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All you wanted was to feel sexy in the brand-new bikinis you bought for the trip. Free from the crinkles and waddles that defined your life back home. Just one week as a big girl.

You should have known better.

You convinced yourself you could hide any accidents. After all, you’d either be on the beach or in the pool; what better place to hide an accidental tinkle?

It’s the type of logic someone uses when they’re destined for diapers.

You managed to hide a few accidents over the first two days. Once by “spilling” a margarita on yourself, once by jumping into the pool, and once by sheer luck. You were sitting on your balcony, enjoying the sunset, when you heard the tell-tale trickles of an accident.

But no matter. You got away with it.

Until this morning.

Those of you who weren’t too hungover or sleeping off their drunkenness met for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. You managed to drag yourself down despite your stomach’s vigorous protests.

Just typical hangover queasiness, you assured yourself—nothing a nice plate of huevos rancheros couldn’t fix.

By the time you ordered, you knew you were in trouble. Your stomach was in open rebellion.

You needed the potty.

Now.

It happened all at once. A cavalcade of events, of clashing and shattering, yelling and confusion.

You were so desperate to make it to the potty, so lost in your own panic, you never saw the waiter standing behind you holding your table’s breakfast. Nor did he expect such a sudden, violent movement as you stood up, your chair flying backward.

A platter full of food crashed to the ground, clattering loudly—drawing everyone’s attention.

Until they saw you.

The restaurant fell eerily silent, starkly contrasting to the commotion preceding it.

All eyes were on you—the woman squatting like a toddler, hands balled into fists, face red with effort.

The shock of everything distracted you just long enough to lose your battle. Your body took over. There was nothing you could do to stop yourself from pooping your pants in front of a captive audience.

Bubbly toots and determined grunts cut the stunned silence of the restaurant, somehow louder than the shattering plates.

There is no ambiguity as to what’s happening—everyone knows exactly what you’re doing.

Your legs remain stubbornly glued to the floor, ignoring your pleas to run in shame. You’re not going anywhere.

At least you wore pants.

“OMG, did she seriously just poop herself?”

The next few minutes were a blur. Your mom pulled you out of the restaurant, her face full of concern. Your sister—not wanting to miss any of your humiliation—offered to “help.”

The hotel lobby wasn’t particularly large, but it felt like a marathon as you waddled behind your mom and sister in your loaded pants. 

“Give me your room key, dear.”

Once inside your room, your mom leads you to the shower. “Why don’t you clean yourself off? I’ll find you a change of clothes.”

“O-okay…” you whimper.

You might have answered differently if you had not been so desperate to be alone.

But you didn’t.

While you were showering, your mom opened your suitcase and found the diapers that were suddenly not so surprising to find.

You showered until the hot water ran out, hoping your mom and sister would be gone by the time you finished.

They weren’t.

Your mom and sister sat on the bed, a stack of neatly folded clothes between them. Your heart sank when you saw it—a thick diaper in your mom’s lap. Though your sister’s smug, satisfied smirk might have been worse.

“Honey, that wasn’t your first accident, was it?” your Mom asks, “Is that why you have these diapers? Because you’ve been struggling to make it to the potty?”

“I…I…” you mumble, overwhelmed by the situation.

“Is that why you ‘spilled’ that margarita? To cover up another accident? I could have sworn I saw your skirt was wet before, but I didn’t think anything of it. But now it makes sense.”

“Mom! I’m fine! It’s none of your business!”

Your sister bursts out laughing. “Not our business? You pooped in front of everyone like a baby!”

“Hush,” your mom chided your sister, “She couldn’t help it. Honey, I only found five diapers in your bag. Do you have any more? These won’t last the week.”

She isn’t asking what you think she’s asking, right?

“Wh-why does it matter?”

“Because, dear, you clearly can’t be trusted to make it to the potty. And that means you need diapers. You must agree, or you wouldn’t have these in the first place.”

This may be worse than messing yourself in public.

Never in a million years would you have expected your mom would be casually talking about putting you in diapers.

“Just…drop it, okay? I don’t need your help!”

Your mom sighs. “It’s too late for that, sweetie. Lay down so I can get this diaper on you. I didn’t see any baby powder, we can get some when we buy more diapers.”

“I…no! I’m not letting you change me like a baby! I don’t need any more! This is stupid!”

“On the bed. Now.”

You hadn’t heard that voice in years. But it sparked the same fear it did all those years ago.

“Fine!” you squeal like a fussy little girl.

You lay on the bed, still clinging to your towel, mortified of what’s about to happen. You’re about to be put in a diaper—in front of your sister—for the first time since you were potty trained.

So much for the sexy, carefree vacation you imagined.

“Oh, stop!” your mom scolds as you resist her attempts to remove the towel, “You might as well get used to this—it won’t be your last diaper change, dear.”

