‘Tis The Season: Halloween Part 1

Flat on your back on top of of your changing mat spread across the bed, you’re not happy. You’re cooperating in your double diapering, but you’re not happy, and you’re broadcasting that feeling with your expression and the arms folded over your chest. Your partner is choosing to ignore your attitude as they spread a thick layer of rash cream on your diaper area. “First diapie,” they say cheerfully in the hope a good mood, even forced, will be infectious.

“Why do I need two again,” you ask.

“Because we’re going to be gone for a few hours,” they patiently explain again. Never mind that your diapers usually last longer than that.

“But why can’t we just take the diaper bag? We do everywhere else.”

“And second diapie.” They seal the tapes and pat the front of your diapers. It was a losing battle; you’re only asking why you have to wear doubles again because you feel churlish, and being churlish is the only thing you can do about it, not that it will change anything. You don’t even bother to argue about them being double nighttime diapers. It’s unfair as far you’re concerned, but it’s not worth ineffectually arguing every point. “We are taking the diaper bag, but hopefully we won’t have to use it while we’re out.”

“And why can’t I just say home?” You like staying home on Halloween. You have your own tradition of wheeling the fire pit into the driveway and putting out chairs and a small bar. You hand out candy, and your neighbors stop by or circle back after their kids are in bed. Your partner always thought you made up that tradition so you’d be close to a toilet if you knew you had to go and close to a change of pants if you didn’t, but that was just a bonus. You liked your tradition.

“We can stay home next year,” your partner said, also for the second time that day (and third time that week). “But my sister’s kids invited us to go trick-or-treating with them. How can we say no to that? It’s sweet.”

“You could go and I could stay home.”

“But they asked both of us. They like you.” That’s true, and while it seems to have escaped your partner’s notice, they like you more now than they did before your partner put you back in diapers. You know – or think you do – that’s because they’ve gotten older. Kids change quickly like that in the course of a eleven months, especially young ones; they just like you more than they did because who kids like and how much changes sometimes. But another part of you, one you tell yourself isn’t logical with less conviction every time you silently say it, suspects that’s because they see you as one of them now.

They’ve never seen anything unfit for little eyes, but when your partner told your family and theirs that they put you back in diapers, your siblings and your in-laws told their kids. You weren’t privy to those conversations, but the substance was relayed to you: sometimes adults have accidents and they can’t help it; those adults need diapers; it’s very upsetting for them, and it’s very brave of them to wear diapers, which everyone says are for babies but that’s just not true; they’re not a baby; we’re going to support them; we’re not going to make fun.

Your generation would’ve made fun mercilessly, if only behind adults’ backs, but this younger generation raised on empathy and more exposed to differences at a younger age is much more mature. Your first Christmas back in diapers, one of the kiddos had taken you by the hand and invited you to play a game with them, and of course you didn’t say no. Only after half an hour did you realize they were treating you as a peer, and a young, or not very bright, one at that. Whereas they might have rolled their eyes at the grown up struggling to understand a new game, they were patient and spent more time teaching you than playing. When you realized this, it wasn’t as though you could say thanks-but-no-thanks; they were having fun, and you’d be quite a grinch for putting an early end to the fun. Your sister was the one who graciously excused you from the game, reading on your face that you wanted to but didn’t know how, your social skills with young kids being not so much a strong point. You felt better when your sister asked you whether you understood the game, one of those games with intricate rules and lore that only kids ever understand, and told you she didn’t either.

But it isn’t just that you wear diapers now. They’ve also seen the way your partner and parents and their parents treat you, so gently most of the time but so firmly others, reminding them more of the way adults treat kids than the way adults treat each other. Like that nonsense at the park on Independence Day about wandering off and the way you sat on the blanket with them instead of in a chair like the grown ups. Your older nieces and nephews, it’s harder to tell what they make of it, but the young ones, between two and six, seem to have concluded you’re just a large kid yourself, maybe even younger than they are. At least, that’s what the part of your brain that you tell yourself is illogical suspects.

