Hi Ho. I’m trying something slightly different. I’m writing incredibly short stories (for me anyway) at a rate of about once a week. I intend to use this topic/thread as a place to post them. Some of them may be connected as tiny vignettes. Others not. Most in second person, some in third person. Think of this as a kind of sketch file if that makes sense.
-Personalias
What Dreams May Come
A sound, like rushing water awakens you.
You’re awake. You’re in a crib. You’re wearing a diaper. It’s soaked and your bladder is empty. This is not surprising. You went to sleep in this crib. It’s no wonder you should wake up in it. Same for the diaper. It wasn’t wet when you fell asleep, (not that wet anyways) but it’s present condition is just the natural consequence of the passage of time.
You sit up and yawn away the last of the dream stuff. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if that squish beneath your bottom is poop or not. It’s so hard to tell first thing in the morning when everything between your legs is wet and squishy. It’s shocking just how routine this all has become. There was time when you would have balked at all of this. Now you just accept it.
Mommy comes into the room. “Good morning, baby!” she coos at you through your crib bars. “Did you sleep well? Have pleasant dreams?”
You smile softly, demurely, as you give a pleasant chirp of ‘Yes Mommy!”
“Wonderful!” she says. “Let’s get you changed and ready for the day.” She lowers the crib bars and you climb out only so that you can climb back onto the changing table. “Such a good baby!”
You are a good baby. A very good one. It’s something that you’ve worked hard at. So very hard. You haven’t had any other choice. It’s not up to you. Nothing is. You struggled at first, but Mommy made it very clear very quickly that you could fight as much as you wanted, but it wouldn’t stop you from becoming her good baby.
“After we get you dressed for the day,” Mommy says pulling the safety strap over your chest. “We’ll get you some breakfast, and then we’ll go to the park to play. Maybe Margaret will be there!”
Margaret is your best friend. Your Mommy and hers had decided it. You didn’t much care for her, to be honest, but you didn’t have much choice in the matter.
You don’t feed yourself. You don’t dress yourself. You don’t decide where you go, who you spend time with or for how long. The only freedom you have left is in your dreams. In your dreams you can be anything. When you’re awake, the only thing you can be is a dumb baby. Mommy’s working extra hard on unteaching you your FZY’s.
Mommy is a very good teacher…
Mommy tears open the tapes on your diaper and starts to clean you up. “Oh wow!” she gushes. “Such a wet baby!” She drags the cold wet baby wipe across your front and between your legs. “I bet someone was dreaming about going for a swim!”
You open your mouth to tell her what you were actually dreaming about. You can’t remember, though. It was so vivid, too, you’re sure! Cold wipes on your bottom and Mommy’s cooing makes it so hard to concentrate!
Just then, Bobby walks in. Bobby is your big brother, but not so big that you don’t have to share a room together. Bobby has a big kid bed that looks like a racecar. Sometimes Mommy asks him what he wants to do instead of telling him. Billy can feed himself and dress himself.
Presently, he’s doing just that. You watch enviously from the changing table while Bobby takes his pajamas off, all by himself. You stare while he strips down and takes out a pair of underwear out of the top drawer of his dresser and steps into it, easy as pie.
Suddenly you realize the sound that woke you up was the sound of Bobby flushing the toilet, and your blood turns hot. Mommy is busy unfolding a diaper and slipping it underneath your hips. “Mommy,” you ask. “When will I be ready to use the potty?”
“Oh,” she says, pausing for just a moment. “Probably never.” She grabs the bottle of baby powder and dusts your privates with it.
“But why?” You ask.
“Because you’re just a baby.” Mommy says. “Babies don’t use the potty, do they?”
Bobby used to be a baby. You know. You got here first. But for some reason, Bobby’s been allowed to grow up when you haven’t. Again. Grow up again. You already grew up once. It’s weird how you have to remind yourself lately. So much of your old life before Mommy feels like a dream; an elaborate fanfiction that you wrote yourself.
Everything from before feels less real as Mommy spreads your legs and pulls the fresh, thick, poofy, crinkly diaper that prevents your knees from touching and forces you to walk with a waddle 24/7. It is only the first of the day. It will not be the last. You can’t remember the last time you got to wear underwear; real underwear; the kind that couldn’t be seen from space. It was only an academic memory by this point.
