Mary and Daphne #191

Their doorstep was ordinary, so that was a good sign. Or a bad sign. One of the two. Probably. I’m decisive like that and stuff.

“I’m not nervous; you’re nervous,” I said preemptively to Mary, who I swear was taller on the afternoon we met Jo and Ann at their house. Either she was taller or seemed taller, or she was standing up straight. Her parents instilled all these good habits in her, like standing up straight. It’s kinda gross actually, now that I think on it, the way she has so many good qualities and habits. A showoff, that’s what she is. I mean, for cripes sake (whatever that means), she works in IT! Where does she get off being the only person in the entire IT profession with good posture and no back pain? Not that I don’t appreciate the ways she can bend.

Ever notice how the people who make the diagrams showing how you’re supposed to sit at a computer don’t themselves work at a computer? Like, thanks physical therapists who already have inhuman flexibility and range of motion, but you’re not helping. I mean, ever try to sit like the diagram? The monitor is a million miles away! Not that I work anymore, but I am a committed diarist.

I’m not rambling cuz I’m nervous; you’re rambling cuz you’re nervous.

I was having this perfectly good train of thoughts as we waited for Jo and Ann to open their front door for us when Mary decided to interrupt me by doing one of those ninja moves where she puts her arm around my waist so I can’t get away and pulls up my shirt and it all happens so fast that before I can do anything to stop her from committing yet another of her misdeeds, she’s blowing a raspberry on my tummy. That’s, uh, definitely a thing ninjas do. Really.

“Heehee! St-stop!”

“Pbbbbt!!!”

“Heeeheeehee! Mar-eeeeeeee!”

Which is when the door opened before Mary straightened up (and I swear to gawd she was even taller!). What a fine way to make a poor impression, am I right?

“She had a little something on her tummy,” Mary said to our hosts without loosening the arm that held me even a little. She likes me and stuff, my Mary does. Wants me close at all the times. Heccin true story.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “a giant lesbian with boundary issues right there on my tummy.” One who pinches you discreetly when you mumble smart aleck remarks in front of people you just met.

“You must be Jo,” Mary said and held out her hand. I was right; Mary was nervous. I could tell because we’d facetimed with them the day before, so it’s not like we didn’t know what they looked like. It was a good refresher for me; I remembered Ann from the play party as the kindly if butt-in-skee young woman who gathered up our things for us while Mary was giving me aftercare post-public-spanking (that I didn’t even deserve but o my gawd did I want), but I didn’t remember her face. Probably something to do with me crying unreservedly and keeping my face pressed against my Mary cuz it’s safe there. It’s even safe to slime her shirt; something about crying women with red butts being sexy and cute to her? She’s so weird; weird and tall. A shapeshifter actually, who purely by coincidence gets taller when I feel smaller and in need of protection, which I don’t ever. Just saying. Anyhoo …

“So nice to finally meet the two of you in person,” was the so clichéd way Jo greeted us, right up there with Mary’s cliché. Not that I instantly copped an attitude as a defense mechanism or anything. Really.

And Ann was standing just like me, with her dominant’s arm around her waist. But she wasn’t like me. For onesies, she didn’t look anxious at all. For twosies, she’s a little. Which I’m not, as I think I’ve said shouted before many, many times. Like, all the times. She was dressed the part too. It was subtle; she could wear what she was wearing out in public and probably not draw any attention, but having been around ageplayers and Mary thinking she’s way sneakier than she is when she finds ‘totally normal’ things for me to wear, I could tell her outfit was no accident. Shortalls, tee shirt with frilled piping on the sleeves, pink sneakers, and a ponytail.

And yes, I have the same outfit, but it’s for working in the garden and totally practical. And my sleeves don’t have frills. And shut up.

Whereas I had dressed for the occasion by wearing exactly what I would be wearing anyway despite Mary clucking at me like a mother who was doing her utmost to stop herself from telling her teenage daughter to go change into something nice for fear of triggering some kind of near-fatal emotional standoff. I wasn’t being rude or snooty or dismissive though. I just didn’t see the point of putting on anything nicer than my usual Sunday shorts and tee. It’s hot still.

Mary didn’t exactly put on anything special either. Those high-waisted khaki shorts of hers that are an exact replica of what Laura Dern wore in Jurassic Park (and give off all the domestic vibes that just … ugh. Yes please and do it to me twice). And this peach top that was new, but I think that was a coincidence. I could eat a peach for hours … sigh.