It’s a trio of two of your two nieces and a nephew – two, four, and nine – who invited you and your partner to go trick-or-treating. Just as your brain was telling you different stories about why, one angel on your shoulder told you that you couldn’t say no while another told you of course you could. Not that they got a say, because you didn’t get a say. Your partner accepted the invite on behalf of both of you, and two weeks out, when you asked if you had to go, something about their tone made it clear: yes, you did.

One week out brought news that you’d both be wearing costumes, once again in a tone that said in no uncertain terms: yes, you will. Not only that, but your partner would take care of everything and assured you that you would like what they picked out for you, which would stay a surprise until it was time to get dressed on Halloween.

“Besides,” your partner says as they hold out their hands to help you sit up, “I want to go, and I want you to come with me. It’ll be like when we were kids; wouldn’t it have been great if we knew each other back then? We can pretend, right?” As they’re saying this, they get a pair of plastic panties out of what used to be your underwear drawer. It still is, your partner had assured you in a way that hasn’t make you feel better; just a different kind of undies, the waterproof kind. Bless their heart, you thought at the time, they’re trying so hard to make it less embarrassing for you; but it didn’t make the loss of your grown-up underpants sting any less. They kneel down and hold a pair of clear plastic undies open for you, and you place your hands on their shoulders as you step in. They pull them up, seating them firmly against your double diapers and checking around the back and leg openings to make sure your diapers are completely tucked away.

“These are awfully tight. Can I wear one of the breathable ones instead?”

“I want them to be tight. Just a precaution.”

A step toward your dresser for a pair of socks gives you a feel for how much padding is between your legs. You straighten up as tall as you can, bringing your thighs as close together as you can, knowing they’d not get any closer no matter how hard you try. You grimace but don’t fret about it, fairly certain – well, pretty sure anyway – that you’ve mastered walking in thick diapers without waddling. Either that or you’re so used to a dry diaper waddle that you don’t realize you’re even doing it anymore, but that’s just another of those ridiculous thoughts you have when you’re feeling insecure. Right?

“Are you sure this isn’t overkill?”

“Um … no,” your partner says, choosing their words carefully as they know the subject is still raw for you, “not after … the weekend. Hey! Time to put on your costume. Be right back; keep your eyes closed.” They sound so excited, and you play along. Too bad the movie showing behind your eyes is a repeat of the weekend.

Fade in on your church’s annual Halloween party. Your partner had one arm around you, leading you out of the haunted house. It wasn’t one of those here’s-what-awaits-you-in-hell kind of church haunted houses; that’s not the kind of church you go to. Just a family-friendly haunted house set up in the rectory, organized by the youth pastor and staffed by the teens from the youth group.

Churches are natural places of gossip, so even though no one has told you they know, more than enough of your fellow regular church goers are aware you’ve been put back in diapers. Not a mean-spirited gossiper among the bunch; word spread the same way as when a parishioner gets sick or is in an accident, with ‘poor dear’ and ‘that must be so hard for them’ and ‘I hope it’s nothing more serious’ and ‘I’ll put a prayer intention in the box for them’ on the lips of the people who surrounded you every Sunday and holiday.

It’s a friendly congregation, so you didn’t think much of it when you noticed the usual how-are-you’s being invoked not in greeting but as actual questions, sometimes with the older women and even a few men in the congregation putting a hand on your are or shoulder as they looked you right in the eye as they asked, “How are you?” Over a few Sundays, you started to wonder why the shift, but you figured it out when a ninety-year-old woman – a sweet thing who stands no higher than Yoda and who had been a good friend of your grandmother – asked you if you needed anything. You were so taken aback, this frail widow turning the tables by asking you whether there was anything she could do for you, offering to talk whenever you needed to get anything off your chest, reminding you she knew your grandmother for more than seventy years and was a grandma herself. That’s when you knew so many of your fellow congregants knew about your diapers (and when you first suspected your grandmother had brought up your problem with accidents with her friends, though whether it was back when you were merely a late trainer or in more recent years when you were an increasingly incontinent adult in denial, you could only guess).

