Tis the Season: Christmas 2022 Part 3

After your partner has changed you into your nighttime diaper and buttoned every snap up and down the footie pajamas your mom made for you, they sit next to you on the bed. Overcome by affection, you turn your head into their should and muzzle into their neck as waves or relief wash over you. A distant voice in your head is telling you how ridiculous this is, that your stay at your parents’ was actually great, that you’re making too big a deal out of minor incidents that, if you’re more honest with yourself than you want to be, were at least partly your fault.

“Honey,” your partner says beseechingly, “tell me what happened.”

“It was just really hard,” you say, at a loss for where to even begin.

“O c’mon, use your words. From the pictures your mom sent, I thought you had fun. Didn’t you like baking Christmas cookies?”

“Yeah, but …” Even though you know you didn’t do anything wrong, it still feels like tattling on yourself. “Kinda.”

“Sweetie, I can’t make it all better if you don’t talk to me.”

“It was embarrassing.”

“How is making cookies embarrassing?”

“I was the oldest one there.” Older by twenty years. Your nieces and nephews had come to their grandma’s house to bake Christmas cookies while their moms and dads – your brothers and sisters and their partners – went Christmas shopping for the little tykes. Everyone but your mom was in their Christmas pajamas, including you in the only pair of footies. “I was wearing theses silly pajamas and … I crinkled a lot.”

Your partner knows how much it will hurt your feelings if they smile even a little, amusing as your little complaint and the mental image of you crinkling around the kitchen helping bake cookies. “But did anyone tease,” they ask, knowing the answer.

“No … But August just announced to everyone I … you know.”

“Well, honey, she knew then probably everybody else …”

“But I wasn’t!”

“O. Did anything else happen?”

“It was fun watching all my niblings having fun, but you know it’s just a lot for me. I took my tablet to the family room for some quiet time, but Mom came in and said I needed to participate.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“She said to come back to the kitchen, and I did … for a little bit.” You’re so used to living with only your partner. It’s quiet, and you don’t have any obligations to anyone most of the time. It was fun – special, even – watching the nieces and nephews you love so much bake cookies with their grandma and the beaming, patient smile on your mom’s face as she helped each tyke do their part, but it was hectic and loud for you. You needed some space, so you ducked out to the family room. Your mom came looking for you and asked you to come back in, and you did.

But another twenty minutes, and you just needed your space. Your mom came and found you again. “Honey, it’s not screen time now. Come back in the kitchen,” she said. This was the first you’d ever heard of screen time.

You decided to humor her, and as you walked back to the kitchen, Daniel, your oldest nephew, twelve years old and almost as tall as you, asked, “Hey, can I borrow that?”

Without thinking, you said sure and handed him your tablet, then you thought better of it and said, “Actually, Grandma says it’s not screen time” apologetically.

“It’s fine,” your mom said.

“But …”

“Come on,” she said, taking your tablet and handing it to Daniel as she led you by the hand to the kitchen. “They’re almost ready for the icing. Decorating them is the best part! What are you gonna put on yours?”

“But it’s not screen time.”

“He’s at an age when they need their space sometimes. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but trust me.”

You are definitely at an age when you need your space sometimes! You tried not to let it bother you or get in the way of your holiday fun, but it was difficult to get it out of your mind. Your mom noticed your furrowed brow. No sooner were the cookies decorated than she put Daniel in charge for ten minutes while she took you upstairs.

“And that’s another thing,” you tell you partner, “Since when are naps a thing?”

“They made you take naps,” they say in response, their voice rising in a gently mocking, you-poor-thing tone they manage to hide only somewhat.

“Yeah!”

“You like naps.”

“But it’s different than being put down for a nap,” you explain.

“How?”

“It … It just is … She … She changed me first.”

“I change you before a nap.”

“I know, but it’s different … You don’t make me take naps.”

“Because you take them on your own. If you didn’t, I might make it a rule.”