“But why does she have to be here,” you whine, pointing to your sister.

“She needs to learn how to diaper you. I might be busy when you need a diaper change.”

The smug smile immediately disappears from your sister's face. “What?!? No way, I’m not changing any poopy diapers! I didn’t sign up to babysit all week!”

“You will do what you’re told,” your mom commands, “Now, pay attention.”

All you can do is cover your face in abject shame as your mom shows your sister how to fluff your diaper.

“She’s clean now, but in the future, you’ll be changing her out of a wet or even messy diaper. You’ll have to wipe her clean—and be thorough. Don’t forget her butt, it’s easier if you lift her legs like this.”

You whimper as your mom lifts your legs for demonstration.

“OMG, just like a baby!” your sister snickered.

“And then you just sprinkle her with baby powder and rub it in. Don’t be stingy, either. I’d rather her smell like a baby than deal with a rash. Up, honey,” your mom says, tapping your tush.

You obey, and she slides a thick, thirsty diaper under you.

“This is the most important part. See these? That’s the leak guards. Make sure they’re not smushed or your sister will leak everywhere. Then you just pull up the front of her diaper, making sure it’s not too high or low. Got it?”

“Mom, I did babysit for the neighborhood kids. I’ve changed diapers, you know.”

“Well, your sister isn’t a toddler, honey. These diapers are much bigger and have four tabs, unlike Pampers. Do the bottom tabs first, like this. And then the top two. Once you’re satisfied, slide a finger like this to make sure her leak guards are up…and done. How does that feel, sweetie?”

Mortifying. Humiliating. Infantilizing.

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“Don’t get sassy with me. Let’s get you dressed so we can go buy some more diapers.”

You grab the towel and wrap it around you as you head to your clothes.

“Awww, is someone shy about her diaper, sis?”

“Shut up!”

“Hush, you two. Sit down, honey. I’ll grab something for you to wear.”

“But—”

“No, buts. This will do just fine,” your mom said, grabbing a skirt—a far cry from the fashionable clothes you bought for the trip.

She slides the skirt up your legs without giving you the opportunity to do it yourself.

“It’s so short! What if people see?”

“Honey, the whole resort saw you poop yourself. They won’t be surprised if they see a diaper. Besides, I want to check your diaper easily.”

“Wow, looks like I’m gonna have a lot of competition!” your sister quips sarcastically.

Your mom grabs two diapers and slides them into her purse. You pretend you don’t notice—and pray you don’t need them.

“Okay, let’s get you some diapers. I doubt this diaper will survive lunch. We need diapers, wipes, and powder, and anything else?”

“I can do it myself, Mom!” you argue, not wanting this to continue.

“Careful, sweetie, or I’ll add a pacifier to the list. That’s enough backtalk from you. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you. If I—or your sister—needs to check your diaper, you will let it happen without a fuss. We decide when you need to be changed, got it?”

“Whatever.”

You try to cling to whatever dignity you have left, but you know it doesn’t matter. Your vacation is going to be far different than you imagined.

No more lounging in bikinis, sipping in margaritas, getting some sun. Not when you’ll have a thick diaper between your legs. And even worse, waiting for your mom and sister to come by and check it.

Nothing says vacation like a public diaper check on the beach.

This isn’t going to be the fun, sexy trip you imagined. No chasing cute guys. The only people in your room will be your mom as she changes your diaper.

Yes, I wear diapers. And yes, she checks and changes them. That’s infantilizing enough.

But that’s nowhere near the worst part.

Do you know what it’s like to have absolutely no privacy? Knowing your own diaper is under her control?

Of course you don’t. You’re an adult. Adults take the right to privacy for granted.

How could you possibly understand?

Nobody randomly stops you and slides their hand into your shorts to check your diaper without asking. Nobody pulls down your pants and exposes your mess without you having any say.

Babies have no expectation of privacy.

And neither do I.

Look around. Does this look like a private place to you? Would you feel comfortable messing your diaper right here?

Yet, look at the way she’s smiling at me, patiently waiting for me to finish loading my diaper like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t think someone like me—a baby in her eyes—has any use for privacy. She expects me to squat down and fill my diaper whenever and wherever the urge strikes.

Like right here, in this busy hallway full of people.

Real adults do their business in private—nobody ever would watch you do this—let alone smile as they watched. You get the dignity of handling it yourself.

Everything I do is public. Even if I’m fortunate enough to mess my diaper in a private place, it’s not like I get to hide what I did.

Nope, she’ll push me down and open up my diaper anyway, exposing my shame. I can’t run. I can’t hide. She is in control.

There is no dignity in this situation.

If you asked her, she’d tell you it’s perfectly natural, babies can’t help making poopoos when they have an icky tummy.

And yes, she’d use those same horrible, infantile words. Do you really think she uses adult language when she talks to me?