You lift your head up to examine the decorations of the diaper Mommy just put you in. It has balloons on the front. The one you woke up in had pictures of sleeping kitty cats. Depending on what Mommy feels like, you might find yourself in a diaper decorated with nursery rhyme characters or one with fishes swimming. You don’t even get to decide your diaper decorations!
Meanwhile, Bobby would get to wear those jungle safari themed undies all day long.
“Oh!” you gasp. “Mommy! I remember what I was dreaming about?”
“Oh?” She chuckles, “What was your dream, baby?” She undoes the strap and helps you sit up. Your thoughts suddenly feel as crisp as the new padding wrapped around your hips.
“I was on safari!” you exclaim. “I was hunting big game!”
“That sounds nice,” Mommy says, pulling your sleep shirt up over your head. “What game? Checkers?”
“No!” You correct her. “Like I was shooting animals and stuff! Lions and tigers and bears!”
“Oh my!” Mommy replies. “Are you sure you were on safari? Maybe you were just dreaming about going to the zoo?”
“I’m sure,” you say. Bobby has already gotten dressed and walked away. You’re still nude except for the padding. “It was awesome!” Talking about your dreams was one of the few things you could freely do.
“Was I there?” Mommy asked.
“No,” you proudly exclaim. “Just me.”
“But if you were in the jungle hunting animals,” Mommy teases, “who would be there to change your diaper?”
That was the best part about the dream! About all your dreams! “I wasn’t…!” Except you were. You immediately remember the dream. You picture yourself wearing a helmet. A pith helmet, you think it’s called. And one of those khaki button up shirts that people always wore in the cartoons and movies. Boots too. But between the shirt and the boots, was your diaper. Just your diaper. No pants. No belt. Nothing.
And right beside you, holding your hand, was Mommy. Even in your dreams you couldn’t get out of diapers. Even asleep you were with your Mommy. There was no escape. No freedom, even in your subconscious.
A terrible melancholy comes over you. Were you ever actually an adult? Or have you just been fooling yourself with your dreams and they’re now finally telling you the truth about yourself.
“So,” Mommy says. “What do you want to wear today?”
“I don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to sob. “I’m just a baby. You pick, please.”
“Of course, baby,” Mommy smiles. “Of course.”
Uncoinventional
You fall off the spinning disk, giggling like an idiot on the floor, and dizzy as hell. Thirty something rotations! New record! You toss your hands up to the ceiling in celebration and your laughter redoubles in on itself when it hits you that you were actually pointing at the nearest wall.
This is the best convention ever! Presently, you’re in the Nursery Playroom, where the littlest of the little ones like to play. That’s you right now. Definitely you. People are playing on rocking horses the size of thoroughbreds, riding around on tricycles that are far too big, and bouncing in walkers that could double as flying saucers. And nobody is hiding their diapers.
Not fifteen minutes ago, you found yourself lying beneath a baby gym, in your t-shirt, and wet Alphagatorz, babbling to yourself and smacking around dangling jingly toys. And it felt so gosh darn, wonderfully normal!
I belong here. I really belong here. I really do.
That’s what you thought. Somehow, it finally feels like you’ve come home. Amazing! But your attention has never been steady at the best of times, so you drifted over to this sick sit and spin and went to town until you could barely stand up straight.
A gurgle from your stomach reminds you that you’re not allowed to go full baby. No number two’s allowed in convention spaces. That bodily reminder snaps you right out of headspace. Shouldn’t have had those nachos last night. The spinning didn’t help either. One way or another, something is about to exit you, and it’s probably out the back.
Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Still dizzy, you stand up on unsteady legs; you’re legs locked while your torso wobbles. You already know what you’re going to do: Waddle to the bathroom, drop the kids off at the pool, wipe, and then come back and play. Minimum interruption!
On second thought, maybe you’ll go back to your hotel room for a few minutes. Nothing about the rules says you can’t poop in there. It’d be more practical too, considering you’re already wet. Pooping in a toilet and then pulling up a wet Alphagatorz would feel…weird. You’re not in Pull-Ups, you’re a BABY! (That’s the headspace you’re looking for anyway).
As the last of the dizziness recedes, something catches your eye. In the back corner of the play room is an adult sized changing table. Not a repurposed massage table like in the changing rooms, a full on changing table, hand crafted and painted to look just like something a baby might use.
You pivot and face it. How long had that been there? You swear you cased the room and examined each and every piece of oversized baby furniture as if it were an art exhibit when you first came in.
