Tis the Season: Beach Vacation Part 2

The way back always seems shorter than the way to somewhere, unless you’re getting taken back to the changing booths at the boardwalk of a public beach to get scolded, probably spanked, and changed into a diaper. You hold your partner’s hand like they told you to – warned, in fact, that if you didn’t they’d swat your bottom all the way to the changing booths in front of everyone – and as you scrutinize your partner’s face while trying not to make it obvious, you’re hyper-aware of your body.

You wish you were wearing a shirt, and reach back to tug up your swim bottoms to make sure your swim diaper doesn’t show. As you do, you twist just a little, and you feel your partner’s hand tighten. Do they think you were trying to pull away?

And your expression. Do you look like someone in trouble?

And your gait. Do the two of you look like a couple in love walking leisurely hand-in-hand down the beach? Or does your partner have that determined look, that self-assured stride they have when taking you somewhere to give you a consequence? Are you half a step behind, looking uncertain, not exactly dragging your feet but far from enthusiastic as you shuffle along beside them on the way to receive your consequence?

Most people don’t notice you; they’re too preoccupied with their own day at the beach, but you draw attention from the people walking straight toward you on their own walk down the beach. Not because of your partner or holding hands or the way you’re walking but because you look at them a little too long, trying to suss out what they’re thinking before catching each other’s eyes and looking away red-faced, compounding all the other ways you’re embarrassed.

You should know better by now, and not just about the reason you’re in trouble. You should know that strangers never notice what you’re wearing (or if they do, that they’ll never say anything to you about it) or what the expression on your face means. You hardly ever notice what anyone else is wearing or speculate about what they’re thinking, so you know logically that no one else does, but you can’t seem to internalize the confidence this knowledge should give you.

You should know better, too, that your partner will chastise you in public. You doubted they would follow through on their threat to spank march you down the beach, but until a couple years ago, you doubted they would ever put you back in diapers like they said they were considering. A couple years before that, you doubted that the spankings they gave you were anything other than kinky, even with the scolding and the burning bottom. But they did put you back in diapers, and before that you had figured out that no, those sessions over their knee were serious discipline for real misdeeds your partner thought you had committed and that they needed to correct you for.

You had doubted before that they would spank you in public, until it happened. Of all places, at the grocery store. It was a few months after your return to diapers. You didn’t want to go with your partner to the store, but they insisted. You hadn’t gone out much after you went back to diapers unless they pressured you too, not yet used to wearing them around strangers but slowly, oddly, getting more used to it around family. You knew it didn’t make any sense; what did it matter what strangers thought, surely what people you know think of you matters more. But the people you know love and accept you; they won’t mock you or make you feel small, but a stranger might even if they don’t mean to.

You could’ve just gone to the store, as your partner later pointed out, but no, you had to argue about it before getting in the car and sulk the whole way there. You’d walked slowly as though trying to hear your diaper crinkling, and when you didn’t hear it, you walked slowly to keep it that way even though it was the ambient noise in the busy store, not your dawdling, that masked the sound. You kept walking that way even when your partner asked you to step it up, not scolding you but nicely, even playfully, encouraging you with “Aren’t you coming?” and “stay with me, slow poke.”

You knew they were making an effort to be patient and to draw you out of your sulk, and the attempt only irritated you. “You’re awfully quiet,” they said, trying to coax a word out of you. If only it succeeded in the way intended.

“Because I don’t wanna be here,” you hissed, “and you know that cuz I told you so.”

The playful lilt was gone from their voice when they replied at a normal speaking volume, “But you’re here now, and you know why I made you come, so stop acting like a naughty child or I’ll treat you like one.”

You looked around to see if anyone had heard, and you were pretty sure a fellow shopper heard because they seemed to be going out of their way to not look at the two of you. Your partner lowered their voice and said, “I mean it. I won’t wait until we get home. I’ll take you to the restroom and spank your little bottom right in the store if you don’t drop the attitude.”