As for Jo, as we crossed the threshold and I got a good look at her, she was older than I realized by a good seven or so years. She and Ann definitely had an age gap going that was about twice the gap between Mary and me (eight years, by way of reminding my diary … as if I might forget, I guess?). I would guess (and I did guess) Ann was just a year or two younger than me, and Jo was about five years older than Mary. She had her hair up and was wearing capris; she looked like a woman coming from or going to Target, and she had a slight southern accent that I couldn’t narrow down to a state because I only like to pretend I’m expert enough to tell the differences but, ya know, I’m not. Don’t tell the rubes in the audience, though; I made my first million in a patent medicine show, and … anyhoo.

Mary was nervous because she was worried I’d be nervous. Possibly also that I would be churlish and distant, but she gets nervous when we go outside our (mostly my) comfort zone because she’s protective of me. She doesn’t want me to have a bad experience or even just not a good time. The first couple times I took her home with me to Wisconsin for Christmas, she apologized to me for it being so cold. Tall and weird, like I said, and also very sweet. She let go of my waist only to hold my hand all the way to the sectional sofa Jo led us to. They sat on the other half of the L.

“I made some sweet tea and baked some cookies,” Jo said, gesturing toward the pitcher and tray on the coffee table.

“I helped,” Ann announced. Show off much? Geez.

“Yes, my little munchkin did,” Ann said and – Public display of affection in your own home much? Wow. – kissed her on the cheek.

They say the best first dates are activities rather than drinks or meals because it takes some of the pressure off to talk the whole time and the awkward pauses that ensue, and that would’ve been a good idea for the four of us. I was thinking this as the three of them easily fell into conversation, so really just a good idea for me, but all for one and one for all … cuz we’re musketeers, apparently. What water is to pavement is not at all what my mind is to tangents. And shut up.

“Do you like it,” Jo asked a person who turned out to be me. “I can get you something else.”

“Huh?” I make the best first impressions, hands down. I’m an impressionist, actually, of the first order … and stuff … and things, too. Really. “O! It’s very good,” I said and took my first sip of tea. Actually, it was kinda cloying, which coming from me is like a smack addict saying fentanyl makes them feel funny, not that I’m addicted to sugar like Mary says I am. I just get anxious if there isn’t any in the house, a totally non-addict thing to feel. Um, really.

Nor do I get weird if I have too much sugar, not that it stopped Mary from saying, “Only one glass, Daffy. She gets a little hyper if she has too much sugar.” I do not. Mary and me are excellent examples, paragons actually, of how a married couple can disagree and still love each other. And it’s not all sugar; it’s just sugar as manifested in the earthly form of peanut butter enveloped in chocolate, which is the ambrosia the ancients spoke of. And it’s not even that cuz I don’t get weird on peanut butter. In fact, I’ve never done anything weird in my life. Much too dignified and logical and exemplary of all humankind’s best qualities for that sort of nonsense. Really. And shut up; no one is asking you.

“Are you excited for Halloween,” Ann asked me.

“Mhmm. We’re going to trunk-or-treat at the lifestyle center. We haven’t been since before the pandemic.”

“What are you gonna dress up as?”

“We haven’t decided yet.”

“I’m going as a sheep, and Mommy … oops, I mean Jo is going as Big Bo Peep.”

“It’s okay if you wanna call her ‘Mommy’ in front of us. You’re gonna make a very cute sheep.”

I had my first ever urge to sheer a sheep bald. I asked Mary, before we left, to not engage with Ann as a little unless I said it was okay, and that remark was borderline. Not that I was primed by o, say, jealousy to interpret pretty much any words Mary said to Ann as borderline bordering on over the line because I don’t have those kinds of petty thoughts and feelings.

Nope, don’t have them, just like I don’t cover for insecurity by making the kinda jokes I really shouldn’t make in front of new acquaintances like, o, say, “Mary’s the Big Bad Wolf. She’s always trying to eat me.” Good thing I’m not the kind of person who lives in the past or I’d regret that but write it down I my diary anyway. But the weirdest thing happened.

Jo said, “That must make you Little Red Riding Hood.” I would’ve been quite offended if I imagined even for a moment she intended any innuendo in that (little on the button for my taste … get it?). I was more bothered by the fact that I didn’t get so much as a smile out of her. Well, not a ‘haha’ smile; I got this how-cute-you-are smile. What the heck? I heccin am not! Hmmph!