A wave of sadness washes over you and your knees bend slightly as you start to push. The feeling of your cheeks spreading makes you groan under your breath while you stare enviously at the prop. A prop. That’s all it is. The convention was also quite clear about public nudity.
Your next sigh comes out as a grunt.
Your feet are still planted, your knees bent more than before. It still hasn’t occurred to your body that you could walk and get a closer look. Attached to the side of the adult sized changing table are several little hooks. Each hook has a diaper bag hanging from it. The shelves beneath the top are likewise packed with diaper bags. It seems the littles who brought diaper bags for quick changes all stowed them there.
You wished you’d have brought a diaper bag. Or someone to carry it for you. Another sigh escapes your top, while your bottom feels warmer and your belly feels better.
To the right of the table is an unopened pack of Little Kings. Diaper bag be damned, someone just didn’t give a damn. To the left is what appears to be a large diaper genie. Wow. This place goes all out. Morbidly, you wonder if anyone has snuck a used diaper in there.
Oh yeah! Used diaper! You shake the cobwebs out of your head and stop sighing wistfully of what you can’t have. Time to…
It finally hits you. That grunting and pushing you’ve been quietly doing and the meaning behind it. You’ve been messing this whole time, and inertia and gravity is carrying the last of your mess out of you beyond your control.
For the first time in decades, you’ve just pooped your pants. In public. Without realizing it.
Your body tenses and you slap your thighs to keep from feeling the back of your diaper. You need to get out of here. Now. If you’re caught like this you’re sure to be banned! You quickly start telling lies to yourself: It’s okay. It’s okay. No problem. You just need to casually walk out of the play room, and find the nearest stairwell, then you’ll just go up five flights of stairs, take out the keycard in your lanyard, and slip into your hotel room for a change…maybe a shower too. Point is that as long as you don’t dawdle or get trapped in a confined space, no one will be the wiser.
You pivot around to start walking towards the playroom entrance, quietly tensing with every step. You can feel the mess shifting around. You look down at the floor and stare at the carpet so as not to draw any attention with your uncomfortable facial expressions.
This isn’t going to work. This isn’t going to work. You’re going to caught. Caught and banned.
You raise your head a little so that you don’t bump into anyone and are forced to stop dead in your tracks. The double doors leading out into the wider convention area are now shut. You don’t remember them closing. Your speed doubles and you power walk to the door. Your heart leaps up into your throat when you grab the handle and find it locked.
Why the fuck is it locked?
“Oh honey!” A voice calls out. “What are you doing?”
You turn around and press your back to the door. “Nothing!” You say instinctively while your mess presses against you more tightly. “Can I please get out?”
Coming towards you, is a woman in white sneakers, blue jeans, and a hot pink t-shirt with the conventions name on it. Oh shit! (Poor choice of words!) A staff member! Something seems familiar about her too. Wasn’t she the receptionist at the front desk? You thought the hotel was a separate entity from the convention for purposes of play…
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but you have to wait here,” she says.
“Why?” you ask. She’s close. Too close. You wish you could just phase through this door, or sink into the center of the earth. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, baby,” she says soothingly. “Those are just the rules. You get to play here while all the grown-ups play out there.”
If it weren’t for the crippling fear you’re currently experiencing, such talk would send you deep deep into headspace. “I need to go to my hotel room!” You yelp.
“Awwww,” the stranger replies. “You’ll get to go back to your hotel room, eventually. Don’t worry. Do you want to lie down somewhere? I can make a space that’s nice and quiet for you?”
This lady isn’t getting it. She is far too committed to the bit. “I need to go change!” You all but. scream.
“Oh?” she says. “Let me see?” Quick and casual as anything she kneels down and squeezes between your legs. You’re too shocked to react while she examines your diaper and sticks her fingers past the leak guards. “Hmmm…you’re wet, but you’re not that wet.” She determines. “Why don’t you let the grown-ups decide whether you need changing?” She stands up and thumbs back over her shoulder. “Go play.”
“But…but…but…I want to see the rest of the convention!” You have to get out of here. Noses are sniffing and time is ticking!
The staff member waves your concern off. “You don’t want to go out there. It’s all boring grown-up stuff. Stay and play here until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.”
The sincerity in her voice throws you off. “What?”
“This is a grown-up convention, baby,” she says. “You’re at the convention daycare so that your Mommy or Daddy can go do their grown-up stuff and know that your’e safe.”
Was that even a thing? Not the point. “I don’t have a Mommy and Daddy!” You’re single, but saying as much feels like a confession of a crime or an admission of guilt.”