So much in their scolding just took you over the edge. The accusation you were acting like a child stung; you’d always hated being compared to kids and gotten especially sensitive about it since diapers became a part of your daily outfit again. That you were being chastised for being in a bad mood, like you weren’t allowed to be. And the empty threat of spanking you in the store, like you really were just a gullible child who could be made to behave by such an obviously absurd threat.

Sure, maybe you’d get a spanking when you got home, maybe you would get one no matter what you did next, but no way would they actually spank you at the grocery store. Once upon a time that happened to misbehaving kids, but that was generations ago. No one would dare spank in public. Heck, hardly anybody in their right mind spanks at all anymore. If only you’d turned that logic around before you said what you said. If only you’d thought, Almost no one spanks anymore, but my partner does; and adults don’t ever get spanked, but I do. Maybe then you would’ve after you’d thought, No one ever gets spanked in public anymore, you would’ve realized,but my partner will spank me in public. Maybe then you wouldn’t have said, “That is such crap and we both know it.”

They calmly told you, in that tone that tells you doing anything other than what you’re told will only make it worse for you, to put your hand on the cart and keep it there. You did, and the two of you walked to the restroom, and you went inside. They locked the door, calmly told you why you were getting a spanking, took your pants down to your knees, tugged your slightly damp diaper down past your bottom, and spanked you. The only difference between between that and the spankings you get at home were your partner tucked you under their arm to put your bottom where they wanted and didn’t have a hairbrush to use. It hurt, and your eyes were watery when your partner said, “Ever since I had to put you back in diapers you’ve had an attitude like a teenager and thrown to tantrums like a toddler, and I won’t have it.” The words stung more than their hand because you knew they were right.

They put pulled your diaper back up, then your pants, and wrapped you in a big hug, like they always do after disciplining you, and said the two of you were going to have a long talk when you got home to discuss what you needed to do to avoid another spanking for the same transgression.

Spanked bare bottom with your diaper tugged down in the grocery store like a toddler circa 1950. In retrospect, that marked the day your partner lowered the bar for what constituted a bad choice on your part and started to give you consequences much more often. From a couple times a year to as often as a couple times a week and not just spankings but consequences that seemed even more childish somehow, like taking away your phone for a day or grounding you from Xbox for a week.

They proved, too, that they would spank you in a public place again, and you wish you had taken that lesson to heart today before you’d let your nervousness put you in a bad mood; before you let yourself take that bad mood out on your partner; and before you’d deliberately disobeyed – and smarted off in the process – after they’d been so patient andwarned you not to. That you hadn’t is making you feel nearly as childish as standing in line for a changing booth holding your partner’s hand and trying desperately to determine whether the people, the wind, and the waves will keep others from hearing what is about to happen, though you are unconsciously glad you can’t quite tell because you are too afraid the answer is no, that everyone will hear your scolding, your spanking, and your diaper change.

To this is added the usual butterflies in your tummy you always feel while standing in line for a family or disabled restroom or changing room. Every time you are convinced the others in line must be looking at the two of you, speculating on which of you needs help in the restroom and why and what exactly with. You’d be wondering that, so unlike just anywhere in public, the line for the restroom is where you’re sure people are watching, even if just for an extra second, and where you know your expression is a dead giveaway that you’re the one who needs help. The way your partner carries themselves, along with the bag that isn’t obviously a diaper bag to most people but obviously is to parents – the kind of bag meant to be more stylish than most diaper bags but that has become so ubiquitous any parent with a kid still in diapers knows what it is – confirms it. Often it’s parents and their babies and toddlers you’re waiting in line with, carrying essentially the same diaper bag. Anyone who looks will see you holding hands with your partner, and you’re almost certain know that’s really your partner holding your hand.

Your partner has a much lower tolerance for how wet your diaper gets before changing you when you’re out than when at home, which they’ve told you is because wet pants out and about would be so much worse than at home, and isn’t a change in the restroom better than wet pants. You know they’re right. It also means, though, that your diaper gets checked a lot more in public, and your partner has gotten over any embarrassment they ever felt for groping your butt in public, deciding it’s cute and funny and no one would ever guess they’re checking for a soggy bumbum or the firm, singular shape of a loaded diaper rather than assuming they’re just feeling you up. Either way, your partner says, it’s just a public display of affection. At least messy changes away from home are rare.