Get real.

I mean, look at her! That’s how a mother looks at their toddler when they know they’re about to be on diaper duty.

She’s my wife!

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when you’re in diapers. She’s way closer to a caregiver than a lover.

And I don’t want to talk about that right now. I have enough on my mind right now.

As soon as she’s satisfied I’m done pushing, she’ll check my diaper as publicly as this mess. She’ll say something in that same sickly sweet, babyish voice and march me to the nearest women’s bathroom to change me.

“Good job, kiddo! Did you push all that icky poopoo into your diapie? Yes you did! Turn around, Mommy has to check on her mush tush.”

See?

“What do you mean?” you ask, wondering why she was apologizing to you.

“I never should’ve worn this shirt. What was I thinking? You’re probably so confused!”

She’s right—you are confused.

“Honey, I’m not mad at you for looking, okay? It’s not your fault—it’s mine. You can’t help it.”

“I-its okay, honest!”

She laughs. “You’re sweet. But it’s not okay. I’ve been your babysitter for almost a year, I know better!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want you seeing me dressed like this. It’s not fair to you. It’s completely inappropriate and not something you should see.”

“But it’s just a regular top! I see plenty of people wearing them!”

“No, honey. Listen to me. I’m your babysitter. My job is to keep you safe, keep your diapers clean, and look out for you. And here I am, wearing this.”

“I-I can handle it, I promise. What’s the big deal?”

She sighs again. “You’re not getting it. I spend a lot of time with you. We cuddle on the couch when we watch Hey Arnold!. I change your diapers. Seeing me like this isn’t the same.”

“So? We can still do that!”

She pauses, collecting her thoughts.

“I care about you. All I want is for you to be happy—you deserve it. You’re so sweet and innocent. But we need be honest with each other…”

“Honest? About what?”

“About you. Us. Sweetie, you’re not like other guys. There’s a reason you’re 24 and still have a babysitter. You’ve been in diapers your entire life. You have a bedtime. You prefer cartoons to sports.”

The color drains from your face. You stare at your fingers, fidgeting nervously.

“That’s not a bad thing! I think it’s sweet! It’s just you’re not ready to be exposed to certain things. You’re…well, you’re too pure for that.”

“I’ve been with girls before!” you lie.

“No, honey, you haven’t. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of! Have I ever teased you about it? No! Because the sweet boy in front of me is perfect the way he is!”

“But…I’m not some baby! I don’t want to be…like this!”

“I didn’t say you were! You may think you’re slick, but I always know when you make stickies in your diaper. Babies don’t do that. I just ignore it so you’re not embarrassed!”

Your eyes bulge in terror—she’s known the whole time?!

“Don’t feel bad! It’s perfectly natural for boys to experiment with their willies! It’s just like the stiffies I ignore when I change your diaper. I know you can’t help it!”

“S-sorry…”

“What did I just say, hmm? Don’t apologize. I ignore it for a reason, you know? The same reason why I don’t want you seeing me like this. You understand now, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I…I don’t know,” you admit.

She sighs, not in annoyance, but from the burden of explaining something mature to someone not ready for the conversation.

“It’s because I enjoy spending time with you. It’s so rare to meet someone who never lost their childlike wonder. Caring for you—watching you sparkle with innocent excitement—is the greatest gift I’ve ever received!”

“R-really?”

“Yes, really! And that’s why you shouldn’t see me like this. I’m your babysitter. You shouldn’t be imagining what’s under my clothes when I’m with you. I want you focusing on having fun. Nothing will ever happen between us, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Good boy. Thank you for understanding. Put all those icky thoughts away. You’re my snugglemuffin, my little pal. You're not ready for sex. I’m doubt you ever will be. And that’s okay!”

You fake a smile, hiding your disappointment. Does she really think you’ll never have sex? Is that really what she thinks about you?

She grabs your hands, looking deep into your eyes.

“I know you’re disappointed, sweetie. But you shouldn’t be! You’re too innocent for sex. And it’s not like you even know what you’re missing! Isn’t your life so simple and fun? Didn’t you love petting that otter at the zoo yesterday?”

“Yeah, that was so cool!”

“I know, buddy! So cool! And what about when I blow raspberries on your tummy during changes? You love those! You laugh and laugh every time!”

You blush, but she’s right.

“Awww, there’s my blushy little guy! Speaking of changes, let’s check that diaper. I’ll change you in the car if you need it. Oh, and guess what?’

“What?”

“I hear there’s a Rocket Power marathon on tonight! How about we get you all cozy in your jammies and your nini diaper, eat some ice cream, and watch cartoons. I’ll even let you stay up till 10! How does that sound?”

That’s all you need to hear; you’re practically squirming in excitement.

“Yes, please!”      

By the time her finger slides into your diaper, you forgot all about your disappointment.