“Mmmhmm…” The lady nods, clearly not believing you. “I’m sure. You’re very big.” She drags you out away from the door and swats you on the butt. “Now go play.”
You need to regroup. Need to get out and change. Need to avoid getting caught.
Too late. “Hold it!” You feel your diaper being pulled back. You freeze and hold your breath. It wasn’t exactly fun while it lasted, but it’s over now. “Hmmmm….guess I was wrong. You do need to be changed.”
Your jaw drops open. Her hand clamps down on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being dragged to the back corner. It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving. “Wait. Stop!” you try to say. “What are you doing?”
“Changing you,” she says. “You need it!”
“Here?”
“Yup.”:
“Everyone will see.”
“It’s okay. No need to be shy. You’re just a baby.”
All of your skin is tingling. “No I’m not!”
“Okay, honey.” So in command of the situation is she, that she boosts you off the ground and onto the changing table in one fell swoop. Your mess mashes against your backside. “Then let’s change that big kid diaper. Lie down.”
Your body lies down. There’s no disobeying. You try to sit up, but a hand on your chest is all that’s needed to keep you pinned while she roots around on the shelves beneath you. She stands back up and looks at your convention name tag dangling from your lanyard.
“Rhonda?” she calls.Another woman in a similar uniform jogs up. You’re pretty sure you saw her vacuuming the hallway when you first checked into the hotel. “I can’t find this one’s diaper bag.”
“What’s the name?” the other woman asks.
Then they say your name. You’re real name. The name you introduce yourself by outside of the scene. You grip and grab at the nametag and read it. It’s your name. Picture too. The badge wasn’t like that before. You’re smiling in the picture. Your eyes look vacant.
Rhonda rifles through the bag. “Hmm, I don’t see it either, Debbie”
Debbie frowns. “Maybe Mom or Dad forgot to drop it off?”
“Maybe,” Rhonda shrugs. “But that’s why we have the emergency spares.”
“I’m sorry!” You babble. “There’s been a mistake. I won’t do it again. Please just stop!”
Both strangers soften towards you. “Awwww, that’s not what we mean. You’re not in trouble, pumpkin. Your Mommy or Daddy just forgot to drop off your diaper bag.”
Rhonda rips open the package of Little Kings. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”
The tapes scritch scratch as your diaper is opened and your soaked genitals and messy bottom is exposed to everyone. You scream and babble while these strangers touch you in ways you haven’t been touched in a long time.
“It’ll be alright.”
“It’s just a diaper change.”
“You’ll feel so much better when it’s over.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed or shy about.”
“You’ve had these all your life.”
“Don’t you want to be a good baby so we can tell your Mommy or Daddy when they get back?”
“Just a little more, and then you can go play. Promise.”
The other convention goers, the other littles, don’t take much notice. They’re all trapped in their own world of blocks and bead mazes. Right as your bottom is finished being wiped, and the Alphagaztorz is being balled up and tossed away in the very real diaper genie by your feet, you see another little stop crawling and puff their cheeks out while the back of their diaper expands.
The fresh new diaper is slid underneath you and a torrent of powder rains down on your back and front. The little you just witnessed shit themselves keeps crawling as if nothing happened.
“There we go!” they chirp at you, finishing the change as quickly, efficiently, and sexlessly as one might an actually baby. “All done.”
They help you off the changing table. “Go play.”
You stumble about in a daze. The fresh diaper is too stiff. They always are at first, but usually you feel more connected to it because you’re the one who put it on.
You’re not kicked out. They seem to think you’re a real baby. They know your real name. You don’t know what to do with this information.
Just as importantly: Who’s going to pick you up at the end of the day?
Airport Insecurity
You’ve never been great at making smart tactical decisions when it comes to your diapers. Years ago, when you told your vanilla friend about your kink and how paranoid you were about getting caught or someone finding your stash, they thought you were being silly.
“What’s there to catch? If somebody finds them, just say you have a medical condition or something. Like you’re a bedwetter, or have bladder control problems.” The flush in your cheeks was answered with their eyes slowly widening in increased comprehension. “They have cartoons on them, don’t they…?” The idea that there could be babyish looking diapers sized for grown-ass men and women didn’t even occur to them.