“But it’s different,” you tell them again. Even if your partner did make you take naps, you’re sure it would be different from your mom doing it. For one, naptime wouldn’t be scheduled; you’d just take a nap when you wanted to take one. Not like with your mom who insisted on a nap every day at 1:30, which was earlier than you wanted. And you’d get back up again when you wanted; not like with your mom, who made you stay in your room for an hour.

“I slept for twenty minutes,” you’d insisted.

“Try a little bit more for me.”

“But I’m not tired.”

“Then just close your eyes and have quiet time,” she said and took you back to your room.

“Can I have my tablet?”

“Sweetie, it’s naptime, not screen time.”

And if you were still tired, you’d stay asleep. So confusing! On Wednesday, your mom made you stay in bed even though you weren’t tired, but on Thursday, she made you get out of bed even though you were still sleepy. “You won’t sleep tonight if I don’t get you up now,” she said, “Are you wet? Wow, even after sleeping so hard, your pampers are dry as a bone. Let’s go find an activity.”

“Sweetie,” your partner said gently, “honey, that doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“Well, it was.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad. You went along with it, didn’t you? You could’ve said no.”

“She made me.”

“Your 68-year-old mom made you take naps? I think someone just doesn’t like admitting others are right sometimes. Sound familiar, like when you used to say you didn’t need diapers? You’d even say that right in the middle of me helping you out of mucky underpants, but you secretly knew you needed diapers because a lot of times you’d say that without me even bringing it up.”

That was different. You’re not sure how it’s different, but it is. It’s hard telling your parents no, and doesn’t matter what age you or they are. On top of that, you’re a guest in their home and you were stuck with them for a days, and it made the most sense to just do whatever was needed to keep the peace. Not that you’ve ever not gotten along with your parents, but they can be awfully insistent on certain things. And your partner did tell you to listen to them.

But why did you have to listen to them? That made no more sense than why you couldn’t just stay home alone. The real confusion, though, was what your partner meant when she said, “Your parents have all the same authority I do, okay?”

“O … kay,” you’d said, not being sure what authority your partner had that they could just transfer to someone else on a whim.

“So I don’t want any power struggles or phone calls or you telling me later you didn’t know, capisc?”

“Y-yeah.” Or maybe you knew exactly what your partner meant but told yourself you didn’t because you didn’t want to admit it, the very same reason why you’ve never asked your partner to clarify their meaning. If you admit to yourself you understand, or ask them to explain it, you will have to accept that you’ve been acquiescing to the way you’ve been treated ever since your partner made the executive decision to put you back in diapers all day, every day, forever. And if you accept that, you’ll have to ask yourself why, and if you answer that … Well, let’s just not even follow up that thought, right?

“I say ‘made’,” you explain to your partner, “but what I really mean is it was just easier not to argue. You know, like who can be bothered arguing over the little things.” In your mind, you’ve successfully played off the issue of your mother making you do things like take naps and limiting your screen time in a way that makes you sound more mature, even a little cocky, as though you decided to be the bigger person. Your partner doesn’t fall for it.

“And what happened with that pink bottom?”

“ … Nothing.”

“Something,” they playfully say back. When you don’t respond, they ask, “Did it have anything to do with the tears when I asked you how your week was? … Did you get in trouble?”
 You don’t ‘get in trouble.’ You’re not a little kid. But you did get … a consequence. That’s not what it was called. Your parents are more old school. They don’t think in terms of consequences for poor choices but punishments for bad behavior. Your partner makes the distinction though where they learned it, you don’t know – you suspect from their sister, the pre-school teacher – and you never really noticed it. Not the first time your partner, way back when you were dating, spanked your bottom and you realized, only after the fact, that it wasn’t roleplay. All the time since, you never really noticed it. Only that afternoon, when it was decided you needed a punishment, that you noticed the difference. It wasn’t a physical difference; it was emotional only, and while you were upset about everything, you were especially upset about your own reaction.