No one is waiting behind you, but that could change before it’s your turn or while you’re in there. The booth is at the end of the row, so at least there’s only another booth, and short line for it, on one side of you. But on the other hand, your booth is closest to the boardwalk, with people coming and going. When it’s your turn, there’s still nobody in line behind you, and you count it as a blessing even as you swallow hard thinking of what’s about to happen.

Only when the door closes behind you does your partner let your hand go. They latch the door and set the beach bag down on a bench against the wall. They seem to be assessing the space, and you decide to try getting out of your consequence. “Honey,” you say.

“Sit,” they reply before you can say anything else. Just like always, it’s a calm tone. Confident. Almost but not quite clinical, like this unpleasantness is just a part of being married to you but doesn’t at all detract from the joy of being married to you, dealing with your bad choices in the hopes of preventing you from making them again just one of those responsibilities that comes with having you in their lives. A responsibility no one enjoys but that they carry out lovingly because they love you, just like being a parent – or the partner of a very incontinent adult like you – means having to change yucky diapers.

And you go along with it, not because they’ve ever made you or because you’re scared of them – though that kind but firm tone is intimidating, and though while you’re not afraid of them you are a little afraid of a spanking and find it embarrassing – but because for all that’s wrong about it, there’s more that’s right about it. You’re too old to behave the way you do sometimes, and when you do, it always causes a problem, most often a row with your partner and the frosty chill that follows. Their discipline definitely helps you to avoid those bad choices sometimes, and so it’s worth it. They’re not a dictator; every petty argument doesn’t end with a consequence; but when they’re right and you take it too far – and you usually know they’re right and yet resist and take it too far anyway – you end up where you are now: sitting in front of them listening to them explain in a way that reassures you of their love what you did wrong, what your consequence is going to be, and what you’ll do differently in the future. All while much more upset with yourself for having made such an obvious mistake than they ever are with you, the final reason you’ve accepted their discipline, to take away that bad feeling and remind you, when they’re holding you after, that they don’t love you any less and never will.

Not that it makes the consequence itself better. You still hate the consequence even if you hate needing the consequence more, so while you never try very hard to get out of it, it’s still hard to listen to the lecture. No one likes getting called out; the guilty feeling is awful; and the anticipation is no fun at all. But you still try your best not to think of that but to listen to what they’re saying.

“I understand better than anyone else that having accidents and needing diapers is embarrassing,” your partner begins their lecture. “I’m the one who made excuses for you when you had accidents in front of others. I’m the one who apologized while you were waiting in the restroom with dirty undies or slinking out to the car with wet pants. And somehow you didn’t understand that having a visible accident in front of other people is much more embarrassing than wearing diapers that almost no one is never going to notice.”

Your partner is right. Being embarrassed of by you is not why they put you back in diapers, but that was one way – a major way – your condition has impacted your partner. Before diapers, when you’d wet or soil yourself, the pitiable ‘sorry’ you voiced was meant to cover that and the upset and the general unpleasantness of it all, but you never thought ‘sorry’ was enough. You didn’t know, though, how to express it how much you regretted how your accidents impacted them, so you never quite did. You knew how to put a stop to it – go back to diapers – but the idea was somehow more distasteful than continuing to ruin your pants – and trips, meals, and holidays – so you pushed it out of your mind.

Your partner continues, “And I get that diapers are embarrassing. I really do, but that doesn’t mean you can just pretend you don’t need them when there’s any remote chance someone will guess what you’re wearing.”

“I don’t pretend I don’t need them,” you say.

“No,” your partner says in a steady tone belying their exasperation, “you just ignore anything having to do with them. I get why you’ve never taken responsibility for your diapers …”

You’ve never taken responsibility for them, mostly because doing so would take away the last few strands of self-deception telling you that maybe, just maybe, you won’t always need them. To take charge of them would be like resigning yourself to them forever. So long as your partner manages your diapers, you can subconsciously tell yourself you wear them because they think you need to, not because you think you need to. Better to know you’ll always need your partner – and you do and will and wouldn’t have it any other way – than to admit you’ll always need diapers. But the one time you wanted to take responsibility, just for a few days so you could stay home alone rather than with your parents while your partner was on a business trip – your partner wouldn’t let you.

