Tis the Season: Christmas 2022 Part 2

(First draft; I'll proof/revise later - sorry 😬)

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Overcome with excitement, you drop the diaper and rush down the stairs, almost falling at the first landing and your feet in the the soft fleece of your slippers almost flying out from underneath you in the hardwood floor. You push the overexcited dog right out of the way and almost trip again as your partner catches you in warm embrace. You’re practically shaking, kissing your partner all over her face.

Your partner is laughing joyously, their hands everywhere trying to catch hold of you. “I kissed you too. Hey, hey, calm down. I missed you too, buddy.”

“Someone sure is happy to see you,” your mom comments as she walks casually through the kitchen toward the two of you. You are holding each other closely, your grip tightening as your mom gets closer. “You must be exhausted after all those travel mishaps. Why don’t you sit down; I was just about to change someone’s little bumbum for them. Did you bring down a diaper?”

You respond by squeezing your partner. “I want them to do it.”

“They just got here; why not let …”

“No.” You say it so plainly, so firmly,  the way you get told no sometimes.

“Heehee,” your partner giggles, “you want me to do it?” You nod, your face pressed against your partner’s chest. You may be more surprised than any of them, how excited and clingy you are at their return, how safe you feel now that they’re back.

Your mom is chuckling behind you. “I got the same reaction when I’d have a girl’s weekend when they were little. At least take your coat off.”

You let go so your partner can take their coat off, and your mom takes it from them while your partner leads up the stairs to your bedroom. They turn around every few steps and smile at you. “I’m excited to see you, too, sweetie bear. Did you miss me,” they ask as they close the bedroom door behind you.

“Mhmm.”

“How much did you miss me?”

“A lot.”

“This much,” they ask and hold their hands a foot apart.

“More.”

They widen their hands. “This much?”

“Even more.”

They spread their arms as wide as they can. “This much?”

“Yeah,” you answer shyly, blushing and looking away and not sure what to do with your hands.

“Soooooo much! I missed you that much and more.” They step around you and put their hand on your bottom. “What’s going on with this diaper?”

“It’s just wet.”

“You sure?” You stand still, because you’ve been told so many times in the past to just let them check - ‘If you don’t have a poopy bottom then you have nothing to be embarrassed about, do you?’ - and hear them take a big, “Snifffffffff sniff-sniff! Just wet.” They give the seat of your diaper a swat - there’s something about swatting the seat of a diaper; no matter how old the person wearing it is, everyone wants to swat it. “Did your mommy get you those new jammies?”

They turn and bend over to pick up the diaper you’d dropped, and you see their underwear at the top of their pants. There’s nothing at all remarkable about it except that it’s the kind grownups wear; that wasn’t remarkable until 15 months ago when your partner made the executive decision to put you back in diapers and keep you there. Before then, the only remarkable about other adults’ underpants was that theirs were free of the stains that proved your partner’s case and foreshadowed your you then-near future as a person who wears diapers.

“You’ve been so good all year, your partner says as they get down on their knees, Santa might be bringing you a changing table. Wouldn’t that be nice?” You join them on the floor and wait for them to spread out the changing mat before lay down on top of it.

“Did you mommy make these,” they ask again.

“My what?”

“Your mommy. Your mom. Sorry, sweetie; it just gets so easy to forget.”

To forget what, you ask yourself silently. To forget freakin’ what?

But all that comes out of you is, “Yeah.”

“I thought so. They look awful comfy.” Your partner must’ve known right away, without even having to look closely, these were no ordinary footie pajamas. Otherwise, they would’ve unzipped them before laying you down.

You always thought footie pajamas on adults, despite the trend, were silly, and you wore the pair you already owned only because your partner was insistent on cold nights. Those were store bought, and while you thought the superhero design was childish, you partner saw was just a fun novelty. Now those seem positively adult as your partner unsnaps the poppers running up each of your legs from your ankles to the very bottom of you diaper.

“Lift you ankles for me.” You do, and your partner helps you take your feet out of the footies. “Lift you bottom … You’re so good at this! Did you remember to thank your mom?”

“Mhmm,” you answer, uncertain what it is you’re so good at. Getting your diaper changed? Or following direction so your caregiver can get your new pajamas out of the way so you can get your diaper changed?

“Your momma has a much higher threshold for soggy-enough-bottom-to-need-a-change,” they remark as they pat part of your diaper that isn’t quite the front and isn’t quite the back. “I would’ve changed you an hour ago. Does your bottom feel icky at all?”

The truth? Only a little, but another ten minutes and it would’ve. Your wet diapers have gotten to be pretty predictable. You used to have big, flooding accidents. At least, that’s your recollection. The dribbles never counted as accidents to you. The dribbles have become more pronounced, more like mini-closings if you’re honest about it, but the big sudden flash floods still happen a few times a day … as opposed to the few times a week in the last few months leading up to the first of your many grownup diaperings. It makes it easier on your partner, the more of less constant dribbles that make it so easy to glance to at a clock and know, within a very small margin of error, whether you need changed.

The X-factor is when one of those flash floods will happen next. In an already wet diaper, a flash flood might result in wet pants. Your partner keeps you in the best diapers available - which sucks, according to you, because they have such childish designs on them - but they’re not the Hoover Dam, whereas you’ve been compared favorably (or is it unfavorably?) to the Colorado River.

“A little icky. It started to feel soggy like a half hour ago.”

“Maybe we can get a little more life out of your diapers.” Your partner giggles.

“What?”

“I was just thinking that if the authorities ever catch you in one of your messy diapers, you’ll get charged with aggravated pamper poopin’.“

“That’s not funny,” you reply, but the smile you can’t quite hide outs your real feelings.

“I’m only teasing, sweetie bear.” Their new let name for you. You wonder if that has anything to do with the material your mom chose to make your sleeper out of: a pastel yellow with diapered bear cubs sucking on pacis and bottles and playing with balloons and toys. You decide not to tell your partner that your mom made the exact same sleeper for your youngest niece and nephew, and for your older boxes and nephews, she made on with a flap bottom. You had both snaps and a flap bottom.

“Your momma did such a good job changing you; you don’t even have a hint of a rash,” your partner said as they opened your diaper and started wiping you off. “Grab your knees for me.” You do, litftinf your bare bottom off the used diaper laying open under you.”

“Uh-oh,” your partner says. “Uh-oh! Someone had a pink bottom. Did you get your bottom spanked while I was gone?” There’s more playfulness than scolding in their tone. You shut your eyes tight as a tear spills out, that one remark about your spanked bottom triggering a seal of emotion. “Hey,” they coo at you, “hey, what’s the matter? Huh?” You don’t respond because if you do, you’ll start crying for real. “Okay; okay. Let’s get your diaper on, and then you can tell me all about it.” Your partner quickly finishes getting you into a bedtime diaper.