“You all tired out, squirt? Or do you just need a new diaper?”
She was your girlfriend’s best friend. Your girlfriend asked her to watch you while she was out to brunch with her new fling.
What confused you is why she took you to the park. She told you to go run around and have fun. She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And it probably would be if you were 10. But you’re not. You’re 26. You have absolutely no idea why she expects you to just “run around and play.”
There was nobody at the park, not that it would’ve mattered. When you stood around, bored, she told you if you found two four leaf clovers, she would give you an “extra special diaper change.” She didn’t provide specifics, but it was enough for you.
You spent the next 45 minutes searching the fields. Looking around, squatting down to find one, counting the clovers. Completely absorbed in your task.
You finally found one. You brought it back to show her. “Wow, great job! Only one more, honey!”
You went back to keep looking. After 15 minutes, you asked for some water. You had completely forgot about the state of your diaper. But she didn’t.
“Honey, your diaper is absolutely SOAKED! You need a new diaper now or you’re gonna start leaking all over the grass!”
But you were determined to find the last clover. “Can’t I have 10 more minutes? Please?”
She laughed at how you looked. How you sounded. Exactly like a child. She knew the park was the right choice. “Sorry sweetie, but if I bring you home with a rash your girlfriend is going to kill me! Maybe next time!”
You pouted as she followed you to the car, your bulging diaper brimming with a few hours work, forcing you to waddle. You never realized how childish you looked.
She noticed, though. She smiled, overcome by how cute you were today. She had the cutest pictures to show your girlfriend.
My babysitter doesn’t show the slightest hint of surprise as I grunt and push a load into my diaper. She smiles like she saw it coming a mile away.
Want to know the worst part of this whole situation? It’s probably not what you think.
Because it’s not the fact that I’m wearing a diaper. Or even that I’m pooping my diaper in front of her.
It’s not the fact that I have a babysitter waiting to change my diaper.
It’s not even the fact that I’m pooping my diaper in the middle of public while I eat an ice cream cone.
No, it’s how stupidly normalized this all is.
I mean, look at the amused way she’s smiling at my grunts and toots, as if I were an actual toddler she was babysitting.
It’s the look of someone who absolutely expects me to helplessly fill my diaper. Like it’s as natural as the warm summer sun melting our ice cream.
“Why are you fighting it, cutie? Just relax and enjoy your ice cream before it melts. I’ll change you when we’re finished eating.”
See what I mean?
In her eyes, I am literally just a baby in bigger diapers—she doesn’t consider me an adult at all. Not to be mean or dismissive, but because it would be ridiculous for her to think otherwise.
It’s why she can’t even conceive that I could possibly be embarrassed about pooping my diaper right here in public, because that’s just what babies do.
Just like she won’t think anything of marching me to the bathroom to change my diaper right there on the bathroom floor.
Babies fill their diapers, and babysitters change them. It’s just what needs to be done.
No matter how many times it happens, it never gets any easier for me. I’m tired of the silly waves I get from women in the bathroom while I’m getting pooped wiped off my butt. Tired of being so casually dismissed by adults my age—and younger.
I’m tired of everyone treating me like I’m a baby.
“Honey, you’re getting ice cream everywhere but your mouth.”
I know she’s right. I feel the melted ice cream trickling between my fingers. And on my cheeks from eating as fast as I can.
With a giggle, she leans over and wipes my cheeks clean like I couldn’t do it myself.
“There, much better. Such a messy eater.”
I’m sitting here in a poopy diaper and she’s worried about the ice cream on my cheeks.
“Did you get all the poopoo out?” she inquires loudly, not even considering it to be an embarrassing question, “You’re not doing the poopoo dance anymore.”
I nod my head, but another bubbly toot betrays me.
All it earns me is a skeptical stare and a shrug. “Are you sure about that, mister?”
I hate being talked down to like a baby. Every single time.
It doesn’t matter what I do or say—she’s fully convinced that it’s what I need.
“Well, let’s go get that diaper changed, honey,” she says with an air of finality. Before we leave the table, she grabs some wet wipes from my diaper bag and cleans my fingers.
“Can we change at home, please?”
“Buddy, we’re 15 minutes away from home and there’s a perfectly good bathroom right here.”