“She went as Little Red Riding Hood once,” Mary chimed in instead of sending me one of her watch-yourself-young-lady signals. What the heccin hey! Not that I was acting up to try to shape the conversation in ways I am more familiar and comfortable with so as to gain a sense of control, but, ya know, that was my backup plan.

“I went as the huntress. Someone’s gotta protect my Daffodil.” And then she kissed me. For a second there, I thought they were having some kind of dominance game where they each take turns saying affectionate things and kissing us until someone (and it so totally would’ve been Mary!) establishes their submissive is the best and they love them most and that was Mary’s opening move. But nope. She was just making conversation.

She continued, because you know how my Mary loves to continue (and if you can’t tell by now, perverts who have somehow gained access to my diary, that’s my way of saying she’s got a big mouth sometimes), “Isn’t that the year you ate too much candy and I had to spank your bare bottom in the corner and put you in timeout? No, wait, that’s every year.” Such a butt face.

“Ann told me all about the spanking you gave Daphne at that event.”

“She needed a hard spanking. Embarrassment shouldn’t be a punishment,” which is a string of sounds Mary makes when she’s lying cuz she definitely has zero qualms about using embarrassment as a punishment, “but she needed a spanking then and there. If that was embarrassing for her, then I hope that helps her remember to make better choices.” I wasn’t blushing; you were, and you weren’t even there!

“I don’t know,” Jo replied, “I think a little embarrassment is fine as a punishment.”

“Tell us about some of the embarrassing things you’ve done to Ann,” I interjected like a brat (likea brat, which doesn’t make me a brat because a brat I am not) wanting someone else to squirm for once.

“Daffy, be nice,” Mary scolded me. Can you believe that? She scolded me. Me! Hello, paragon over here. The paragon of … stuff. And things. Hello! Hello? Dammit…

“Once when we were at her parent’s house, I put her in timeout in her old bedroom.”

“Big deal. Mary spanked me in my childhood bedroom.” Ha! One-upped her … Why the heck am I bragging about that?

“But did Mary tell everyone where you were and why,” Ann asked. Who does she think she is one-upping me? It’s not a competition. Also, as long as we’re letting fantasy be more fun than reality, that sounds so delightful but must’ve been so awful!

“I feel like we know a lot more about Mary than about you,” Jo said. Cuz Mary was way more excited about this and had been texting with Jo to arrange it for a while.

“Um, what do you wanna know?”

“Anything you want to share.”

“Well, uh … I guess firstly, all the things Mary told you about me are false, except the endearing parts. Those are true.” I said that in the safety of an agreement Mary and me had that I could say anything I wanted without repercussions during this visit, said agreement being a (non) binding contract that I didn’t tell Mary she’d agreed to. But I hoped for the best … and stuff.

“Everything she said about you is endearing,” Jo replied. “All she does is brag about how lucky she is. Not that I’m not even luckier,” she said as she guided Ann onto her lap.

Jo is earnest, a trait I like in people, but I didn’t much care for what Jo said. First of all, I’d made yet another joke she didn’t laugh at. I’m not saying it was a gem – they can’t all be diamonds, people! – but it’s widely known that I’m funny. You might even say it’s a skill I cultivated as a means of fitting in (which wouldn’t be true, but also, yes). I make jokes; people laugh or least chuckle or smile; that’s how I know I fit in and gain a sense of control. When people don’t laugh, it throws my whole game off.

Random aside, that thing about how some subs have a need to be in control so much that they crave surrendering all that control and more to the right person is just a bunch of very true pseudo-psychology for some of us. Anyhoo …

What Jo said was kinda sorta a comment on how Mary feels about me. Know who I need to tell me about how Mary feels about me? No one except Mary. It seemed kinda overly familiar. Not that I was primed to feel defensive or take offense. Really?

And I felt no competitive desire for Mary to guide me onto her lap just because Jo did that with Ann, and if you hear otherwise, politely correct that person. Be a bringer of truth and light. That’s what I always say and teach the world through my paradigmatic example. True story. Mary, meanwhile, was holding my hand and smiling at me – literally all I ever need from her but it sure is nice when she says sweet things to me too. So nice.

