanket, humming a lullaby.

The bathroom smelled of lavender air freshener and something vaguely medicinal. Collin locked the door behind him with trembling fingers, barely registering the plush changing table or the framed print of ducks in raincoats. He would sit down on the toilet. With slight relief he would start to pee. He would be completely unaware but a shift would change. His peeing felt different. He look down but he wouldn't be peeing with his dick like a male. He would be peeing like a woman and it wasn't stopping.

His throat tightened as the stream continued—too long, too steady. His hands flew to his crotch, expecting the familiar shape of himself, but his fingers brushed only smooth skin and a slit he didn’t recognize. The sound of urine hitting the water echoed loudly in the tiny room, almost mocking. His breath came in shallow gasps as his mind reeled. Was this some kind of hallucination? A prank? But the cool porcelain beneath him felt painfully real, as did the growing puddle of urine pooling around his suddenly unfamiliar anatomy. The more he peed the more he started to change as he was slowly transforming into a female. His skin softened, his hips widened slightly, and his chest tingled uncomfortably as something pushed outward against his shirt.

Collin’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. He or she was still peeing still changing. She thought things couldn't get worse but her body is starting to gain the typical mom bod portions. Her once flat chest now strained against her shirt, the fabric tightening as her breasts swelled uncomfortably. A sharp, electric jolt ran down her spine, and she gasped as her hips cracked audibly, reshaping themselves into wider, softer curves. The reflection in the bathroom mirror—what little she could see of it—showed her face rounding out, her jawline softening into something unmistakably feminine. But her pee decrease but feeling something else as she would poop. But as she pushes the poop out her belly would grow to 6 months pregnant.

The pressure in her gut was sudden and insistent, her bowels twisting as something shifted inside her. She clenched her teeth, gripping the edges of the toilet seat as her abdomen distended outward, the skin stretching taut beneath her shirt. A muffled groan escaped her lips as her waist thickened, her once-toned stomach now rounding into the unmistakable dome of pregnancy. The sensation was alien, terrifying—her body was betraying her, reshaping itself without her consent. She could feel the weight of it now, the heaviness pulling her forward, her center of gravity shifting dangerously. This isn't happening. This can’t be happening—

Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger. Soft brown curls tumbled past her shoulders, her face fuller, her lips plumper. Her hands—now smaller, with delicate fingers—fluttered uselessly over the swell of her belly, as if trying to push it back in. The maternity dress she now wore (when had that happened?) strained at the seams, the fabric riding up over her swollen thighs. She could smell herself—sweet, milky, hormonal—a scent that made her nauseous with its intimacy. The baby kicked inside her (since when was there a baby?), a sharp jab just beneath her ribs that stole her breath. She would finish using the restroom. She would get up and even instinctly grabbed a purse that wasn't there before. She would be walking like typical pregnant woman.

Waddling out of the bathroom, her hips swayed with an unfamiliar rhythm, her center of gravity thrown off by the weight of her stomach. The woman in the rocking chair glanced up, offering a tired but knowing smile. "First time?" she asked, bouncing her own fussing infant. Collin—no, she wasn’t Collin anymore, was she?—opened her mouth, but all that came out was a soft, feminine sigh. Her tongue felt wrong in her mouth, her voice higher, lighter. She nodded mutely, her hands cradling her belly protectively. The baby kicked again, a rolling motion that sent a wave of dizziness through her.

Outside, the mall buzzed with its usual chaos, but the world felt distorted, like she was viewing it through warped glass. Her purse—a floral-printed thing she’d never owned—bumped against her hip with every step. She fumbled inside, fingers brushing against a wallet, lip balm, a pacifier. Her throat constricted. None of this was hers. Or maybe it was now. A group of women passed her, one eyeing her sympathetically. "You look like you’re about to pop," the stranger chuckled. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but her body moved on autopilot, shuffling toward a bench. Collin or now Carol would say she is 6 months pregnant. "Oh honey, it's twins isn't it?" Stranger would say. Carol would then look down to see her belly growing larger and now she was full 9 months pregnant with twins.

The pressure in her pelvis was unbearable now, her breath hitching as another contraction rolled through her. She clutched the bench, knuckles white, as her water broke with a warm gush, soaking through her dress. Panic clawed up her throat—this wasn’t just a transformation anymore. This was *labor*. "Oh my god—someone help!" a teenage girl shrieked nearby, sprinting toward a security guard. Carol’s vision blurred, her body arching against the bench as pain ripped through her, raw and primal. She could feel them *moving*, descending, her body splitting open to accommodate what should’ve been impossible. "Breathe, just breathe," someone urged, but she couldn’t—not when her bones were cracking apart. She would feel everything a pregnant woman feels from cravings to pain to cravings to bladder and other things. No one noticed and treats her like any other pregnant woman. No one knew that she even transformed. She would take a seat and look in her purse.