I didn’t expect any other answer, but at least I tried. I let her take my hand and lead me to the bathroom.
“Hey girl! I thought you were babysitting today?”
A group of three girls close in on my babysitter, each more beautiful than the other.
“Oh, I am! He’s been so good all morning I thought he deserved a treat. It’s too nice out to be inside all day.”
They all look around confused for whoever she’s babysitting, obviously assuming it’s not me. I know it’s a Pyrrhic victory, though.
“Ummm…you could’ve just said you had a date, Liv. He’s cute.”
As much as I want to enjoy the compliment—and relish in the brief moment when people look at me as an adult—I know it’s borrowed time.
“He certainly is a cutie pie! But I don’t think he’s ready for dating quite yet! This lil’ stinker needs a diaper change.”
All three women stare at me in utter disbelief.
Exactly what I expected.
I’ve seen this same look countless times. The moment when they demote me from an adult to baby in their minds.
My babysitter just smiles. “I’ll call and explain after I put him down for his afternoon nap, okay? His Mommy will never forgive me if he gets a diaper rash.”
They give me that same infantile wave as my babysitter leads me to the bathroom to change my diaper.
As she places the changing mat down and slides off my shorts, I let out a silent prayer that nobody walks in on my diaper change.
She never flinched despite the expletive-laced tirade exploding out of you in the middle of the park, her compassionate gaze never faltering.
Her unrelenting calmness in the face of your tantrum—something she would ordinarily have shut down immediately—took you by surprise.
But it didn’t matter. All the feelings and emotions that have been bottled up over the past few months finally erupted out of you. You didn’t even care about your diaper crinkling as you stomped.
By the time you ran out of steam, gasping for breath, you wait for the inevitable bullshit lecture about “big feelings” and all the naughty words you used.
Yet, you don’t see a trace of anger in her eyes. Quite the opposite.
All you see is understanding—as if she expected this. The unexpected reaction throws you off balance.
“S-sorry,” you mutter, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. You look around to see how many people witnessed your meltdown.
The way she smiles at you makes it feel like she’s peering into your soul—naked and exposed.
“Honey, I know this isn’t how you saw your life going. Your whole world has been flipped upside down. I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
“Y-you’re…p-proud of me?” you stammer.
“More than you will ever know.”
Taken aback by her answer, unsure of what to say, you stare into her eyes for answers.
“E-even after I-I-I yelled at you?”
“Yes, honey, even after you yelled. Don’t think for a second it’s acceptable behavior, but I never expected this to be easy. Accepting you’re not an adult anymore can be a frustrating process, so grace is needed.”
You cringe at her words. Hearing it out loud always makes it worse.
“But you do need to accept it, honey. You’ll never be an adult again. The adult privileges you once had are never coming back. It’s time to let go of the man you used to be.”
Anger flashes in you, raging against her words—at the way she calmly dismisses the pain of losing everything you worked so hard for.
And a lifetime of diapers.
As if trading your independence, autonomy, and privacy for a life of dependence, supervision, and lack of control is a minor inconvenience.
“It’s not fair! What gives you the right to treat me like a baby, anyway? It’s bullshit!”
Even now, she shows no signs of frustration. She only sighs, collecting her thoughts.
After a few moments that seemed to stretch into hours, she pats the overworked diaper drooping between your legs, carefully avoiding the large wet patch on your shorts.
“Honey, this diaper is filled to the brim with peepee. There are probably 10 tinkles in there. Not once did you tell me you needed to use the potty like we agreed. You didn’t even realize it was leaking! Does that sound like an adult?”
“But…I—.”
She cuts you off. “No more buts, mister. You’re back in diapers. It’s okay to need an adult to help check your diaper so you don’t leak all over those shorts. Babies shouldn’t worry about that, anyway.”
“So because it's taking me some time to adjust to diapers, you think I’m a baby?”
Another long sigh.
“Baby, don’t start that again. We’ve been over this. So many times. I’m not doing this to punish or embarrass you. I’m doing it because I love you and you need my help now. It’s what’s best for you.”
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t treat me like a baby just because I need diapers!”
She recoiled like you physically hit her.
“Don’t you ever say that again! Of course I love you! That’s why I’m doing this. For you, even when you hate me. One day you’ll understand it’s for the best. I promise, baby.”
