Tis the Season: Beach Vacation Part 1

You’re on vacation. You’re supposed to be relaxed, having fun, enjoying your partner’s company and the break from your everyday. But you’re not relaxed or having fun. Your partner is annoying you even though you know they’re not doing anything annoying. They’ve been patient and indulging, but their patience is wearing thin.

Before you even left home, you’d been in a mood. “This is what people must mean about traveling with a baby being so hard,” your partner said while packing. “Except instead of beach toys it’s diapers. Parents can at least buy diapers wherever they’re going.”

You’d taken exception to that remark, testily reminding your partner, “I’m not a baby.”

“I know, honey; I didn’t say you are. I just meant it’s a lot to pack.”

“Do we really need to bring that many diapers?”

“It’s four a day plus some extra just in case. That’s about how many you use in a day.” You don’t keep track; they do the changing and the buying and the stocking the diaper bag. It surprises you that you go through so many, but also not, when you think about it.

On the morning you left on your drive, you’d argued about having to wear double diapers. You almost never have to wear diapers; in fact, the only time is when you have an upset tummy, and you don’t have one the morning you leave. “It’s obvious I’m wearing diapers,” you whined.

“Obvious to who? We’re going to be in the car.”

“We have to stop places.”

“We’ll park far away. You can stretch your legs while I use the restroom. Or you can only wear one diaper, but that means we’ll need to change you at a rest stop.”

That idea was hardly pleasing. Rest stops are so busy in the summer, they’re almost always dirty and smelly, and sometimes the doors don’t lock. What if someone walked in? Or worse, what if the rest stop didn’t have a family restroom? Gas stations almost never have a family restroom. You’d have to either change in a regular restroom yourself, which you’d never done, or be changed in the car. You’d done that once, and you’d hated every moment of it, your heart in your throat the whole time dreading the moment someone saw what was happening, though the moment never came.

“So one diaper or two,” your partner asked you.

“Two,” you grudgingly replied.

“I knew you’d agree when you thought about it.” Your partner can be so smug sometimes, or at least come off that way, like they know everything, at least when it comes to anything related to your diapers and behavior. “But if you have a messy incident, we’ll hafta find a place to change you. You can’t sit in it that long, and I don’t think either of us want to be in the car with a dirty diaper any longer than we have to.”

Messy changes away from home are the worst. They take so long and you never feel as clean as you do when you get changed from a poopy diaper to a clean one at home. At least you were spared the unpleasantness of a stinky diaper on the drive to the beach, but only just. You haven’t finished unpacking the car when you feel the familiar sensation of your diaper growing out and sagging downward to rest soft and warm and heavy against the tops of your thighs. You are already very wet in your diapers; they were already heavy. You heft the box with your week’s worth of diapers and waddle into the rental house.

You’ve been back in diapers so long that having a dirty diaper doesn’t bother you when you’re alone or with your partner, so you don’t feel embarrassed about what happened. Actually, you feel proud that you didn’t have a messy diaper on the road. You obviously had to go, but you didn’t. You held it. Or thought you did. You didn’t mess in the car but soon after getting out of it. That means you held it, right? Or that you didn’t have to go then, but it probably means you did have to go and you held it. Of course it does, but you don’t tell your partner. They’ll be happy for you, which is great but you don’t want to be congratulated for holding it for a little while. It makes you feel too much like a potty training toddler. Besides, even though you held it, you still need diapers. And you did hold it; you’re sure of it, which is why you ask yourself if you held it more than once, you tell yourself.

“I need a change,” you say to your partner when you get inside.

“Phew! I’d say you do, stinky pants,” they say cheerfully in the breezy tone they use to make it feel like it’s not a big deal if you, an adult, pooped yourself and are wearing loaded, oversized pampers.

They walk right past you toward the car, and you ask, “So can I get changed?”

“Let’s finish unloading first. It’ll only take another trip or two.” You notice your partner try to muffle a snicker.

“What?”

“Unloading.” Their titter doesn’t amuse you. “You know I’m only joking,” they assure you as they step back across the room and rub your shoulder before patting your droopy diaper. “Set down your diapers and come with me; just one more trip.” You set the box down and follow.