How people found out, you don’t know. You don’t want to know. You can safely assume whoever let the secret slip – not that anyone but you has ever treated it like the need-to-know-basis secret you feel it is – did so with the best intentions. Everyone around you always has the best intentions.

You hadn’t even wanted to go in the haunted house, but your partner insisted it would be fun. They wanted to go, so you went, humoring their affected, giddy gasps and doing your best to play along as though the G-rated attraction held in the same building you’d gotten dressed for your wedding in was actually scary. It was purely coincidental that you had a diaper blowout just as one of the teens jumped out from behind a door wearing a hockey mask, of all the cliches in the wide, wide world of Halloween. You wear diapers for a reason; just an unfortunate coincidence at an unfortunate time in an unfortunate place.

Your partner must’ve thought you were either a great thespian or a big fraidy cat the way you froze. “Honey,” they asked, but they only got the first syllable out before the scent of your full diaper struck their nose. The rectory isn’t big, and it’s divided into eight rooms on either side of a single corridor, so the rooms aren’t big either. There was no mistaking what someone had done, and being a family-friendly haunted house, the lights were only dimmed, not off; you didn’t even have the darkness to hide in.

“Okay,” your partner said almost mechanically. You were petrified, mortified, standing in the second room on the right of the hall with as many people between you and the entrance as you and the exit. You’d never been so grateful for your partner, always with a cool head, who immediately took charge as you stood still, unsure what to do as you processed your humiliation

Through the hockey mask, the teen knew what had happened. Others must’ve known too. Your partner put their arm around the small of your back to lead you out as you overheard a parent shush their child; you correctly guessed what the child said that got them shushed in a space where shrieking was not just accepted but the whole point. As your partner’s arm closed around you, you felt their arm jump back and heard their gasp before their arm settled back against, and they exchanged a look with you conveying how bad they felt for you having not just a very dirty incident but an actual blowout, and that they would, like always, make it better.

Of the eight rooms, the last one on the left hadn’t been transformed. It was still the youth pastor’s office, and there the youth pastor sat supervising the haunted house from afar. She’s popular, certain to be the next head pastor; you’ve always found her attractive in a, well, a womanly way but one you find accentuated by the her naturally bubbly, youth pastor’s personality contrasted with her almost bookish approach to preaching that’s nonetheless entertaining. She could’ve been a preschool teacher or children’s librarian, and every mother and grandmother was keen to introduce her to their single, adult children.

“Rachel,” your partner asks, rapping her knuckles on the door frame while you stood trying to pretend there was no one behind you or passing by you on their way out the door. Your partner pulled you into the office and closed the door part way as they said, “We have a little emergency in our hands.”

The ‘E’ word is sure to get a youth pastor moving, and Pastor Rachel was on her feet like she was coming off starting blocks. “Is someone hurt? Is …” She trailed off with an “O” that came out in a way she didn’t intend. “That’s a relief. You had me scared for a second.” She couldn’t quite hide her reaction to the scent, just like you couldn’t look her in the face; neither of you held it against the other. Just the opposite, you were both ready to apologize.

“I, I’m sorry,” you managed to say.

“None of that,” your partner whispered. “We talked about that, remember? Nothing to be sorry for.” You did remember, an entire conversation about you no long apologizing when you use your diaper, not to your partner and not to anyone else. It isn’t your fault, and you have nothing more to apologize for than a one-year-old when they use their diaper, logic you accepted even though it didn’t stop your impulse to apologize (nor that the analogy made you feel better about it, no matter how apt it was).

“Don’t be,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry. This is supposed to be for families.”

“No need for anybody to be sorry,” your partner said. “But we’re in kind of a time crunch.”

The air was close, as your grandma’s ninety-year-old friend would’ve said. “Maybe I should go wait outside,” you volunteered, though you were afraid to move in a diaper that already hadn’t fully contained the mess you made.

“No no no,” Pastor Rachel said. “Just tell me what you need.”

“A private place to change their pants. The line for the family restroom is a little too long for us,” your partner said with a lilt in their voice to lighten the mood, and just in case the point wasn’t clear, they reached down and patted the seat of your jeans. You didn’t see it, but Rachel saw your partner’s eyes widen as they got a feel for how dirty your diaper was. And neither of them knew you weren’t done as a soft mess continued filling your diaper with no place to go but up.