“How is telling everyone I know I’m back in diapers for the best? How is emailing my boss that I’m resigning for the best? How is…h-how…”
Your eyes fill with tears as you trail off, unable to finish your sentence. You turn away from her to hide your tears.
She pulls you into a hug, one hand wrapped around your back, the other supporting your diaper.
“Oh, honey, come here. I know, baby, I know. None of this is easy, huh? You never expected to be back in diapers. I know. Mommy’s got you.”
For a moment, you fight to keep your composure. But her soothing presence overwhelms your resolve; tears fall freely down your cheeks.
She wipes them with her thumbs, eyes full of concern and love.
“Look at me, sweetie. I love you. Nothing will ever change that, you hear me? Nothing. Even if that means you need me as your Mommy instead of your wife.”
“B-but I-I-I’m supposed to…to be your h-husband. I don’t want a Mommy!”
“Hush, baby. That’s not for you to decide. Not anymore. Babies like you need their Mommies as much as they need their diapers. It’s cruel to have tasted adulthood to lose it, but we don’t cry over spilled milk, do we?”
“C-can’t I just be your husband in diapers? I can still be your husband, I promise!”
“No, little one, you can’t. We tried to make it work, remember? Giving you false hope that things can change is cruel. You’re going to be in diapers for the rest of your life. This is how it has to be.”
“Please, no! I don’t want to be a baby! I-I'm not!"
“But you are a baby. I know you didn't choose to be a baby—babyhood chose you. Nothing can change that now. You'll learn enjoy it eventually.”
You laugh sarcastically. “You actually think I’ll ever enjoy getting my diaper changed? Or taking naps instead of going to work? Or only watching PG movies? Or having you make every choice for me? Get real.”
She smiles. “Of course I do! You’re still thinking like an adult—and adulthood is all the freedoms and privileges that come with it. I would never expect an actual adult to enjoy everything that comes with babyhood.”
She crinkles your diaper playfully.
“Babyhood is all about innocence, routine, and complete reliance on adults. What do babies need with independence and autonomy? They know Mommy knows best! All they want is to spend time with their Mommy, wrapped in her love and affection. Once you accept you’re back in babyhood, you’ll start to enjoy the tender, intimate moments that come with it—and forget all about your lost adulthood.”
“Wh-what if I don’t?”
“Give it time, baby. You’ll adjust to your new life. Soon you’ll forget all about your brief time as an adult. You’ll forget I was ever your wife. All about work and stress and bills. All you’ll want is to play with Mommy. You won’t even think twice when I check your diaper in the middle of the park!”
“P-promise?”
She sticks out her pinky. “Pinky promise, baby.”
You hesitate, but take it anyway.
“Awww, there’s my good boy! Now, let’s go get that diaper changed, mister! Mommy wants to hear your sweet laughter when I blow raspberries on your tumtum!”
“K-kay…M-mommy.” It took a second to say the word. Mommy felt heavy on your tongue, yet when you said it, it felt…right,
As she led you back to the car, you hoped Mommy was right about everything because as the prospect of getting your diaper changed in the back of the car hardly seemed enjoyable.
But Mommy seemed so confident!
All you can do is take a deep breath and trust that Mommy knows best.
All I can do is giggle as you pull my arm, practically vibrating in excitement.
You can’t help it, you’ve never felt this big at Disneyland before. This isn’t your normal Disneyland outfit—this Minnie Mouse sundress is something that would never hide your diapers.
But they do hide your pull-up.
I do my best to hide my emotions. You may be bubbling with excitement—but it’s a bittersweet moment for me.
Today was the day you finally get to ride the “big kid” lines at Disneyland.
To be honest, I never thought we’d ever get to this point. We had one rule when it came to Disneyland: no big kid rides until you got out of diapers.
Something I never thought you’d ever manage to do.
Yet here we are.
After months and months of potty training, not even I could deny you were ready to try pull-ups.
I’ll never forget how you beamed with pride as you slid up that Minnie Mouse pull-up.
Still, it’s hard not to feel nostalgic about it all. Sure, it wasn’t always fun trying to find a place to change your poopy diapers, as you pouted and whined the whole time.
