“No,” she says. You hate hearing that from your partner. It makes you feel like a scolded child sometimes.
“But honey,” you try, chuckling and confused. Is this a sex game? Does she really want you to go to Thanksgiving dinner at her parents’ commando? You reach again.
“No,” she says firmly and slaps your hand just as your fingers brush the fabric in your underwear drawer. “I said no. Not after last time.”
“It was an accident,” you plead, though deep down you know that only reinforces her point. You’re so focused on defending yourself, it doesn’t occur to you to wonder what your having had an accident has to do with wearing or not wearing underwear.
“You really wanna do this,” she asks. “Fine. Let’s just get it all out.” She scoffs. “Well, look who I’m talking to – the expert on that.” You stunned at her cutting remark. You can see the regret on her face as soon as the words are out.
“Honey,” she sighs, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know this is hard.” She guides you to the bed and sits down next to you, flipping open the towel you’re wearing and inadvertently drawing a contrast between your soft, naked body, and the little black dress she’s wearing over her gym-toned, slender triathlete’s body.
“You’ve been having accidents you’re not telling me about,” she says flatly, “and I haven’t said anything because I didn’t want to embarrass you. And they’re getting more frequent, aren’t they?”
You barely nod. “How … how did you know?”
“Because I know what it means when you jump up from the couch or the table or bed and speed-walk out of the room. I know you probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but adults don’t hold themselves like toddlers barely holding it in while they wait for the mommy to take them to the potty. And I’m finding more evidence. Did you really never notice that sometimes the little puddles you make get cleaned up before you do it, or did you just not want to say anything – like ‘thank you,’ she says as thought teaching manners to a three-year-old. “And you missed a spot on the rug, and even when you wash your undies really well, sometimes I can still tell.” She kept buying you white underwear for a reason, so she could keep an eye on your problem. Bleach can’t get out every stain.
“I didn’t mind,” she says, “when it was occasional, but it’s not just now and again anymore. I’ve ignored that at home, but do you remember how bad it was at the last Thanksgiving before COVID?”
You don’t answer. You blocked out some of that experience.
“You had two accidents – not one, but two accidents at my parents’ house. First, you left a wet spot on their suede couch, and you tried to blame our nephew, who it so obviously was not,” she says while shaking her head at the memory of your terrible fib, “because his pants were dry.” Not your finest moment. “And then you tried to blame the dog, who had been in the laundry room the whole time.” An even worse moment. You had two accidents, and your wife’s family knew two secrets: you’re an adult who has accidents and apparently isn’t so smart in moments of stress too. Three secrets if you count them learning you tell fibs like a small child.
“I thought everyone was really nice about it,” your wife tells you. “No one said anything mean or even gave you a weird look. Your black pants hid it okay, but they figured it out when I had to check your pants myself because you wouldn’t even excuse yourself. Mom says no one even talked about it after I took you up to my childhood bedroom and changed your pants. And,” she emphasizes, “if you recall, you didn’t want me to bring an extra pair for you.” She’s being blunt; she isn’t trying to be mean or embarrass you, but when you have a problem like wetting your pants for no reason the doctors can find, it’s inevitably embarrassing when someone else has to take responsibility for it because you won’t.
“You said it was embarrassing and didn’t need an extra pair, but you did, didn’t you?”
You don’t respond.
“And that wasn’t the end of it. I reminded you pumpkin pie upsets your tummy.”
She did, and it embarrassed you because she said it right at the table in front of anyone, and you had childishly deflected – poorly – and condescendingly said it was sweet how much she worries about you before taking an even bigger slice than you wanted.
“But no, you didn’t wanna listen. I said we could take some home, but you just had to have some right then. And everyone saw you fidgeting when we were going around the table saying what we were thankful for. And why you didn’t just get up and go to the bathroom …” She sighs and shakes her head again at the memory of your stubbornness and foolish choices.
“And it was too late. When you finally did get up – after I told you to – you made it halfway to the bathroom and just stopped. Everyone knew what happened even before our nephew announced it to everyone.”
The logical part of your mind told you four-year-olds don’t even know what revenge is, but it still felt like he was getting back at you for blaming him for wetting the sofa.
“I didn’t bring three pairs of pants for you. Remember what we had to do? Hmm?”
You stammered. “Y-you … you … we …”
She shakes her head sympathetically. “We went upstairs to the bathroom, and my sister-in-law knocked on the door. Remember what she gave us?” She doesn’t wait for you to try to answer. "Our niece’s diaper bag, so we could use the changing pad and the wipes. I don’t know what we wouldn’t done without those, given you a bath?”
She keeps saying “we” did this, but it was really her. You just laid there with your arms over your face weeping like a humiliated child who couldn’t hold it.
“And I had to go back to my old bedroom to get the bag I put your wet pants in, and I had to put your wet pants back on you because we didn’t have anything else for you to wear, and Mom brought us a trash bag so we could just throw your poopy undies away. That’s how we went home, with you wearing cold, peed in pants and putting the bag with your dirty pants in the trunk.”