Yet it was a relief to you. Ye gods, how awful would it be if you were limited to only what you could piecemeal together and pretend was ‘the real thing’; limited to Depends and whatever outfits looked childish enough? No bonnets. No onesies. No clothes with snaps in them. It’d be like putting a barber’s bowl on your head and calling it a knightly helm only without Don Quixote’s madness.
No. Just no.
Thank goodness for the internet, niche companies, and discreet shipping.
You still trended towards subtlety, naturally. You aren’t looking to force yourself on anyone. It’s just the t-shirt and baggy shorts you have on feel a lot better with a nice cloth backed diaper and a plain white onesie to hold it all together. To one side of your brain, you’re wearing a grown-up disguise so that you can play pretend amongst the ‘real’ adults. To the other side, you are the world’s most discreet and timid exhibitionist; afraid of getting caught and shunned.
You just wanna be yourself! What’s so wrong with that?
Here in the airport security line, that more anxious side is currently blaring at full volume. Your tongue becomes like sandpaper while you slip your shoes off and put them in a bin with your belt. Your diaper is dry too. You never thought you’d be too nervous to pee, but here you are.
This will be fine. There’s no risk of anyone seeing your diaper. To all onlookers, the onesie will just look like you have a basic undershirt that is successfully tucked in.
It’s not what you’re wearing that’s making your heart thud in your chest. It’s the bag.
It doesn’t look very much like a diaper bag. It’s plain brown with no babyish decorations. It could be a purse, or a laptop bag, or just a satchel.
It is a diaper bag, however. That’s what it was marketed as. That’s what you’re using it for. It’s packed with wipes, powder, a (for now) empty baby bottle, and two spare diapers. Also your wallet, cell phone, and keys, but that’s besides the point.
You didn’t need to bring the diaper bag along. You aren’t actually incontinent, and even if you were, your diapers are absorbent enough that they probably wouldn’t leak between now and the time your plane touches down.
It’s just…
You liked the idea of carrying around your very own diaper bag. You romanticized the idea of having an accident before takeoff, and then sitting in for a few hours, perhaps adding to it, and then whisking yourself away to a bathroom to change. There was something lovely about that idea…
This is stupid. This whole thing is stupid. You should have just packed these diapers in your suitcase with the rest. The people at the x-ray machine would see your diapers. They’d see how big the diapers were. They’d know that they weren’t small enough to fit an actual baby.
They’d know. Everyone would know.
You inhale and hold your breath as you put the bag on the conveyor belt. “Any liquids, or large electronics?” The man stationed near the front of the belt asks. You mutely shake your head and wince as they push your bag along the rollers towards the x-ray machine.
“We’ve got some pumps and breast milk,” a woman behind you says, putting a large navy blue bag behind your plain brown diaper bag. You glance at her, and the color shoots away from your face and towards your feet. Oh crap! Someone with a real baby! The man behind her with the newborn in a carrier tells you what you already know.
“That’s fine,” the guard says.
But you know the truth. It is not fine. You’re about to accidentally traumatize a new mother with your fetish. You’re about to be exposed and go from being the world’s most discreet exhibitionist to a full on untouchable.
No. You breathe. That’s not what’s going to happen. You temper the extreme paranoia you’re feeling with cold reptilian logic. You’re not going to be outed here. There’s nothing dangerous or suspicious in your bag and the people at the TSA have seen much weirder shit than some big baby diapers. You’ll be forgotten less than thirty seconds after you get through security and nobody but you and the guy looking for bombs and drugs will ever know.
“Next!” A guard on the other side of the body scanner calls you. You turn your head in time to see a man step outside of the hollow glass booth and follow in his footsteps. You angle your head down to the floor and shuffle forward, breathing shallowly. You place your socked feet on the yellow footprints and raise your arms above your head before the person running the scanner can instruct you to.
“Arms up,” they say calmly, despite you already following their instructions.
The vertical bar quickly whooshes past your sight, scanning you in the blink of an eye. You exhale and lower your arms down. No beeps. No boops. No buzzers. That should mean you’re in the clear, or so you think.
“Step out and to the side, please.” A guard commands.
Out and to the side?! What was wrong? What happened? Did you leave something in your pockets? Is something…bulging unnaturally? You stare down at your crotch and feel as if you have X-Ray vision. Surely, the diaper bulge beneath your onesie and baggy shorts isn’t THAT noticeable, right?
Right?!
“Come on,” the guard coaxes you, gently. “Out we go!”
You step forward out the other side of the body scanner, the papery crinkle of your diaper sounding off in your ears despite the din of the machines and foot traffic all around you. It’s drowned out by the thump-thump-thumping as your heart threatens to leap out of your chest.