But it was always worth the moments when you slipped so deep into little space. When, for a few hours, everything was perfect in your world.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom before we get in line, Princess?”
If looks could kill, I’d never survive the one you just gave me.
“No! I’m not a baby, I can hold it!”
“I was just checking, honey…”
Two weeks in pull-ups and suddenly you think you’re too big for Daddy. As if I haven’t changed thousands of your diapers.
I’ll admit, you’re doing better than I ever expected. It’s almost 2 pm and your pull-up is still clean.
And, even more surprising, you’re not even cranky—you may have graduated to pull-ups but you still haven’t quite given up naptime.
We finally get to the ride you’ve been talking about for months: the Matterhorn.
I grab your shoulders and pull you close. “It’s finally here, Princess! Are you scared? This isn’t like the rides in Fantasyland, this is much more intense!”
“Not scared, Daddy! Let’s go!”
“Alrighty, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I pat your bum—mostly to surreptitiously check your pully without being obvious.
Still dry.
The line isn’t horrible, but it stretches out quite a bit. Thirty minutes isn’t a long time to an adult, but for a little one who only recently graduated to pullies, it’s a substantially bigger challenge.
“I’m proud of you, Princess, you know that? You haven’t had an accident all day!”
You beam with pride, looking absolutely adorable in your dress and Minnie Ears. “Thank you, Daddy! Told you I could be potty trained!”
“Yes you did! And now look at you, about to ride your first big girl ride!”
“I woulda been here sooner if you believed me!”
I laugh at your audacity. “Babygirl, three months ago you were still pooping in your diapers every day, I don’t think so.”
“Daddyyyy hushhhh,” you whimper, looking around nervously.
“Oh, didn’t mean to blow your cover, silly.”
After a rough 10 minutes, we finally reach some shade.
Though I notice something new—you’re starting to bounce from foot to foot.
“Everything okay, sweetie?”
“I’m fine!”
“Are you sure? You’ve been such a big girl all day, telling me when you need to potty. I’d hate for you to ruin it. We can always get back in line!”
“Daddy I don’t need to potty!” you shout.
Your face immediately turns beet red.
“Then why are you doing the potty dance, hmm?”
“I…I’m not…”
Of course you are.
You may think you’re a big girl, but I know you too well. I know all of your potty faces. I know what every little movement means.
And I know what this dance means.
You’re desperately trying to keep yourself from pooping your pully.
“Princess, I won’t be mad if I need to take you to go potty, I promise.”
“I don’ needa go!”
By now, your potty dance and whining has caught the attention of everyone around us.
I see plenty of sympathetic smiles from parents who recognize the symptoms of a stubborn little one and a brewing accident.
As much as I’d prefer to avoid this, I have to let you decide. Potty training isn’t only physically training your body, it’s about being big enough to communicate your potty needs.
Something you’re clearly failing at.
Yet you somehow manage to make it to the front of the line—though your potty dance is only getting worse.
The worker smiles at us. “Two?”
“Yep.”
“Right this way.”
I can’t tell if you’re shaking in excitement or because you’re fighting to keep your pully clean.
Too late to do anything about it now.
We’re seated on the ride and strapped in. You grab my hand, squeezing me tight.
“Are you scared, babygirl?” I ask as we lurch forward.
“Nuh uh!”
As we start are ascent upwards, you suddenly stop fidgeting.
Not even the noise of the roller coaster covers your loud, bubbly toot.
I sigh. I thought that was a tinkle dance. I can only imagine the state your pull-up will be in after the ride.
The Matterhorn is well-known for being bumpy—not exactly great for the person who’ll have to change your poopy pull-up.
“D-daddy!” you moan, before you squeeze my hand tighter and grunt.
Poor baby.
“You’re okay, Princess.”
There isn’t much for me to do but watch your face turn crimson as you push a load into your pully.
You grunt again as we reach the top and begin pointing downward.
Here we go.
You wince with every bump, leaning in closer to me the faster we go. I can’t tell if it’s because you’re scared or hate having your poopoo smushed against your pully.
All I know is it’ll be a long time until you get another chance at a big kid ride again.
By the time we reach the station, your eyes are full of tears.
“Daddy…” you whimper.