“… so I’ve taken responsibility for them,” your partner reminds you. “I took responsibility for putting you back in them, and I’ve taken responsibility for buying them, changing them, and helping you adjust to them and live a full life ever since. And you don’t get to have it both ways.”

That’s the crux of it, what’s got your partner especially upset with you. You blush redder than you already were and look away, unable to look even in their direction because you know they’re right.

“I will happily do all the work of having you in diapers because I love you so, so much. But you don’t get to put all the work on me and then tell me no like you just did on the beach.”

Most of the consequences you’ve gotten since going back into diapers have been about two things: attitude and saying no. Your partner isn’t as strict about you disobeying as they could be, and maybe not as much as they should be. They give you choices; they give you second chances; they even negotiate; and when all that fails, they give you warnings; they give you minor consequences like a timeout; they give you moderate consequences like taking away your screens; and when you still don’t see reason – or more likely when you do but you’re being obstinate for your own reasons – only then do you get the big consequence: a bare bottom trip over their knee.

It’s never not embarrassing, even when you’re alone. It makes you feel so humbled to have them declaring you’re getting a spanking, so submissive to be taken by the hand or to come when told, so childish to stand with your hands at your side while they unbutton your pants and expose your diaper. So babyish that the diaper always stays under you to absorb the piddle you leak as they spank-spank-spank your bottom.

“We had an issue yesterday with your arguing with me about putting your diaper changing supplies in the nursery,” your partner reminds you. “Do you think I don’t understand why you got so fussy,” they ask rhetorically, using an adjective no one ever used to describe you before you started wearing diapers again. “Needing diapers doesn’t make you a baby; wearing diapers doesn’t make you a baby; needing me and other grown ups to change your diapers doesn’t make you a baby; needing me to spank your bottom for you when you don’t make good choices doesn’t make you a baby. But what does make you childish is arguing with me and disobeying when I’m trying to help you and taking your feelings out on me instead of just telling me what you’re feeling so I can make it better.”

You hear them, and you know they’re right, and you now know for sure it isn’t just a diaper change you’ll be getting in that booth. This whole time, your partner has been scolding you like you’re not a few steps away from a busy boardwalk but back in your own home. Or maybe they’re scolding you exactly like there might be a line of people outside who could hear everything and your partner just isn’t embarrassed or worried or ashamed for people to know you’re about to get a spanking and why, as if there’s no reason to deviate from the way they discipline you at home just because you’re in the changing booth of a public beach.

“Stand up, please,” your partner directs you, and you do so without hesitating. You don’t protest or try to get them to change their mind or at least take you back to the house. You’re already in enough trouble for not doing as you’re told; you know better than to dig the hole deeper. Your partner sits down on the bench and bends down to get to the beach bag. They take out a reusable grocery bag and from within it a fresh diaper in a ziploc baggie. You’re trying to stop all the bad feelings from making you cry even before your spanking begins and watch and wonder as they reach back into the beach bag searching for something else. It’s that much harder to hold in your emotions when they retrieve the hairbrush; you’re sniffling just a little as they lean forward, diaper in one hand and the hairbrush in the other as they tell you with their eyes to stand right in front of you.

All those years ago when your partner asked your permission to spank you whenever they thought you needed it, you thought it was kink when you said yes. You didn’t enjoy it the first time, and you didn’t understand why you didn’t have sex after. It wasn’t so bad though, and it seemed to satisfy them in some way you couldn’t put your finger on. Even without the sex, they were very affectionate after. The second time was a little worse, but it was hard to tell because the first one was six months ago. But the third time, when you’d gotten into a row and said something you instantly regretted, you figured out it wasn’t anything other than old-fashioned discipline when they’d said whenever I think you need it. Your partner had issues with your behavior and thought spanking your butt was the best consequence to get through to you and avoid a repeat of bad behavior. It was while you were standing in the corner that third time, where they’d put you after taking you by the ear, waiting for the timer they’d set to signal your timeout was over, that you knew for sure they were serious. And the scolding after your timeout when they told you the next time you used words like that you’d get your mouth washed out. And when the hairbrush was walloping your bottom.