“Here,” Rachel said. “I’ll just step out … No, the mother’s room!”

It was no ‘Eureka, Dear Watson,’ but it was the answer your partner had in mind. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“I’ll take you over. The church is locked.”

“Could you take them? I need to get something from the car.”

“Sure.”

“Wait,” you said.

“I’ll have Quinn get it. Just a sec.” Rachel did a pirouette around you to pop down the hall and was back in ten seconds with Quinn.

You’d been praying for a hole to open up and swallow you, but how much harder you prayed when you peeked behind you, unwilling to face Quinn and unsure whether you should even move, and saw Quinn taking off a hockey mask. Quinn, the perfect model of all girls next door, the golden haired golden child of the congregation, the star soprano in the choir, the first to volunteer, the natural leader of any group she’s in, the CPR-certified babysitter, captain of her school’s field hockey team, president of her class, and the Virgin Mary in the nativity play five years running.

Your partner got the keys from her pocket and handed them to Quinn. “You’re an angel. We’re parked on the other side; there’s a bag in the backseat and one in the trunk. Could you bring both of them?”

“Sure. Um …” You could tell she was addressing you even though you were facing away. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be so scary.”

Your prayer for a lightning bolt to strike you dead wasn’t the first prayer you’d said at that church that had gone unanswered, but it was the first time you took the Lord’s silence personally. That beautiful, sincere angel whose path to sainthood was merely a matter of career choice thinking she’d scared you so badly that you’d filled your diaper was the final straw that broke your composure. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out the first sniffle.

“It’s okay,” your partner said. “It was just an incident, just a coincidence of timing. It probably would’ve happened regardless. Probably.” That doesn’t make you feel any better, yet it was somehow an improvement over the young woman thinking they’d frightened you to the point of pooping yourself like some incontinent fraidy cat.

“Meet me by the mothers’ room,” Rachel told her.

“Back in a jiff.” She dashed off.

“Okay,” your partner said to you, “quickly but carefully. Everything will be alright. You’ll be clean in ten minutes.” Rachel led the way. “I thought Quinn graduated.”

“She did. She stayed in town for college. Holy Cross. Technically she’s my assistant, unpaid of course. Never had an assistant, but it was her idea. We told her we couldn’t pay her, but that didn’t stop her. Full ride to school, naturally, double majoring and working a part-time job and practically doing mine too.”

“I’m sure the congregation would take up a collection to compensate her.”

“Had that idea; she turned it down. Or more specifically,” Rachel explained as she unlocked the side door to the church, “she said yes but to donate the money to something else, anonymously.”

Perfect, you thought, the young Mary ‘Mother Theresa’ Poppins thinks she made me bottom out my diaper. That brought on another sniffle and a stifled sob.

“You know you don’t ever have to cry over an incident, but if you need to to get the feelings out, go right ahead.”

“And don’t be shy on my account, sweetie. It’s always okay to cry. Let it out if you need to.”

Right to your heart, both of them, which you told yourself was only because you were feeling so vulnerable. In actuality, it was because you were so vulnerable.

“Incident,” Rachel asked as she unlocked the mothers’ room door.

“Accidents happen in your pants, but that’s what diapers are for, right honey, to they can’t be accidents. Just an incident.”

Rachel smiled.“Bless both your hearts. Maybe one day you’ll give a talk to the youth group about healthy relationships and what it means to be partners.”

“Here,” Quinn said as she caught up with you. Of course she wasn’t out of breath despite having sprinted around the building with a pair of not exactly light bags.

“We’ll guard the door, make sure no one comes in the church.”

With a wink toward you and one toward Quinn, they left you and your partner to it. The acoustics of the church easily carried your partner’s words to them: “Think you’re a little too big for the changing tables. Have to get you out of that poopy diaper on the floor. Stand still.”