Frantic, she dug through the purse—diapers, a onesie, a half-eaten granola bar—until her fingers closed around a hospital wristband. *Carol Whitaker*, it read, alongside a barcode and today’s date. The edges of her vision darkened as another contraction hit, her scream drowned out by the mall’s piped-in pop music. A cluster of strangers had formed a loose circle around her, murmuring encouragement. "You’re doing great, mama," a woman in yoga pants said, patting her shoulder. Carol wanted to vomit. The wristband, the purse, the *name*—it was all proof that the world had rewritten itself around her. She tried to speak, to protest, but her body convulsed, her muscles bearing down without her permission. The babies were coming. Now. She would get flashes of her new life as it overwrote her former identity. By the time it finished she was truly Carol Whitaker, pregnant mother of two with Collin being nothing more than a distant dream.

She would take her phone and call her husband. She would be talking to him when she felt something. She would hear someone say that her water broke and someone call a ambulance for her.

The phone slipped from her trembling fingers as a wave of pain knifed through her abdomen, so sharp she saw stars. "Ma'am, your water just broke!" a panicked voice shouted nearby. Carol doubled over, gripping the edge of the bench as warm fluid soaked through her dress and pooled on the tile below. The mall's fluorescent lights blurred into streaks above her as strangers erupted into frantic activity—someone shouting for clean towels, another dialing 911 with shaking hands. Her husband's tinny voice still crackled from the discarded phone ("Carol? *Carol?!*"), but she couldn't answer, not when her body was splitting apart at the seams.

The first real contraction hit like a freight train, her spine arching as her pelvis groaned under the pressure. A stranger's hands—soft, manicured—guided her onto her side as mall security cleared a path through the gawking crowd. "Breathe through it," the woman urged, but Carol couldn't remember how to breathe, not when her ribs were being crushed from the inside. She caught a glimpse of herself in a nearby shop window: flushed, sweat-slicked, her enormous belly distorting the floral print of her dress into grotesque stretched shapes. The reflection mouthed words she didn't recognize—*push, almost there*—as if her body knew things her mind didn't.

The scent of antiseptic wipes and cheap perfume mingled with the coppery tang of blood as someone slid a folded jacket beneath her head. A teenage boy in a food court apron held up his phone, live-streaming her humiliation to God knows where. Another contraction ripped through her, and this time her body obeyed some deep, animal instinct, bearing down with a guttural scream. The crowd gasped collectively as a crown of dark hair emerged—*too fast, this was too fast*—but her muscles clenched again, relentless. She sobbed as her hips spread wider, cartilage popping audibly, the babies coming whether she was ready or not.

Someone pressed a cold compress to her forehead while another pried her fingers off the bench—she'd splintered the wood. "One more push!" a nurse (since when was there a nurse?) shouted over the commotion. Carol's vision tunneled; she tasted bile and blood as she pushed, the sensation of tearing flesh barely registering through the white-hot agony. A wailing infant slid onto the bench in a slick rush of fluid, followed seconds later by its twin. The crowd erupted in shaky cheers, but Carol could only stare, numb, at the two squirming creatures covered in vernix and her own blood. Their tiny fingers curled—real, *alive*—and something deep in her fractured mind *clicked* into place.

Hands lifted the babies away to be wrapped in hastily procured Victoria's Secret scarves. Someone thrust them back into her arms, their warm weight staggering against her chest. The scent of them—sour milk and something impossibly *hers*—flooded her nostrils. Her leaking nipples ached. A security guard radioed for paramedics, his voice cracking, "We've got a postpartum female at Gate 3—" Postpartum. The word slithered into her ears like a verdict. She glanced down at her deflating belly, the stretched skin still quivering, and a rush of *memories* that weren't hers slammed into her: ultrasound appointments, cravings for pickles and ice cream, her husband's hands rubbing her swollen feet.

A paramedic knelt beside her, snapping gloves on. "Ma'am, can you tell me your due date?" Carol's lips moved automatically: "Today." The babies rooted against her breasts, their tiny mouths gaping, and her body responded before her mind could protest—a sharp tug as milk let down, soaking through her bra. The crowd cooed. She could feel the last fragments of Collin dissolving like sugar in hot tea, replaced by the visceral certainty of diaper changes and 2 AM feedings. A stretcher arrived, but her legs wouldn't cooperate; they lifted her onto it, the twins still latched and sucking greedily. Her and her husband name they babies that are girls. They name the first one Emily and the second Sarah. The names arrived in her mind fully formed, as if they'd always been there. "Beautiful names," murmured the nurse adjusting her IV, and Carol realized with dizzying clarity that she could recall every page of the baby name book they'd pored over together—the dog-eared corners, her husband's terrible suggestion of "Broomhilda."

Epilogue:

Six months later, Carol Whitaker sat in a sunlit pediatrician’s office, bouncing Emily on one knee while Sarah gummed a teething ring in her arms. The scent of baby powder and antiseptic—so similar to that cursed mall bathroom—should’ve triggered panic. Instead, she found herself humming along to the clinic’s lullaby playlist, her husband’s hand warm on her shoulder as he filled out paperwork. The twins’ birth certificates sat framed in her diaper bag, their dates and weights meticulously recorded. No one questioned their legitimacy. No one ever would.