When you get back, you get into a tiny row about where your diapers go. Your partner reminds you, “We keep your diapers in the second bedroom at home. What’s the big deal?”

“The other bedroom isn’t a nursery,” you point out. A nursery, complete with a crib and cute wallpaper and a rocking chair and a changing table. “There are two other bedrooms here; why does it have to be the nursery?”

“Because it’s closest to our room. Besides, there’s even a diaper pail in there.”

“We can move the diaper pail.”

“That’s just silly.”

“I am not being silly!”

Raising your voice is a mistake. Your partner gives you a look that says so and adds, “Strike one. Do not raise your voice at me. You are not a baby just because we’re going to change your diapers in a nursery. That’s why you don’t wanna be changed in the nursery, right? But you’re acting like a baby making such a big deal out of it. Now, please lay down so I can change your stinky pants.”

That’s exactly why you were making a big deal out of it, though you hadn’t quite consciously put it into those terms even to yourself. Your partner is right, too, that it’s not a big deal and making it one doesn’t make you seem more mature. They called you out. Just once when they do that you wish they were off base.

You sleep in your first morning at the beach. Your partner needs it especially, having driven the entire way the day before. You offered several times to switch, but each time they smiled and kindly said no thanks and suggested you close your eyes for a while. When they wake up that morning, they are re-energized and eager to get down to the beach. That’s part of why you’ve been moody.

“Just so we’re clear,” your partner had said at home when you were packing, “you do understand you have to wear diapers at the beach and in the water.”

“I know,” you’d replied, trying to keep the glumness out of your voice. You’d put off telling your neighbors about your need for diapers after they’d invited you to their house for a pool party. It wasn’t like you had a standing invitation to use their pool, so you’d decided they didn’t need to be told just then. Your partner had agreed, and they also warned you that your fear of being seen in a swim diaper, which they’d already demonstrated to their own satisfaction was impossible, was something you’d have to get over for your beach vacation.

That first morning, you are so nervous that you dawdle until your partner has enough and all but orders you onto the changing pad in the nursery. “What if I need a change at the beach,” you ask.

“Then we’ll find a place to change you. There are booths for changing in by the boardwalk.”

“Can’t we come back to the house?”

“It’s too far, honey. Stand up; let’s get this swim diaper on you.”

“Already,” you ask. If you’d been directly asked why you were so worried about a swim diaper being seen under your bathing suit when the alternative was one of your regular diapers, which are much thicker, you couldn’t have said. Maybe because they were new to you; maybe because swimsuits is so thin. It’s not transparent; it’s a dark material; but it’s so thin it leaves little room for imagination .

Your partner holds the swim diaper open for you to step into and then slides it up your legs. It’s a strange feeling after so many months in regular diapers. It’s so much thinner; taut around your thighs and waist; the soft materials and the elastic. It conjures for you a vague memory of what underpants feel like. Your partner tying the string of your swimsuit conjures memories of your mom and dad doing it for you when you were very little, just barely out of daytime diapers.

At the beach, you make a left at the end of the boardwalk and keep walking, then keep walking some more, your sandals squeaking on the sand. Your partner indulges you, knowing exactly why you’re walking so far from the boardwalk, to get as far away from other people as you can, even though that also means waking past many more people than if you’d gone a shorter distance.

You stop right at the midpoint between the boardwalk you came down and the next one over. There are people walking up and down the beach, but no one else walked so far to set up their chairs and umbrella. When yours are up, your partner motions for you to sit on the end of their chair. They lather you with sunscreen, and you do the same for them. It feels good to take care of them for a change. You get up to walk to the water while they lean back in their chair to read a book.

“Ope!” You turn around to see them fishing through the pool bag. They retrieve a hat and toss it to you. “Don’t forget your hat.”