But you never cried during the couple of spankings you got each year. You’re an adult. Adults don’t cry just because of pain. And while you usually felt bad about whatever you were being discipline for, those feelings weren’t strong enough to bring tears even though the whole ordeal made you feel small and vulnerable.

But then your partner decided for you that you’d be wearing diapers again, and once you were back in them, you started getting a lot more consequences. Not because your partner was disappointed with you, they explained, but because they let so many things go before that should’ve earned you a consequence, and for your well-being and the sake of your relationship, they weren’t going to make that mistake anymore. It was a period of adjustment as you got turned over their knee as often as once and sometimes twice a week, but you learned your lessons, mostly anyway, and that told your partner you didn’t need as many consequences but that you did still need some because obviously they were helping. From almost the beginning of the new war on naughtiness, you started to sniffle during especially rough scoldings when you really felt like you let your partner down. A time or two you even cried your way through a timeout. When they took your screens away for a weekend, you spent twenty minutes facedown crying into your covers out of frustration. And now hardly a bottom warming goes by that doesn’t at least provoke a few tears, and the hairbrush always does.

Your partner didn’t get the hairbrush to spank you with. They got it to brush their hair. A kinky person would’ve bought a paddle, but for real discipline, your partner is sure a hairbrush is enough. It’s domestic and ready at hand, but it’s never been this ready at hand. Your partner doesn’t take it places in case you need discipline; it’s just something they always drop in the pool bag for after they’re out of the water. You’ve never been spanked with the hairbrush away from home before, and the prospect is bringing you closer to tears as your partner lowers your swimsuit bottoms, exposing your soaked swim diaper.

They examine the swim diaper, looking at each side before putting their hand between your legs and lifting the diaper up just a little to see how heavy it is. They push their hand further and you feel them pat your bottom from underneath. You know what they’re doing; they’re assessing how well the swim diaper did its job. You can’t even get spanked without your need for diapers confronting you. They don’t mean it to, nor are they doing it to point out once again that they’ve taken every ounce of responsibility for managing your incontinence onto their shoulders. They’re just checking your diaper because it’s one of those responsibilities.

You move your hands out of the way while they tear the sides of the swim diaper open, first one then the other as they catch the weight of it and pull it out from between your thighs. You notice the quick glance they take to confirm there isn’t a stain in the rear. You’re grateful there isn’t; nothing has ever made you feel so small as having your dirty diaper changed, knowing the same hand wiping your bottom will be spanking it as soon as it’s clean. They set the balled-up diaper on the floor and open the ziploc. “Can’t imagine anything worse than a sandy diaper,” they explain as set the baggie aside and spread the diaper business side up over their lap. There’s almost nothing left to do accept for your spanking, but you never get a consequence without your partner telling you exactly what’s going to happen, as though you’re a toddler and need it explained. It’s not because you’re a toddler, your partner once told you, but because it clarifies, just to be sure, that you understand what you did wrong, what consequence you’re getting, and what will happen after. You know all that, and your partner knows you do, and maybe they don’t realize the real reason they’re saying it is to make it less scary for you, to remind you that even though they’re going to make your bottom hurt, you’re still safe and loved.

“I’m going to put you over my knee, spank your bottom until I think you’ve learned your lesson, and then we’ll get you into a fresh diaper, I’ll hold you, and we’ll talk about what you’ll do differently in the future.”

They need only gesture with their eyes to tell you it’s time to lay yourself across the diaper protecting their lap. It feels childish to be in that position even though you never once got spanked as a child. Feeling childish is one kind of embarrassment and it’s bad enough, but the cramped booth that hardly leaves enough room to for you to get into position reminds you you’re not a child but a full-grown adult about to get spanked because you made a naughty choice, a whole other, worse kind of embarrassment.

Your partner waits for you to stop wiggling; they need you in a comfortable position before it’s safe to start your spanking. And once you’re in that position, their hand tightens around your hip and the first spank lands.