“I know, Princess. We’ll go straight to the bathroom and change you out of that icky pully, okay? You’ll feel so much better when you’re in a clean diaper.”
“What? Daddy no I don’t wanna wear a diaper!”
The worker gives me a deeply sympathetic look, no doubt smelling your dirty pull-up.
“I know, little one. You did so good today, but I think you’re not quite ready for potty training—or these big kid rides. And someone needs a nap.”
You open your mouth to argue, but wince as you stand up, no doubt feeling the fullness of your stinky pull-up.
I grab your hand as we head off to find a changing table. You waddle slowly, making sure your dress covers your pull-up every few steps.
After a little searching, I spot a family bathroom with only a few people in line, all mothers with kids in strollers.
Even if they couldn’t smell you—which is bad enough—they could tell what was wrong right away. Any parent knows the signs of a stinker.
Your red, teary cheeks, your fidgeting with your dress, the shy glances, and shifting around to avoid feeling your mess are all too obvious.
They know a stinky baby when they see one.
“Why don’t you go ahead of us,” one mom offers, “my little one is only wet. Your little one needs to be changed right away.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. That poor girl must be feeling so icky.”
You step behind me, hiding like the silly little you are.
“Well, thank you. We’re potty training, but I think we tried pull-ups a little too soon. She couldn’t hold it on the Matterhorn.”
The mom winces at the thought. Clearly she knows the disaster I’m going to find in your pull-up.
You don’t even argue when I lead you into the bathroom, hopping on the changing table without fuss.
I gather your changing supplies, placing a diaper on the table and rip open your pull-up.
It’s even worse than I expected.
“I…m’ sorry, Daddy.”
“No need to apologize, Princess. You tried your best! I’m still proud of you!”
You smile meekly as I lift your legs to wipe even more poopoo off you.
I wrap a diaper around you, much to your dismay. Though you accept your diaper without argument.
“There, all clean, babygirl!”
I help you off the changing table and Pat your diaper.
It doesn’t take you long to realize your dress isn’t made with diapers in mind.
“Daddyyyyy!”
“You can hardly notice your diaper, Princess,” I lie.
“Mmmmm.”
“Time for a nap, honey. We can come back after and get you a churro. How’s that sound?”
“F-fine…”
I lead you out of the bathroom.
“Feel better, little one?” the mom asks with a knowing smile.
You nod shyly.
I know I shouldn’t be so happy, but I can’t help it. I missed my babygirl.
“Did you make it to the potty on time at all today, honey?” His pull-up, peeking out from his unzipped fly, is completely soaked even though I know for sure that he didn’t have a real all-at-once accident.
“I think I couldn’t make it every time…” His legs shift on the closed lid of the toilet. I had to follow him into the bathroom and get him sitting down before he would let me look at his pull-up. I could still hear him saying, “no…don’t look!” in my head.
“You peed a little bit in your pants every time you were on your way to the bathroom?”
He nods, looking up at me with sad eyes and that worried little crease between his eyebrows.
“No wonder you were so reluctant to let me check you.”
He squirms. “It’s not because I peed myself. It was just a little bit every time.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter how it happened. You’re still soaked.” I stand him up to his feet. I pull his pants down to his ankles while he watches me, thumb in his mouth and fingers hooked around his nose.
I help him kick his pants off and straighten up, meeting his eyes. “Aw…”
His thumb comes out of his mouth. “What?”
“Nothing. You just looked cute.”
He frowns, lips pouty, and looks away.
I cup my hand over his pull-up and feel its weight, pushing it up against him. “This is absolutely drenched. How much did you use it every time you didn’t make it all the way?”
“I didn’t use it. I had little leaks in it.”
“And that’s different from using it because…?”
“Because it’s not all at once. I wasn’t using it; it was helping me when I couldn’t make it. It was like back-up.” Thumb is back in his mouth.
“Uh huh…okay…” I slip my fingers between the sides of the pull-up and his little hips, gently pulling it down.
I drop it in his diaper pail. Now he’s standing naked in the middle of the bathroom.
“Do you think you’re really ready for pull-ups, baby?”
“Yes!”
“Do you think soaking your pull-up from little accidents all day means you’re ready? You don’t think it would be easier if you had a diaper?”
“Uh-uh!”
“No?”