You put it on to humor them. You don’t like hats, but your partner always insists when you’re out in the sun. At the water’s edge, you let the surf wash over your feet. The sea is warm though it’s early in the summer, and it feels good. You’ve missed the water. You walk in a little at a time until you’re up to your knees. With each step, you become more aware of your swim diaper. You wore one wet before as a test, standing in the shower. You wonder how it will feel different with the waves pulling at it, the sands swirling. You unconsciously reach for your waistband to tug it up, but it doesn’t budge. Your partner tied your swimsuit extra tight. You feel around the back; the swimsuit’s waistband is still just a little higher than your swim diaper’s.

“C’mon,” your partner calls to you. “I wanna see what a good little swimmer you are.”

Little, you wonder? They do that so often now, slipping in words and phrases and tones adults use with small children, that it’s more surprising that you noticed what they’d said than that they’d said it. You turn back to the sea and walk further in until the water is at mid thigh. A wave comes, and the sensation of the water flowing into and around you feels vaguely different. It’s the swim diaper; though it’s not waterproof, the water feels different pushing against and through the swim diaper than if you weren’t wearing it.

You walk back to your chair, feeling the odd sensation of water draining from the swim diaper now. It’s a lot, a brand new sensation and one that feels to you very noticeable, like even a passerby would notice how much water is coming from your swimsuit. You’re as self-conscious as you’ve ever been on a beach, worried if it’s also obvious from behind what you’re wearing, if it’s starting to sag, if the extra water running down your legs has attracted any attention. You subconsciously pulled at the waistband of your swimsuit again.

“You look fine,” your partner assures you as your wrap your towel around yourself and sit down, forcing the last of the water from your diaper. “How’s the water?”

“Warm,” you reply. You’re under the umbrella and take off your hat.

“Uh-uh. Hat stays on, honey.”

“But we’re under the umbrella.”

“Okay,“ they concede, “but don’t forget to put it back on as the sun moves.” You hate that hat. It’s not even a ball cap or a stylish sun hat. It’s a bucket hat, the soft, floppy hat Gilligan wore, the kind mothers stick on their infant’s heads when they play in the sand. It’s not about style, your partner would remind you if you again objected, but keeping the sun off your face and ears and neck. Maybe, they’d said, you could find a hat you liked more while you were on vacation, but only if you wore your hat and didn’t have an attitude about it.

You weren’t sure if they were kidding. You buy stuff for yourself and for them and for the both of you when you need to. Was it supposed to be a joke, a present in exchange for good behavior? You decide not to task.

“Hat,” your partner reminds you when the sun has pushed the shade away, “or come back to the shade.”

“I want to get some sun,” you say. You put the hat on. A slight discomfort near the leg gather of your swim diaper reminds you of childhood at the beach. Being in a wet, usually sandy swimsuit the entire time, the liner of your suit would give you a rash at the exact same spot midway through the week, and your mom would give you diaper rash ointment to put on it. It helped. It is too soon for you have a rash, but perhaps the swim diaper itself is rubbing you or else just few a grains of sand are trapped. You reach your hand up your swimsuit leg. You’re surprised at how swollen your swim diaper feels. You thought the point of a swim diaper, or part of it anyway, is they don’t swell up so much. But it feels swollen to you. You tug at the leg gather and try to brush any sand away.

“Everything okay with your diaper,” your partner asks, oblivious to the people walking past.

“Keep you voice down,” you hiss.

Your partner freezes, stunned by your sharp tone. Their book drops into their lap, and they push up their sunglasses. You can see in their eyes you crossed a line. “Strike two. They’re too far away to hear me over the surf. I already warned you yesterday about your tone. That’s your last warning.”

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Is everything okay with your diaper? Do you need a change?”

“It’s rubbing me funny.”

“You wanna change into a regular one? Remember, you can’t get in the water in a regular one.”

“I might get in the water again,” you reply and so stay in your swim diaper.

You don’t get back in, though. You read your book and drink your water to stay hydrated

The sun is making you tired, and you roll over onto your stomach. As you start to drift off, your partner asks, “Are you going to take a nap?”

“Mhmm,” you sleepily reply.

“Okay, let’s change you into a regular diaper.”

“Why?”

“Because,” your partner explains in a tone that conveys they are exercising their last measure of patience, “like we talked about, swim diapers don’t hold peepee. You’ll leak all over your towel and chair. C’mon.”