All you’d done was gotten out of bed during naptime. At least, that was your initial justification. More like you’d gotten out of bed, left you room, crept across the hall to your parents’ room, and taken your tablet from your mom’s nightstand.

“A-ha-hem,” you dad cleared his throat, making you jump. Your dad is a pretty reasonable person, and you had assumed his lesser degree of involvement in these changes in your life was a recognition that some of it was a little silly. Sure, you needed diapers, but you didn’t need looking after. Turns out, his lesser involvement was more about old-fashioned gender roles; men of his generation just didn’t get involved in things like changing diapers and monitoring naptime. “You should be in your room,” he’d said.

“Uh, yeah. I just, ya know, I’m not so sleepy. What with the early bedtimes too.” Another point of contention – since when did you have a bedtime, and why was it at ten? You didn’t even get to watch the news, and despite your mom thinking your protestation that you like the news is only a bedtime delaying tactic, you do like the news.

Your dad, 67 years young, took three steps across the room and held out his hand. You hesitated for a moment and handed him the tablet, which he put back in the drawer before taking you by the hand and leading you back to your childhood bedroom. “C’mon,” was all he said. Calmly; no sharpness at all, no elevated tone. You walked beside him expecting him to tell you to get back in bed and stay there.

“Um, where’s Mom,” you asked.

“The grocery store.”

“Well, she’ll never know I was up, right? I mean, the whole thing is silly. Just been going along with it for her benefit. Dad … Dad, what are you doing?”

Sitting down on the bed and unsnapping the buttons on your pajamas is what he was doing, which really threw you because among the things men of his generation did not do was change diapers. He’d never changed yours, ever, and in any case, you were only a little damp.

“Putting a stop to you disobeying your mother. All week you’ve been arguing about naptime and screen time and bedtime and finishing your vegetables and whether you can have a soda after seven or an extra dessert, and I’m tired of this bad behavior. Your mom has been patient, and enough is enough. You’re getting a punishment.”

Maybe you were more tired than you realized; maybe it was the unfamiliarity of your dad in this role. Maybe it was your insecurity, already percolating around him ever since I became apparent to everyone your partner is in charge in so many different ways, now heightened by the realization that your dad accepted the changes in your life just as much as everyone else did. If he doesn’t think this was all a little ridiculous, then maybe it really isn’t. Maybe it was your disappointment in yourself at having disappointed your dad, whose use of “bad behavior” and “punishment” just hit different than the words your partner uses when they’re about to do what he was about to do.

Maybe it was all those things, and that rush of thoughts and feelings is how it was somehow over and done with before you even processed what was happening. One moment, you were thinking to yourself you should speak up for yourself and stop your dad from unsnapping the flap on your pajamas. The next, you’re over his lap crying, and he’s asking you if you’ll mind your mother now. You had to reach into your memory to piece together what had happened from the audio alone: the sound of diaper tapes opening followed by five smacks of flesh on flesh – spank … spank … spank … spank … SPANK.

And then you crying. Not during, only after. A delayed response to a spanking that barely even stung. After more than a year, it wasn’t the diapers or the rules or the spankings or the public nature of it all but that you were face down across your daddy’s lap, your bare bottom freshly spanked, crying even though it didn’t hurt. Who cries even when something doesn’t hurt? Your brain once more did the mental gymnastics to push the answer away, but your pride and your feelings were wounded just the same.

“Now,” your father said quietly, using the old trick that if you’re quiet, other people will be quiet just so they can hear you, “any more of this nonsense, you’re gonna get a much bigger spanking, understand?”

“Mhmm,” you whimpered.

“Shhh,” he cooed – you can’t remember him cooing even once during your childhood; you’d only ever heard him coo at one of his grandchildren, who he treated like fragile little kings and queens, something you’ll think about later when you try to understand how a senior citizen was able to so easily manhandle and control you. “You’re okay. I bet you’re tired now, aren’t you.”