“No…”
“You sure? It’s okay to ask for a diaper if it’s easier.” I reach up and smooth his hair. “It’s fine if you can’t make it, okay? You know that, right? I’m not expecting you to always hold it all the way. We both know you’re little.”
He puffs his chest up. “I don’t need you to not expect it from me! I can stay dry! I’m all ready.”
“You want a second try?”
“I’m gonna stay dry this time. I can do it. It’s not even hard.”
“It isn’t hard? Even though you didn’t do it almost at all today?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not hard. I can do it just fine this time, and you’ll say how proud of me you are and you’ll let me buy new underwear.”
“Okay, sure. And the underwear won’t get ruined this time, I presume?”
“No, this time I’m gonna be a dry boy. All day.”
“You won’t miss diapers?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I might believe you more if your thumb wasn’t in your mouth.”
He doesn’t acknowledge this.
“Okay, baby, let me wipe you down and we’ll try a pull-up again. Do you want the boy style or the girl style?”
“I want the purple one.”
“Okay, sure.” I take a pull-up out of the box under the counter and then open the pack of wipes we keep on the counter by the sink.
“Is that too cold?”
He shakes his head. I finish up by rubbing lotion on him and then he pulls his pull-up on by himself.
“See? I can do it.”
We get him into pajamas that don’t have any little wet spots on them, unlike the pants he left on the bathroom floor, and I go to my bedroom to tidy up a little.
I hear him stand up and go to the kitchen. The cupboard opens and shuts and then I hear the fridge door.
As I’m walking over to the kitchen, I see his shape on the couch in my peripheral vision. He’s sitting on the couch and I’m pretty sure he’s picked out a sippy cup for himself. I open the cupboard and notice that there are plenty of clean glasses.
I shake some chips into a bowl for myself and then fill another bowl with dry cereal for him. He’s cozied up on the couch, watching old school Sesame Street with one hand between his legs and the other around the handle of his sippy cup.
“Nice choice of cup,” I say as I sit down and set the snacks on the coffee table, and he jumps a little, so invested in the show that he must not have noticed me come in.
“Oh, yeah, um, not a lot of stuff was clean.”
“That’s not true. There were plenty of clean glasses. The coke bottle one, and the one with the cow on it, and the Guinness monkey one, and…”
He turns red. “Stooop-uh. You’re distracting me from the show.”
“Stop chewing on it.” I force the sippy cup out of his hands and he whines. “So much whining. Am I meant to believe you’re really so big that you can keep that padding dry?” I push him gently in the shoulder.
“What are you drinking?” I take a little sip from his sippy cup.
“You’re getting cooties on it!” he protests, reaching out to try to get me to hand it back to him.
I lean over and wrap one hand around the back of his head, leaning in and kissing him briefly on the lips. “Is that cooties?”
He sinks into the couch, pulling his shirt over his mouth. “No…”
“Why not? Because you liked it?”
He shakes it off and grabs at the cup again. “Give me my juice back. Ugh, you’re going to make me have to rewind.”
I unscrew the lid from the sippy cup and take one more drink. “Apple and grape juice?”
“Mhm.” He reaches out again and I finally pass him the cup. “Ugggh, you unscrewed it. Screw the lid back on for me.” He shoves it back to me.
“My goodness. Somebody who can apparently keep his pants dry needs me to help him put his sippy cup back together?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“You’re being very mouthy tonight. Do you want to keep that up?”
Now he looks a little guilty, chewing on one finger while I screw his cup back together. I pass it to him and he raises it to his lips immediately, starting to suck.
“There, that’s better. No more being naughty.” I decide to be kind and pick the remote up off the coffee table and rewind for him. “Is this where you were?”
“Uh-huh.”
He suddenly stands up, pulling a blanket off the couch with him, and sets his cup down on the table so fast that it tips over.
“Baby, that’ll roll off the table and spill,” I say, grabbing the cup and setting it upright. But he doesn’t say anything. He’s standing very still, one hand on his crotch.
“Uh-oh,” he says, eyes wide.
“What’s wrong? Ohh, are you peeing?”
He turns and starts to run towards the bathroom. “I can make it!” he yells.
I stand up and follow him. He’s standing in front of the toilet, pull-up around his thighs and a steady stream of pee hissing into the toilet bowl. I give his bare bottom a smack and then pull at the back of his pull-up.