Quinn and Rachel had the courtesy to wait outside the church, giving you some privacy. Your partner started getting out all that needed to get you clean again: changing mat, trash bag for your clothes, three plastic bags to hopefully seal your diaper away, rubber gloves, wipes, diaper, and rash cream. Your clean clothes stayed in the bag, set aside several feet away to make absolutely sure the only clean things you have to wear other than diapers stay clean.

“Let’s get these off you.” Your partner let the second glove snap against her wrist and started taking your pants down. “O my goodness.” You couldn’t even look. “O … goodness. Well, everything washes.” They carefully extracted your phone from your pocket and set it aside. Your pants went straight into the trash bag. “It’s not that bad, just the waistband at the back and a little … I think your shirt covered it. Arms up.” They stood up and examined you.

“That is such a full diapie.” The smell is awful, but the two of you aren’t as bothered by. Just as toddlers with full diapers and their caregivers seem to grow impervious to what gets inflicted on a diaper, at least most of the time, you’ve both gotten used to it.

They walked around behind you and rolled your shirt very carefully. “Stay still. Went right up the back of you diaper; your shirt might not be worth saving but we’re gonna try. Don’t move your head; let me take it off.” They carefully removed your shirt, making sure not to get any of what was on it anywhere else.

They sighed and let out a chuckle. “God must be listening to my prayers because your diaper is drying gravity right now.” You can’t help but smile a little. Begin wiping your lower back, dropping the wipes into the bag that will soon contain, barely, your dirty diaper. “Goal here is to get you clean enough to take home, and then I’m going to give you a bath.”

Give you a bath? Like, bathe you? One more bit of doting care that right away starts causing conflicted feelings. You’re able to bathe yourself, but you know a second pair of hands will be helpful, and a hot bath and your partners hands on you sound good.

“Alright,” they said as they walked in front of you again. “There’s not graceful way to do this. Just … try to not sit right down on it. Here.” They hold out a hand to help you ease yourself down. You try to put your weight on the side of your hip, but there’s not way to completely avoid your butt on the changing mat. Even sitting carefully so that your sit spots never rest on the mat, you felt the unpleasant sensation of your partner’s work being undone.

“What is up with that,” your partner asks playfully as they untaped your diaper. You don’t know what she’s talking about, and now with your battered diaper open, the smell starts to bother even you. “What is up with that tear?” A tear? Are you crying?

Not crying, but a few tears escape, and you don’t want to call it weeping, but that’s what you’re doing. You sniffle.

“You’re being very brave.”

“It’s …” You sniffle again. “I feel so gross.”

“Yes it is a yucky diaper. Yes it is a very yucky diaper, but I get you all clean. You’re being very good for me holding so still.”

You normally resent the baby talk. Your partner tends to start the baby talk when changing an especially egregious diaper, but they’re starting to do it during more changes, even just wet changes. Even just diaper checks. And sometimes having nothing to do with your diapers at all. You don’t think they even realize they’re doing it. It always seems to come from a place of kindness, and they always seem happy when they’re doing it, so though you want to say something, you haven’t yet had the heart to. And just then, you’re so focused on your yucky, poopy diapie that don’t notice they’re doing it, or that the words are comforting.

“Legs up,” they say in an octave higher than their actual voice. They’d normally use the clean part of the diaper to wipe away the worst of the mess, but this time they just pull it from underneath you and set it aside. “Who’s got a poopy bottom? Not you! Not for much longer. Gonna get you all clean and in fresh pampers. You’ll feel so much better.”

You go through the motions of the change, grateful for your partner and upset about the incident. It was one thing for Pastor Sarah and some of your fellow parishioners to know you wear diapers, but it’s so much worse that they’ve seen, heard, and smelled the worst of it. What must they be thinking? Maybe even saying? How will they look at you from now on?

With pity. Not contempt or disgust, but pity. Gentle pity and kindness. Like you have special needs. Like you’re fragile. Like it takes a village to care for an adult in a diaper, when you don’t need any care at all. At least, not any more than what your partner provides. And sometimes your parents. A sibling or two. Your in-laws once or twice … just in the past month.