“Mhmm,” you whimpered again, chasing it with a “(SNURFLE).”

He chuckled at you, slid you off his lap, and got a baby wipe from the changing supplies your mom keeps on your dresser. “Roll over for me.” You comply, and he dabbed at your tears and held the wipe for you to blow your nose into. Uncertain how he even managed to do it – you don’t think he’s ever changed a diaper in his life, making him even less experienced than you – your diaper was retaped and your pajamas rebuttoned with just a few movements of his hands, and he was tucking you back in.

“When you stay with us, you need to follow our rules, okay? I really didn’t like having to do that, but you’ve had that coming all week. Are you going to stay in bed until Mom gets home? Are you going to stay off your tablet until it’s screen time?”

You nodded at each question.

“That’s my good bear. Mom’ll be home soon, and when she says, you and I can play a game together.” He kissed your forehead, which he hadn’t done in ages, and left you alone in your bed with your thoughts and a pink bottom that hardly stung, confused and, yes, suddenly very tired again. You were asleep before you could process much more, and your mom didn’t wake you up when she got home. Maybe because you were going home as soon as your partner got back and she wouldn’t have to deal with your alleged crankiness the next day if you didn’t sleep well that night, just this once your mom wasn’t dogmatic about naptime.

“That’s a whole lot,” your partner says sympathetically after the whole story comes rushing out of you. Once you started, you couldn’t stop, and you’re not sure if you’re feeling the embarrassment or the righteousness of the victim. Sure, though, your partner now understands what a hard week it’s been for you.

“It really was,” you say with a sigh.

“Sounds like you gave your mom and dad a bit of a hard time, too, though.”

“Uh …”

“But that’s okay. These things happen, and it’s been dealt with. It’s your first time being away from me in such a long time, and I’m sure it all just caught you by surprise, all these different rules. Now you know for next time to listen to your mom and dad when I put them in charge.”

“Next time?”

“We’ll talk more about it later. But other than getting trouble over naptime and screen time, did you have fun with Nana and Pop-Pop? Just teasing,” they quickly correct themselves, “but did you?”

“Y-yeah, kinda.”

“Just kinda? C’mon,” they teasingly urge you. “I saw those pictures; are you telling me every one of your smiles was a fake? Decorating the tree? Baking cookies? Watching Christmas cartoons snuggled up in your jammies? Eating all those cookies? It wasn’t fun at all?”

You’re hesitant to admit it, not that it seems to matter anymore what you enjoy or don’t enjoy and whether you admit it either way. Things just get decided, and you go along with them and put cognitive dissonance to shame explaining away why you let it happen.

On the other hand, why not admit that those things were fun? It won’t make a difference either way, and they were, actually, fun. “I had an okay time.”

“O,” your partner says faux seriously, “got it. An ‘okay’ time.” They’re humoring you, and you’re not even sure about what.

“Um …” You’re hesitant again to broach this, but it’s been on your mind all day. “Am I in trouble for, um, getting in trouble.”

“No, sweetie. You already got your consequence. Your daddy did exactly what I would’ve done, except I’d have done it sooner. Grandparents spoil their grandkids more than they ever did their kids … Just another joke,” they cover.

Whether they believe they covered it effectively, or whether they needed to, or whether you took the joke poorly or not, or what spirit it was intended in, or whether there was an undercurrent of seriousness or not … neither of you are sure.

Before you can tell your partner it wasn’t funny and that you need to talk seriously about all of this, they say, “Let’s go home. You may not be tired after your long nap, but I sure am. Will you come to bed with me and keep me safe from nightmares?”

“Uh …”

“Of course you will.” A quick kiss on your forehead, their thumb across your cheek wiping away the salty remnant of a tear, a pat on your back, and you’re being led downstairs to say goodnight to your mom and dad and thanking them for letting you stay at their house, or as your partner calls it, for looking after you.