“Um, you’re soaked.”
“No! I made it! Look! I’m going in the toilet!”
“You’re finishing up in the toilet,” I correct him. “Was that what you call a ‘little leak’?”
“No! That one was bigger. He’s finished peeing and goes to pull his pull-up back up. “But it’s your fault! You made me distracted.”
“Hey, you’re not planning on just pulling that back up and wearing it, are you? That’s not happening. You’ll leak for sure.”
He whines as I pull it off and go for the wipes again. After I’ve cleaned him up I reach under the sink again, but it isn’t a pull-up that I’m holding when I stand back up.
“No!!” His eyes are wide and scared. “No!! I don’t need that! I don’t need to wear a diaper like a baby!”
“Evidence would suggest otherwise.” I grab his hand and lead him to the bedroom.
“No!! I’m not lying down! You can’t make me! I’m not putting that on!”
I push him onto the bed and he starts to cry.
“Oh my god, dude. Dramatic much? It’s literally just a diaper.” I push his legs up until I can see his bottom and give him a couple more smacks. He quiets down, thumb back in his mouth suck-suck-sucking. Little tear tracks run from his eyes to his chin.
He helps me holding his knees up so that I can diaper him properly. “Look at that good boy.”
“Mmm…”
“You’re good now? You’re going to be good and not bad anymore?”
He looks up at me, glassy-eyed.
“Let’s go back in the living room and finish that episode, okay, honey? And now you won’t need to worry if you have to go pee. You can just use your diaper!”
“Mhmm.” He squeezes my hand as I pull him up off the bed. I help him back into his pajamas and follow him to the couch.
It isn’t long before he hugs his knees to his chest, expression vacant and eyes unfocused on the tv, and I know he’s peeing himself again already.
“Comfier, isn’t it? Admit it.”
“Okay, fine,” he says quietly. “It’s more comfortable. And…and…I like it.”
It doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished.
None of it makes any difference when you’re about to have your diaper changed.
“Gosh, you’re so just so stinking cute, crinklebutt! I cannot get enough of those blushy lil' cheekies when you're looking up at me.”
She’s not wrong. I can feel my cheeks burning with the all-too-familiar shame that defines my new place in life.
Stripped of any pretense of adulthood. Utterly exposed.
There is no dignity in this position.
Not when I’m lying on the kitchen floor, on a changing mat decorated with diapered teddy bears.
Not when my wife towers over me, cooing at me like I’m an actual toddler. I mean, she’s literally looking down on me.
And especially not when my diaper—my thoroughly used diaper—is on full display.
There is no hiding from the truth.
She'll never see me as the man I used to be ever again. I'll never be anything but the adorable, helpless boy with a loaded diaper she's about to change.
That's all I am to her now.
Cute.
Adorable.
Precious.
That’s all anyone in a diaper can be.
"Aww, are you being a silly willy trying to cover up that diapie, hmm?" she says as she tickles my tummy, "Do you think I don't already know you're a poopy boy?"
Ugh.
See what I mean? She used to respect me. Now I'm just a “silly, poopy boy.”
And doesn't matter how many times I've been in this same position. It never gets any easier. That voice never fails to crush whatever dignity I cling to.
It's not the constant crinkling when I walk. It's not how I'm helpless to prevent my diaper from filling up. It's not even the stupid prints on my diaper or the ridiculous baby things she insists on putting me in. It’s not even that voice.
It's this moment right now.
Diaper changes are the culmination of everything embarrassing about my life: the full, brown, soggy printed diaper; the changing mat; the baby talk; the smile on her face.
All while I helplessly wait for her to wipe me clean.
Trust me, I know how it looks. But if you’re lucky, you’ll never know how it feels to be reduced to this.
"Alright, mister, let's get down to business. Time to wipe that stinky tushy clean!"
There is no mistaking the power dynamic during a diaper change. Nobody would ever wonder if the man that's patiently laying in a poopy diaper is in charge of anything.
And she knows it.
You see, everything changed the first time she changed my diaper.
I'll never forget it. The day I ruined my life.
You might be surprised that it wasn't my incontinence or my diapers that started all of this. Nope. She was surprisingly accepting of it all.