Your partner doesn’t belabor these affairs. They spank hard and fast because they want it to be over fast. It still lasts long enough, though, for you to think about something else before all you can think about is the pain. You think how it’s kind of odd seeing their bare feet upside down. You think about whether anyone is outside waiting for the booth and if so, whether they can hear your spanking and if so, whether in their wildest imagination they think it’s an adult getting their backside smacked. You think about how much worse leaving the booth will be than going in was. And then you think about the reason you’re being spanked, how badly behaved you were, how poorly you treated the person who loves you more than anyone else in the whole wide world just because they were trying to take care of you, how they always take such good care of you, and how unfair it is for you to take out your feelings about needing the care on them.

Now you’re crying, and you’re not thinking about anything other than the heat and pain in your backside and how you can cry all you want but don’t want to sob. A face full of big wet tears is fine and maybe even necessary, but you don’t want anyone outside to hear you sobbing. Not just a grown adult getting spanked but getting spanked to tears. You brace yourself when your partner pauses and choke down your sob as the hairbrush land three times on each cheek. And then it’s over.

Later, when you still can’t stop thinking about it and before your partner notices your sullen mood and makes you feel better, you’ll think about whether you should feel embarrassed not just for being spanked but for the kind of spanking you get: one spank by hand for each year of your age and a few finishers with the hairbrush to drive the point home, the whole thing lasting no more than a minute. You’ve checked online, and while it’s comforting to know you’re not the only adult whose partner disciplines them with a trip across their lap, you feel different even from them. You’ve never been brave enough to do more than lurk on the forums, but you’ve read the threads about warmups and spankings with dozens and even hundreds of spanks, multiple implements getting used, bruises that don’t fade for a week or more, actual difficulty sitting down. Those other adults are getting adult-sized spankings, and most of them don’t cry even though some want to. Bad enough to get spanked like a kid but to get a kid-sized spanking and carrying on the way you do … Good thing your partner will be there later, notice your funk remind you your spanking is over, all is forgiven, and take your mind away from it.

But just then you’re crying still and stifling your sobs as your partner runs their fingers down your bare back and shushes you, cooing, “It’s all over. You were very brave.” They wait until you have yourself under control and ask, “Can you roll over for me?” You do. Without words and with practiced motions you open your thighs enough to make room for them to pull the diaper through, arch your back so they can adjust it, and lay flat so they can close the diaper and tape it snug. Of all the ways to get diapered, flat on your back across their lap with a warm, red bottom is your least favorite, and you don’t like any of the others either.

You sit up into the open arms waiting for you. It’s always comforting to be held after a spanking, but it feels so much better this time, bare skin to bare skin. There’s something about it that’s just different, and your tears dry up. You still feel contrite, but also the warm reassurance your partner still loves you, that you’re forgiven, that the two of you are alright.

“I’m sorry,” you say with your face against their chest.

“I know, baby. I forgive you.” And they kiss your hair and rub your back. “What are you not gonna do in the future?”

“Take out my feelings on you and say no. I know you’re just trying to help me.”

“And what are you gonna do?”

“Do what you say the first time.”

“And tell me when you’re having yucky feelings so I can help you before you make a bad choice.” They lean back so you can see each other’s faces. “I mean it.”

You look away from their eyes and nod, deeply and more than once, showing you understand and take it as seriously as they do. You both know, however, that as committed as you each are, you’ll make the same mistake; and if it’s bad enough, you’ll get the same consequence. Your partner never discusses their thinking or philosophy about your discipline, but they’ve known for a while that if these sessions over their knee aren’t enough to get the point across so that you remember it, they won’t spank you longer or harder. They’ll just spank you more often. That period after they put you back in diapers and became stricter with discipline was hard on them too. Unlike you, they didn’t just lurk on the forums. They joined and asked questions, and they decided they’d never spank like other adults spank their partners. They know you’re too sensitive, that it would be too scary for you. You’ll never know that, just like you’ll never know the time you nearly got spanked and we’re spared the consequence because they couldn’t bring themselves to spank over the diaper rash so mild you didn’t even know you were had it yet; they just put you to bed early instead, sitting up with you silently stroking your hair until you fell asleep.