You don’t want a change. You don’t want to walk back to the changing booths at the boardwalk. You don’t want a semi-public change at the end of the walk. You just want a quick nap. “Just … It’ll be a short nap.”

“I shouldn’t have left you in a swim diaper so long anyway. It’ll be a quick change.” You know they’re right but still don’t want to do it.

“Just ten minutes.”

“I know you don’t want your diaper changed at the beach, but there’s nowhere else to do it. C’mon; let’s go do this real quick, and you can come back here and take a nap. Lord knows you need one,” they say. Your partner does that sometimes, makes remarks that would go unnoticed by a small child but is noticed by you and cuts a little. They’re right; you do need a nap, and you will wake up in a better mood. That’s exactly why you want to take a nap right then and not walk back to the changing booths first. But if your partner won’t let you take a nap in your swim diaper, you might as well get changed at the house. “Can we go back to the house?”

“The house is too far, and I’m not missing more of this beautiful day.”

“I don’t want to do it here.”

“It’s not up to you. I’m the one who changes your diapers; I decide when and where.” That’s hard to dispute, even though you’re an adult and there’s no particular reason why they and ever you change your diapers or why that gives them the right to tell you - still an adult despite needing diapers - when and where they get changed.

It’s turned into a power struggle. You don’t want your diaper changed. They want to change your diaper. Who has that kind of power struggle? You’re the one in diapers; your partner is the one who changes them. What’s that analogous to? Your mind doesn’t even ask because it doesn’t want to know. You’re still face down on your chair.

Your partner gets up and kneels next to you. “I’m going to count to three, and if you’re not on your feet by then you’re in trouble, understand? One …” You respond by turning your head away. “Ya know what, fine. Strike three. Get up right now … Do you want me to spank your bottom right here on the beach?”

You don’t know it at the time, but it’s a defining moment, this power struggle. You could just continue to lay there, and if your partner tried to make you get up, you could just say no; and if they still tried, you could say it forcefully; and if they swatted your bottom, you could stop them, and tell them no. You’re an adult; you love them; your appreciate them; but you are reclaiming your independence, managing your incontinence and your diapers and your own behavior by yourself, and when you want help, you’ll ask for it. Assert your adulthood again and your right to make your own decisions and your right to be free from the petty discipline of a caregiver forever more. You could do that.

Or you could not do that. You could get up right then because your partner told you to and because you’re intimidated by what could be in store for you if you continue to refuse. You’re already in trouble; you can get in more trouble. You’re already embarrassed; you could be much, much more embarrassed. You could do as your told, suffer the consequence for not obeying the first the first or the second or the third time you were told and for the attitude you’ve given your partner for days. Getting angry and stroppy with them even though they’re only trying to help you like they always do.

It's a quick process, making the decision. So quick to an outside observer it could look more like some mix of instinct and training: you were told to get up and promised a consequence if you did not, and you got up. Instinct, training, abetted by a tinge of cowardice? Or maybe helplessness, not cowardice. But an outside observer just doesn’t know the details. That’s what you tell yourself, that it’s all in the details, as your partner picks up the beach bag that doubles as your diaper bag.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“I know you’re sorry, sweetie, but that doesn’t get you out of your consequence. We’ve had talks about this before; you don’t get to take your bad moods out on me, and you ought to know better by now to do as I tell you the first time.” When they’re done saying what the have to say in a tone that leaves no mystery as to how out of patience with you they are, their face softens. “I understand you’re upset right now, and you and I will have a talk after, but right now, you are going to hold my hand all the way back to the booths. If there’s a line, you will keep holding my hand. If you pull away from me or backtalk or whine at me again, I will take you by the ear and spank march your bottom all the way to the boardwalk like a naughty little kid. Do you want that?”

“No,” you mumble, knowing that when you’re in trouble, there’s no such thing as a rhetorical question. Your partner is clearly past their limit, and you know you don’t have an excuse. You’re self-aware enough to know you’ve been a pill and that they haven’t done anything to deserve your attitude. If anything, they’ve been extra patient. They hold out their hand, and you take it.