As a group we seemed to be perilously close to an awkward pause event horizon when Ann whispered something in Jo’s ear. Jo whispered something back. Ann whispered in reply. So that’s plus two people in the world who are better at whispering than me (and so far zero people who are worse, that I know of; I confide this secret only to my diary lest the other paragons – and there aren’t many – learn of this flaw and not let me sit with them at lunch anymore … actually, Mary – the paragoniest of all the paragons – would either convince them … or make them … parentheticals aren’t supposed to be this long and I also don’t go off on tangents ever, so … overly enthusiastic use of ellipses …).

Anyhoo, to her third whisper, Ann added a you-can’t-say-no-to-this-face face (mine is better, not that I ever stoop to that level except when I want something). Jo responded with a I-can’t-say-no-to-that-face face (Mary’s is better, though I think we’re both kidding ourselves when she makes that face cuz she’s quite adept at saying no to me). Jo nodded and patted Ann’s thigh.

Ann turned her face into the space between Jo’s arm and body, something I’ve been known to do when I need a moment alone to pretend that others aren’t watching me or when I need a quiet place to process whatever wonderful or horrible or wonderfully horrible thing Mary just said or did to me or is about to do. I’ve also seen Jane do it as she slips into little space. I think Ann was doing both.

Jo turned back to us and asked, “Is it okay if I change Ann into her play clothes?”

Mary glanced at me to make sure I wasn’t scandalized by the idea and said, “Fine by us.” As she said it, I realized it wasn’t clear what she meant by “play.” BDSM and all that, she could’ve meant changing into lord only knows what, not that we’d necessarily disapprove but we’d only just met them. Or it could’ve meant an ageplayers play outfit, as in an outfit for finger painting or sandboxes. Jo cleared it up in an apologetic way.

“I know we didn’t want to turn this into a play date since it’s our first time meeting in person, and I don’t mean that we are. It’s just that Annie couldn’t keep her pull-up dry, and she needs a break from grownup space. A whole Sunday morning being a grown up is lot for her.” I couldn’t tell if she was saying that to tease Ann or telling the truth or both.

“I understand,” Mary said like a crazy person or fibber or crazy fibber.

“No, you don’t,” I reminded her. How could she? No such person similar to Ann lives with Mary. Of course, Mary has virtually no sense of shame, so she didn’t even blush. And I am very polite and wasn’t bothered by Ann changing into something else and didn’t want my riposte to be taken the wrong way, so I quickly added, “But it’s okay.”

“We’ll be right back down.”

“Take your time.”

Ann, like an over excited you know what, popped off Jo’s lap and scurried upstairs as Jo followed behind chuckling. Mary leaned over to see if she could see upstairs; she couldn’t, and we couldn’t hear a door close, so we kept our voices down.

“How you doing,” Mary asked me.

“Fine … What do you think of them?”

“I like them. They seem very nice. Jo is very welcoming.”

“A little familiar.” Oops; I was honest.

“She doesn’t mean anything by it.” O good, I wasn’t the only person who thought so. “I think she’s just a very warm person, and from what she knows of you …” She trailed off, probably (definitely) because what she really meant was …

“You mean what you told her about me,” I said.

“And what Ann told her.”

“You didn’t exactly try to dispel the notion that Ann and I are both littles in your secret text chain … Meanie.”

“It wasn’t a secret, and you’re not mad.”

“Who said I was? Meanie …”

“My point is she’s not being familiar so much as …”

“Affectionate in a way that’s kinda weird for someone you just met … unless your wife made you sound like a little.”

“I saw the way you blushed when Ann said Jo told her family she was in a timeout. You like them.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t … Also, we have to be more affectionate with each other than they are when they come back because reasons.”

“Are we proving a point or something,” Mary very reasonably asked. I should know because I’m so reasonable and stuff. Really.

“Yes, but I don’t know what it is.” Very reasonable. People say that about me all the time. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I’m sure she has her reasons, whatever they are.’ Yep, that’s a thing people say about me. If they were as reasonable as I am, they’d probably understand my reasons. I pity them sometimes, but I’m too polite to let them know I feel that way. Poor little dears.

“Might get embarrassing for you,” Mary hinted as subtly as a devil imp poking me with a pitchfork and throwing fireballs at all the flammable things as it dances and cackles in merry glee.

“Be nice to me. I’m the shortest person here … And don’t say it. We both know it; you don’t have to say it.”

“You’re the shortest person in most of the places we go.”

“And she said it anyway,” I grumbled. See? See what she makes me do? Breaking the fourth wall like there’s someone in the room other than her that I’m talking to. “Meanie.”

“Did I tell you you’re extra cute today?”