But not every adult out there, not even the emotional care, the reassurance they all seem to be trying to impart like you’re just an embarrassed diaper wearer always on the verge of tears. Like any acknowledgement, even a silent one, that you’re attire is strange and your condition gross will make you fall apart.

“That’s as clean as you’re getting without a shower wand,” your partner says as they position a fresh diaper under you. “I should write a complaint to Chipotle. I know you like the barbacoa, sweetie, but your insides do not.” They verbally underlines do not. “There. Feel better?”

You look away. “I’m tired,” you say.

“I bet you are,” they reply as they try to fit your used diaper into the disposal bag.

“Of people being so nice to me.”

“What did you say?” You still don’t have all their attention.

“I’m tired of people being so nice to me,” you repeat, and your voice breaks.

“O sweetie!” Your partner shuffles over on their knees, taking off the gloves and tossing them toward the trash can. “O, you poor thing.”

Your turn your head the other way, straight into their lap. You sob. “I’m tired over everyone being so nice to me!”

“I don’t know what that means. You want people to be mean to you?”

You’re getting control of yourself again. “I just want people to treat me normal.”

“They do.”

“They don’t! It’s gross! I’m … It’s not normal for adults to wear diapers and everyone treats it like it’s normal for me to wear them and they never say anything mean and they just keep being too nice like, like …”

“Like they care about you? Like they know you can’t help it?”

“I’m not special needs.”

“Honey, yes you are.” You shut your eyes tight, forcing tears out. “It doesn’t mean you’re not smart or not a grown-up or not capable of taking care of yourself, but you need diapers, and you need help taking care of them. You do have a special need. And I know you don’t think you need so much help with them, but if you could do it all on your own, then you’d have put yourself back in diapers instead of waiting for me to do it. It’s okay, though; all of that’s okay.”

“But I don’t need them all to … to …”

“To let you know it’s okay? That they understand and accept you? That you don’t have anything to be embarrassed about and don’t have to hide your needs?”

“But … but …”

“Shhh,” they coo and pat your head, still in their lap. “I think you’ve had a very long and very trying day. Right now, let’s get you home, get you all cleaned up in s warm bath, and we can talk more about this after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“But …”

“Bup-bup-bup. What did I just say? You know when you get overtired you are just the silliest goose and can get yourself all upset. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow. Right now I need you to be my helper and help me get some clothes over your diaper tushy and everything thrown away and cleaned up.”

And they helped you sit up, and you helped clean up, and they helped you into the spare sweatpants kept in the car for incidents just like that one, which were a bit too snug but you were too tired and emotional wring out to notice. And when you got home, you had your bath and went to sleep.

But that conversation never did continue in the morning. You aren’t sure if you were being, as your partner put it, a silly goose or not. You don’t want people to be mean. Of course you didn’t. But something about the way they’re nice seems off. You want them to just ignore you. But isn’t that what they do every time they don’t acknowledge what you’re wearing, like when you stink up an entire haunted house and not one makes any comment about it at all? Isn’t that pretending it didn’t happen, or at least pretending nothing happened out of the ordinary?

So why does it feel so much like they’re patronizing you? Could at least some of this be in your head? Could you be being over-sensitive? It’s one thing for your partner and family to treat you like you need to be supervised like a child; clearly you’re right to be upset about that. But everyone else is just not making fun, being mean, all the things you thought people would be before you went back in diapers, back when you were too afraid to admit diapers are exactly what you need. And it’s bothering you that they’re not being that way. Why?

You never did have that conversation, and you haven’t figured it out yourself, and you haven’t found it in yourself to speak about the way your partner has been treating you ever since they taped that first diaper on you. Maybe, you’re starting to wonder, they know something about you that you don’t.

But now isn’t the time to think about that. Waiting for your partner to reveal the costume you’ll be wearing.

“You ready,” they call from the hall.

“Yeah.”

“Are you eyes closed?”

“Mhmm.”

“Ta-da!”

“O, that’s, um … Thanks for … I know you put a lot of thought into it. Thanks, really … but do I have to?”

Your double nighttime diapers under that lycra bodysuit? Really?

To be continued …