Until I asked her to change my diaper.
It was just an innocent request—I blew out my shoulder playing beer-league softball and needed some help.
I knew I was in trouble the moment she kneeled in front of me, my soggy diaper about to burst.
I could see it in her eyes.
That's the thing about diaper changes. The lesson I learned the hard way.
There is no way to avoid looking like a helpless baby when you’re waiting for a diaper change.
It’s not a position for adults.
As soon as she opened her mouth and I heard that horrible, silly voice reserved for babies, I knew there was no going back.
Each tab that ripped was like a nail in my adult coffin. By the time my legs were lifted in the air, I knew the truth.
I was no longer her husband.
So here I am, hundreds of mortifying changes later. Waiting for yet another diaper change.
Waiting for her to rip open my tabs and reveal the mess I made for her.
Wondering if she’ll ever treat me like a man again.
“Wow, baby! This might be your biggest poopoo yet! Luckily you have your diapies to catch all your uh ohs!”
It doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished.
None of it makes any difference when you’re about to have your diaper changed.
“Gosh, you’re so just so stinking cute, crinklebutt! I cannot get enough of those blushy lil' cheekies when you're looking up at me.”
She’s not wrong. I can feel my cheeks burning with the all-too-familiar shame that defines my new place in life.
Stripped of any pretense of adulthood. Utterly exposed.
There is no dignity in this position.
Not when I’m lying on the kitchen floor, on a changing mat decorated with diapered teddy bears.
Not when my wife towers over me, cooing at me like I’m an actual toddler. I mean, she’s literally looking down on me.
And especially not when my diaper—my thoroughly used diaper—is on full display.
There is no hiding from the truth.
She'll never see me as the man I used to be ever again. I'll never be anything but the adorable, helpless boy with a loaded diaper she's about to change.
That's all I am to her now.
Cute.
Adorable.
Precious.
That’s all anyone in a diaper can be.
"Aww, are you being a silly willy trying to cover up that diapie, hmm?" she says as she tickles my tummy, "Do you think I don't already know you're a poopy boy?"
Ugh.
See what I mean? She used to respect me. Now I'm just a “silly, poopy boy.”
And doesn't matter how many times I've been in this same position. It never gets any easier. That voice never fails to crush whatever dignity I cling to.
It's not the constant crinkling when I walk. It's not how I'm helpless to prevent my diaper from filling up. It's not even the stupid prints on my diaper or the ridiculous baby things she insists on putting me in. It’s not even that voice.
It's this moment right now.
Diaper changes are the culmination of everything embarrassing about my life: the full, brown, soggy printed diaper; the changing mat; the baby talk; the smile on her face.
All while I helplessly wait for her to wipe me clean.
Trust me, I know how it looks. But if you’re lucky, you’ll never know how it feels to be reduced to this.
"Alright, mister, let's get down to business. Time to wipe that stinky tushy clean!"
There is no mistaking the power dynamic during a diaper change. Nobody would ever wonder if the man that's patiently laying in a poopy diaper is in charge of anything.
And she knows it.
You see, everything changed the first time she changed my diaper.
I'll never forget it. The day I ruined my life.
You might be surprised that it wasn't my incontinence or my diapers that started all of this. Nope. She was surprisingly accepting of it all.
Until I asked her to change my diaper.
It was just an innocent request—I blew out my shoulder playing beer-league softball and needed some help.
I knew I was in trouble the moment she kneeled in front of me, my soggy diaper about to burst.
I could see it in her eyes.
That's the thing about diaper changes. The lesson I learned the hard way.
There is no way to avoid looking like a helpless baby when you’re waiting for a diaper change.
It’s not a position for adults.
As soon as she opened her mouth and I heard that horrible, silly voice reserved for babies, I knew there was no going back.
Each tab that ripped was like a nail in my adult coffin. By the time my legs were lifted in the air, I knew the truth.
I was no longer her husband.
So here I am, hundreds of mortifying changes later. Waiting for yet another diaper change.
Waiting for her to rip open my tabs and reveal the mess I made for her.
Wondering if she’ll ever treat me like a man again.
“Wow, baby! This might be your biggest poopoo yet! Luckily you have your diapies to catch all your uh ohs!”
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
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