“More.” All the compliments please. I like them more from Mary than anyone else.

“And that you’re being a very good girl?”

O MY GAWD SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT! Play it cool, Daff; just play it cool. “A very, very good girl, by chance?”

“Well, a very good girl.”

“I’ll accept that for now, but I expect more when we get home.” I sipped my tea. “This is cloying.”

“Wow. You saying that …”

“I know … But also no cuz I have a very normal relationship to sugar.”

“Of course you do. You’re a paragon and stuff.” That’s what I get for using that word out loud while trying to get out of … something.

“Bite me.”

“Where?”

Can you believe she said that!?! In a stranger’s house? Inappropriate. Can’t take her anywhere but I do anyway cuz she’s fun to be with and stuff. True story.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jo apologized as they came back down the stairs. “Took a little longer than I thought. We’re still learning about holding still during changes and that not all naked time is play time. Had to wrestle her into that onesie.”

The proper response from Ann would’ve been to freeze, blush, and pout, but if she was in a proper frame of mind she would’ve resisted being seen that way rather than asking to be changed into that outfit. Not to yuck anybody’s yum or project my feelings … and things. And if you hear anyone say I was in any way jealous of how happy Ann looked as she bounced across the room and hopped playfully onto the loveseat, correct them by slapping them across the face as hard as you can. She looked as happy as a puppy making new friends, not that I’ve ever been jealous of how happy a puppy is (but aren’t we all?).

“Giving up on the potty for the day,” Mary asked. Just guessing, but I think she was referring to the very thick diaper Ann was wearing under her onesie.

“It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right,” Jo said as she sat down and pulled Ann into her lap. She tickled Ann, making her giggle from behind the pacifier between her lips like, well, exactly what she looked like. She was in a cloth diaper (several, actually) with clear plastic panties. Her onesie didn’t cover it; in fact, the onesie covered about as much of her butt as it didn’t. She was still wearing her shoes; definitely a toddler vibe to that outfit.

Jo said, “They say cloth diapers help them feel wet so they train earlier, but every little girl is different, aren’t they sweetie?” Ann nodded. “Go get your brush for me.” Ann bounced off her lap and toddled away with a butt pat from Jo.

“What’d she do,” I asked.

I guess I sounded confused because Jo got my meaning, answering as Ann thundered back down the stairs, “It’s not her spanking brush.” To Ann, she added, “But it will be if you run down the stairs again.” Ann did not seem intimidated by that and sat down on the floor in front of Jo. Her straining onesie left whoever chose to look a fine view of the diaper between her legs. Jo took the band out of Ann’s hair and started to comb it out.

“Daphne grew her hair out during the pandemic for a while. I miss brushing it.”

“I’ll grow it back if you want.”

“It’s your hair.”

Mary apparently didn’t take my directive to out-affection them seriously because I had to put myself in her lap. “And I liked that too. I’ll grow it long if you promise to promise to brush it before bed.”

“Promise. That’ll make a hairbrush part of your bedtime routine with you sitting on your bottom for once. We’ll need some time to get use to that.” And then she kissed me right on the neck with her arms around my middle and stuff. Take that, Ann, who’s barely spoken and I’m competing against but not competing against and I don’t even know what the prize is!

“You must be a vixen with that red hair grown out,” Jo commented. She started braiding Ann’s hair. I very much liked Mary combing out my hair and braiding it; I just got tired of taking care of it. But if Mary would take on that responsibility, preferably with me sitting between her legs so close I can feel her breath on the back of my neck, I’d do it … for her sake, of course. Of course. And because reasons.

Ann sure did seem to be enjoying Jo’s fingers in her hair, an impression I gathered from the dreamy expression on her face, an impression I would never have been disabused of if that onesie did a better job hiding what was under it and if my hearing wasn’t so sharp. I mean, sometimes I can hear myself wetting a diaper (a direct consequence of Mary being such a tyrant cuz I only do it cuz she makes me), but I’m right there (obviously) when I’m doing it. But Ann was a good six feet away and sounded like the water dispenser on our fridge was between her legs.

“O Annie,” Jo admonished, but not really, “I just asked you if you needed to use the potty before I put your diapers on you. Why didn’t you go then?”