Out of the corner of your eye you see a guard at the X-ray machine rifling through a plain brown satchel bag; your diaper bag! And he’s taking out everything!
Why?
Why would he do that? It’s just a wallet, phone, keys, wipes, and some diapers! Big, crinkly, childish looking baby diapers that fit you perfectly so as to bring you incredible joy and comfort in private and drive you to humiliating despair in public. He stacks the two spares you packed on a counter and pulls out the baby powder. He pours some out and reaches for what looks like a chemical testing strip.
Oh no! The powder! They’re making sure that it’s not some kind of a bomb! You KNEW you should have packed it in your suitcase, but noooooooooo, you just HAD to live the full fantasy and smell extra babyish when you changed yourself in the airport bathroom.
You’re going to purge. You just know it. As soon as this is over, you are getting off that plane and dumping your entire suitcase full of baby clothes and diapers into a fucking dumpster.
You freak.
You loser.
You monster.
You look behind you at the lady with the breast pump and realize you haven’t been breathing. She’s smiling and waving at you, gently shooing you forward.
A silent prayer: Please don’t let her see what’s in your bag. Please let her and her husband and their kid be at just the right angle so that the x-ray machine and body scanner are blocking their view of your privacy being grievously violated.
“Come on!” A strange man chirps and yanks you the rest of the way out of the scanner.
“Sorry about this, Dad,” the guard says to the stranger. The way he says it reminds you of when you were a child and people who didn’t know your parent’s names would just call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ as a shorthand.
“Daddy?” The word leaps out of your mouth unbidden. You’d only meant to copy what was said, not to add your own infantile twist.
“Just hold on a second, baby,” the stranger says quietly. “Just gotta prove that you’re not a terrorist or something.” He shakes his head and laughs to himself while he pulls your pants down, and exposes your onesie.
Terrified and overwhelmed, you freeze. Knees and elbows locked. Throat tight. Hard to breathe. The man, Daddy, reaches right between your legs like he’s done it a billion times and unsnaps each button of your onesie.
“I’m sorry about this,” the guard says. “It’s just protocol.’
“Yeah,” Daddy says. “I get it.” He lifts up the onesie, exposing your heavy sodden diaper. You have no idea when you stopped holding it, but the wetness line is bright blue “Looks like you caught us before we sprung a leak!”
The guard laughs nervously. “Looks like it. Sorry again.”
“Not a problem, sir,” Daddy replies. Then he looks to you. “Okay, baby. Why don’t you step out?” He pulls your shorts down past your ankles until they’re just a puddle on the floor.
Your legs and brain numb, your body does as instructed, stepping out one foot of a time until you’re left in nothing but your t-shirt, onesie, and socks.
“What happened here?” The woman with the baby supplies asks. Your skin alights anew. This shouldn’t be happening!
Daddy talks past you. “Body scanner thought a diaper was an explosive device or something.”
The woman laughs and moves over to the rollers by the X-Ray machine. “Not unless it’s diarrhea!” she quips. She picks up the bag filled with milk, breast pumps and such. The man who was rifling through your diaper bag has repacked it and handed it back to her. “No pants?”
Daddy shrugs. “They need a change anyway, and it’s not that cold.” Without further preamble he grabs your t-shirt and tugs it up over your head. You’re too bamboozled to resist.
“Fair enough,” the woman says. She grabs your wrist. “Come on honey bunny. Follow Mommy. Let’s go get changed.”
“Mommy?!” Your confused words fall on deaf ears.
“You sure, babe?” Daddy asks. “You got the last one.”
The conversation has started to move away from the security line. You’re waddling helplessly behind Mommy and Daddy. You look behind you and see that the young man with the baby carrier behind her was with another young lady.
“I’d like to nurse before we get on the plane,” Mommy tells Daddy. “Clean bum and full tummy. If we’re lucky they’ll sleep through the flight back home. Keep the bottled stuff as an emergency if they get fussy in mid air.”
Daddy slows down. “Good idea. I’ll go to the bathroom too.” The gulf between you is increasing as Mommy leads you towards a clearly marked area designated for breastfeeding and diaper changing.
“Take your time,” Mommy calls back to him. “We’ll be awhile.”
Everything is happening so fast, that only one word has time to come out before you cross the threshold into the nursing station. “Home?”
You were supposed to go on vacation today.