She straightens up, reminding you she’s taller and not by a little. “We’re not doing it again. We haven’t seen some of these people in two years, and I want to socialize with them and not be worrying about whether you’ll potty in your pants, and I want you to have fun and not embarrass yourself.”
“But diapers are embarrassing,” you snap and regret it instantly, sinking back into yourself when she glares at you.
“One, it’s not negotiable. You’re wearing diapers, or you’re staying home. Two, you’re not staying home. And three, no way is it as embarrassing as dirtying your pants in front of my family. This way, if you have an accident, your pants stay dry, the furniture stays dry, and no one knows … unless you make a mess,” she says after she considers it for a moment.
“But what if they find out,” you ask.
“Honey,” she says, sounding unsure for the first time since she told you no, “I already told them all.”
“I put in the family Facebook page … Hey, don’t get teary on me,” she says sweetly. “This way there’s no surprises and you don’t have to worry about anyone finding out by accident … Poor choice of words. Anyway, everyone is understanding, and they all talked to their kids and will make sure none of the little ones make fun.”
“I’ll be the only one in diapers,” you protest, bordering on whining.
“That’s not …” You pause and think of the ages of your youngest nieces and nephews. The almost-three-year-old is, in fact, dry during the day and reliably making it to the potty. Changing tacks, she says, “Well, so what? And I’ve got everything taken care of. I packed us a diaper bag with everything we need. Wipes, cream, powder, some disposal sacks, a changing pad, a spare pair of pants.”
“If I’m wearing diapers, why do we need spare pants?”
“In case you leak or have a blowout, but I’ll keep a close eye on you make sure you get changed before your diapers gets anywhere close to leaking. I even have a plan for pie.”
You don’t think you’ll like the plan.
“After dinner, I’ll take you upstairs and change your peepee diaper …”
“So you’re just assuming I’m going to wet it!”
She smiles and stokes your arm sympathetically before continuing without acknowledging what you said. “…and we’ll double diaper you, and I even got some cute plastic pants. See,” she says proudly, "I’ve thought of everything. Even if you blort your diaper, your pants will stay clean and who knows – maybe no one will even smell your stinky britches through the double padding and the plastic panties.”
You just stew thinking about her plan and how she thinks there’s no way you won’t have an accident and probably more than one.
“And,” she says in an excited way as though trying to get you excited too, “if you do fill your pants, we don’t have to leave like last time! We’ll just get you cleaned up and go back downstairs."
“Everyone will know what happened,” you groan.
“Everyone will know if you bottom out your undies in the dining room too.” She pats your back. “Now, lay back and let’s get your diapered and dressed. We have to be there in 45 minutes.”
You don’t move when she gets up and opens the closet, where she gets out a box and withdraws a diaper. “See, it’s even cute. It’s got this little blue puppy peaking over the top. Lay back.”
You still don’t move, and she walks over to you expectantly. She waits a beat before she says, “You’re a very well-behaved partner, and I only have to spank you 2 or 3 times a year. Do you really wanna go to Thanksgiving dinner on a spanked bottom?” You relent lay back. She narrates everything she’s doing, and you wish she’d stop calling it your ‘diaper area.’
“There, how does that feel,” she asks when she’s done and pats the front your diaper four or five times. You shrug and she helps you sit up. “Not going to be very verbal, huh? You’ll feel better as you get used to it. You’re pretty adorable in that,” she says with a wink and walks back to the closet to get an outfit out for you.
Forty minutes later, you walk into your in-laws’ house, and your mother in-law greets you at the door. She gives you a kiss on the cheek and hugs you extra tight, and you flinch when she pats your bottom, resenting it until she leans back and winks – so that’s where your wife gets it – and whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite child in-law.”
Your garrulous father in-law greets you and calls you ‘tiger’ for some reason. Your sister in-law kisses you on both cheeks and says you look cute. Your brother in-law, who never talks much, exaggeratedly says how nice it is to see you and asks if you need anything. Your nephew – the one who didn’t pee on the sofa – asks if you want to play a game with him and the other little ones.
Your wife finds you and hands you a drink, which you haven’t had in over a year because they almost always go right through you and lead to accidents. She sees your confusion and says, “You’re diapered,” and shrugs.
This is turning into a much better Thanksgiving than you’ve had in a while. For a few minutes at a time, you even forget what you’re wearing. It doesn’t even occur to you whether you’re wet or not. You don’t recall having an accident, but you can’t tell if you feel dry. You don’t feel wet either. You just feel … warm down there. It’s warm and tight and felt like that when she first put it on you and feels the same now.
This isn’t as bad as you thought – certainly not worth getting spanked over – and to show you’re mature, you decide to tell your wife you want to be diapered for the Christmas party too.
You don’t know she’s waiting until tomorrow, when she takes you Black Friday shopping against your will, she’s planning to break the news that diapers are your underwear now.
And it doesn’t occur to you that you always go the bathroom once an hour, and it’s been more than hour since your wife diapered you, and you don’t feel the need to go, and that there’s probably a reason you’re not feeling a full bladder. You don’t even think about the fact that your wife isn’t reminding you to go to the ‘potty,’ as she insists on calling it, or that you hadn’t asked how you’d use the bathroom if you were in a diaper, and that she didn’t tell you.