“I didn’t have to then,” Ann transparently lied. Transparent as in the sound made it obvious she was definitely holding it for a while and transparent as in her clear plastic panties showed she soaked her diapers. Two years and then some into Mary-instigated diaper play and I’d yet to see anyone so openly wet themselves. It didn’t squick me out (thanks for helping me stay normal, Mary – NOT!) or uncomfortable, but it was definitely … something. I don’t know. I didn’t think anything of it one way or the other; I just felt like I should. I mean, it’s not like she did it on the floor. God help me, but that’s what diapers are for (Mary, this is all your fault!).

“What am I gonna do with you?” Ann looked over her shoulder at Jo and made a downright libidinous face like surely the two of them would think of something Jo could do with her. Jo chuckled and said to Mary, “It’s awfully hard potty training these little girls when they say it’s almost as good as an orgasm to let go in their pants.” So Ann does know how to blush. And for the record, Jo’s comment was about as shameless as Ann flooding herself like that seated on the floor with her diaper basically on display. Which is also something I didn’t think anything of (Mary, you’ve ruined me!).

“Do you ever feel that way, Daffy,” Mary asked.

O goodie; glad we could establish who blushes hardest. #DaphneWinsAgain “Marrrry!” And the answer is no, btw.

I bet all the money in my purse (a crumpled single and some loose change) that Mary was turned on by Ann’s display. Probably even more turned on because the display wasn’t for us. Ann would’ve done that whether we were there or not, a true little, not an exhibitionist (well, maybe also an exhibitionist).

As for how I felt? Not bothered by what Jo said or Ann did, but Mary’s question … Such is the torture of the humiliation fetish.

“Daphne and diapers have a complicated relationship,” Mary opted to explain despite no one having asked. Grr. “It says so right in the relationship status on the Facebook page I made.” She didn’t really. She knows I’d bite her if she did, and not the fun kind.

“Not Annie. Sometimes I think we’re in a polycule with diapers as the third partner. I was skeptical at first, but once I realized my girl is just a high-functioning toddler, I knew I’d be changing diapers forever. Not that we don’t keep trying to potty train, but little Annie works so hard to keep her undies clean and dry when she’s pretending to be a big girl at work, she has no control at all as soon as the workday is over … Or so she says. The seat of her cozy coupe has seen some real trauma during those commutes home. Now she wears pull-ups to work; amazing how the little control they have slips even more as soon as they’re in something absorbent. I have to pack extra in her backpack.”

“I don’t wanna wear pull-ups to work but Mommy says I have to,” Ann said.

“You should’ve seen the tantrum and tears when I put my foot down about wearing them to the gym too. But Mommy was right, wasn’t she? None of the other girls make fun of you in the changing room, do they?”

“… No.”

“See, Daffy,” Mary said to someone; I assumed it was me.

“No. No, I don’t.” I see nothing. Mary only asked to embarrass me. Cuz she’s mean and knows I like being teased, especially in front of company. Mean and very sweet and nice to me.

“I can’t imagine this one throwing a tantrum,” Mary chose to say about Ann instead of explaining herself, probably because she had no explanation (because there isn’t one).

“Sweet as can be,” Jo said, “and an angel most of the time, but plenty rambunctious, and she can definitely have her moments. All done; stand up for me.” I assumed at that time Ann could standup; I’d only seen her bounce up. Jo chose the right word, rambunctious. It seemed like from the moment Jo okayed her going into little space, she had an excess of energy (must be nice). “That’s a soggy bottom you got there.”

“Heehee! No, it isn’t.”

“It isn’t? That’s not a soggy diaper I feel?”

When Mary checks one of her diapers (that I by cruel fate happen to be wearing) in the same very hands-on manner as Jo, I make funny noises. Just sayin’.

“Then you must not need a change yet,” Jo said. She gave Ann some playful swats on her butt. “Good thing I put such thick diapers on you. Little trick for parenting these little rascals – the sooner you put them in thicker diapers and allow yourself to not feel like a bad mommy for letting them stay soggy for so long, the less often you have to chase them down for a diaper change. But even still we have a couple of disagreements a week about when a diaper needs changed. Good thing you’re so cute when you stomp your little feet.”

“You always wanna change ‘em right after I get ‘em just the way I like ‘em.”

“You know what I think Daphne would like,” Jo asked Ann. Bookmakers the world over had the odds a billion to one Jo was in the same universe as whatever I would like. “I think she’d like to see your nursery. You wanna go show her?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

She didn’t wait for me. She popped up again like a prosecco cork and scampered up the stairs like you’d expect a little to.

“Go on,” Mary said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

O…kay.