“Okay,” your partner says, “can you put your bottoms back on while I put that yucky swim diaper away?” Of course you can dress yourself, and you do while they put the wet diaper in the now-empty ziploc and bundle everything back into the beach bag.

“What if I wanna go back in the water,” you ask.

“Then we’ll come back here and change you into another swim diaper, silly goose.” Decades you went without being called a silly goose, and once you were back in diapers … “You ready to go back to our chairs and take a nap?”

You look at the thin door between you and whoever else is out there, and say, “W-what if someone is out there?”

“They won’t say anything to hurt your feelings.”

How could your partner possibly know that? You wouldn’t be surprised to find two cops on bicycles ready to arrest either an abusive parent or two publicly indecent adults. Great that your partner feels so secure; they’re not the one wearing a diaper over a freshly spanked butt. A diaper under a swimsuit too thin to muffle the crinkling or adequately conceal the thickness and outline of what’s underneath it. How can your partner not understand that you have every reason to be scared of the embarrassment you could suffer and to take steps to prevent it, like taking a risk the swim diaper that started all this could make it through nap time? How can your partner act like you’re the one being ridiculous for being embarrassed and frightened you’ll be downright humiliated; that they, and not you, are the reasonable one.

A part of you wants to throw another tantrum, a real one this time, to tear the diaper off and stomp every step of the way back to the rental house. But the much bigger part of you knows better, that your partner is trying to help you even if you’re pretty sure they’re getting it wrong, and the prospect of hurting their feelings by doubting them, disappointing them by going back on your promise to make good choices not five minutes after you made it is worse than that of abject humiliation you may suffer. You’ve always been more willing to what’s best for them than for yourself.

“Ready,” your partner asks, their voice once more taking on the tone of bright cheerfulness, as though trying to infect you with their sunny optimism, to get you to stop doubting them and even more, to stop believing you can’t live a full life just because you need diapers.

“Mhmm,” you say.

They open the door, and there’s a long line of people waiting for the booth you’re coming out of and another long line for the next booth over. Staring back at you is … She isn’t staring back at you. She’s just a woman waiting in line looking straight ahead with a diaper bag on her shoulder and an infant in a floppy bucket hat on her arm.

You glance out of the corner of your eye looking for a cue from your partner. You look back at the woman – just a split second is all you stand – for any reaction, anything to give you a clue about what they’re thinking. If only you weren’t so shy, so nervous you can’t even look at her, you’d have seen it: the woman’s eye following the line of your partner’s arm down to see her holding your hand, the glance at the bag over your partner’s shoulder, and then barest of smiles flashes across her lips just before an almost invisible nod, a gesture mirrored by your partner, as both of them signal they respect they have for the other, knowing how hard it is to take someone in diapers to the beach.

No words; no mention; nothing communicated by hand or body language. Just a nod to recognize each other as peers leading similar lives of similar responsibilities and experiences, aware of the travails. And it all transpired so fast you never know it happens.

With the wind and the waves and the people, you can’t hear your diaper crinkling. If you look down, you can tell you’re wearing one; if you reach back, you’d feel the square bulge the drape of your swim bottoms can’t hide. But no one is paying any attention to you, and if they did, they wouldn’t guess what you’re wearing, and if they did, they wouldn’t say anything, and if they did, it would most likely be said to your partner, something sympathetic about how hard it must be for your partner to also be your caregiver, as young as you both are, and admiring about how being a caretaker doesn’t seem to get them down or stop the two of you from living your lives.

But no stranger would ever say that because they won’t say anything all, so no stranger will ever know how right they are. You would know it too if you ever took a moment to think about it. You don’t need to know it because your partner knows it, that if it weren’t for them, you’d be trapped at home by the fear of a yet another public accident running down your leg. Instead, you’re on the beach with your partner just like any other couple taking a holiday by the sea. Your partner won’t let your fear take that away from you, and all you need to do to help them do that for you is whatever they tell you.