adultbaby

But only a few scattered rays of the sunset make it past the window blinds, as if it were standing in defiance of summer itself and rejecting the fledgling independence of the person sleeping in the nursery it protects.

Mommy and Daddy lean against the rails of your crib, watching your Barney pacifier bob in between your little snores. Your blanket lies in a crumpled pile at your feet, kicked off as you slept.

Not long ago, summer nights like this meant barbeques, parties, and long nights enjoying the freedoms of a successful young adult, never imagining how fleeting that independence would prove to be.

“I think he pooped,” Daddy whispered.

Neither Mommy nor Daddy harbored any doubt that you were sleeping in a poopy diaper. Not when the smell of your mess, mixed with the copious sprinkling of baby powder Mommy always used, engulfed the room.

Not when they could see the brown stain on the seat of your white diaper adorned with the Barney sticker Mommy loved so much.

Not when they could see you—the formerly independent, competent adult—sleeping in a crib in nothing but an overworked diaper and matching Barney pacifier.

Mommy frantically squeezed Daddy’s hand to keep herself from squealing in joy.

She didn’t want to wake her baby up.

Not yet.

Over the past year, Mommy came to cherish these intimate evening moments most of all. Her nightly ritual of checking on her baby as the sun set.

She celebrated every milestone along the way as your resistance crumbled and adulthood slipped away from your grasping hands.

First, it was the pure joy of finally finding you fast asleep before the sun finished setting, which soon became the norm. Mommy hung the framed picture from that night above your changing table.

Then, a few weeks later, she found you sleeping with your pacifier for the first time. She celebrated that, too.

But not as much as the night she checked your diaper and discovered it was soggy, something you resisted fiercely. By the end of the month, you were having daytime accidents, too.

Sure, there were other important milestones celebrated outside of these nighttime checks. There was the “family bonfire,” when you sat on Mommy’s lap as Daddy burned all your big boy clothes.

He even wiped the tears from your cheeks when your entire suit collection—the last remaining remnant of your professional life—was unceremoniously tossed into the flames.

Still, nothing compared to this nightly ritual in Mommy’s eyes.

Mommy understood the truth. The privileges of adulthood she stripped away during the day were the result of her active involvement. She knew you were far too pathetic to put up a fight and actually resist her commands in person.

But at night?

The nighttime milestones proved that Mommy and Daddy’s efforts were reaching your subconscious—that, deep down, you were beginning to accept your new role in life.

You were becoming the baby you were destined to become.

Tonight was perhaps the biggest milestone yet. Even as your daytime tinkle control faded into memory, you fought tooth and nail to control your stinkies, knowing it was the last vestige of adulthood you still possessed.

Which is how Mommy knew this wasn’t an act.

You would never willingly poop yourself in a crib you were confined to, unable to leave. And especially not when you were supposed to be sleeping—you hated the icky feeling of mush between your cheeks.

But here you are.

Blissfully unaware your own body betrayed you in the most infantile manner conceivable, sleeping like a baby in a profoundly poopy diaper.

Daddy deftly lowered the bars of your crib and squished your diaper.

“Yep. He pooped.”

“Can you turn on the light, babe? He’s so stinking cute; I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get a picture.”

“Won’t that wake him up?”

Mommy smiles. “Babe, look at him. He’s fast asleep in a poopy diaper. The poor baby whines and begs for a diaper change as soon as he poops. No, he’s not going to wake up.”

Sure enough, Mommy was right.

For the next ten minutes, you model for a photoshoot you didn’t know was happening.

Satisfied with the pictures, Mommy turns off the light, then sits on the ledge of your crib, gently tickling your tummy, watching you slowly stir back awake.

“Hi, baby, Mommy didn’t want to wake you when you were sleeping so peacefully but…” she says, trailing off.

You groggily open your eyes. Mommy’s comforting smile looms over you. Daddy is standing behind her, hands on her shoulders.

“Wha-wha buh sweeepy,” you mumble incomprehensibly.

“I know, baby boy. But Mommy can’t let her precious angel sleep in a poopy diapie, can she? Nuh uh, Mommy would never.”

Still fighting off sleep, you stare up at Mommy and Daddy, wondering why they woke you up.

“Can you be a big boy and walk or do you need Daddy to carry you?”

Another sensation comes into focus. Something cold. Icky. Smelly. You wiggle your bum, confused. Unwilling to believe the cause of it.

Mommy giggles at adorable diaper crinkles it makes—and the unrelentingly cute face you make realizing the unmistakable truth of your situation: you pooped your diaper.

“Ohhh, honey, it’s okay! It’s just a poopy diapie, Mommy isn’t upset, I promise!”

Tears well in your eyes. You hate the feeling of your cold, stinky diaper. You hate the way Mommy baby-talks you like you're some stupid baby. You hate the way Daddy smiles at you while rubbing Mommy’s back.

But more than anything, you want out of this diaper.

Tired and frustrated, you kick your legs against your mattress.

“Can you carry him, babe?” Mommy asks calmly.

“Sure,” Daddy replies, reaching down and scooping you up.

“NOOOOO!” you squeal through your binky.

“It’s okay, buddy. Daddy’s got you. You’re okay.”

No matter how much you squirm and fight, Daddy is too strong. Months of inactivity and baby food have weakened your muscles, unlike Daddy's toned arms.

“NOOOOOO!!!” you whine even louder than before as Daddy lowers you onto the table and you feel your mess squish even more. Tears fall freely off your cheeks now.

“No no no no! Nooo!!!”

“Baby, Mommy needs you to stop squirming so she can change your didi.”

“Nuuuuuuuuu, duh wannaa!” you whimper, still kicking.

You don’t know why your diaper is poopy. You don’t know why you’re crying. All you know is it feels good to kick and fuss.

Mommy sighs, grabbing your legs with one hand. “I know, I know,” she coos, “Mommy’s poor, poopy baby.”

With her other hand, Mommy expertly rips off the tabs of your diaper, barely struggling with your squirming and kicking.

Cold air assaults your private parts, making you somehow feel even worse.

“M-Mommyyy c-cold!”

Mommy tickles your tummy. “Mommy knows, pumpkin. If you stop squirming, Mommy can get you a nice warm didi even faster, okay? Can you be Mommy’s big boy?”

A snot bubble pops in your nose. “M-mhm…” you mutter, defeated and just wanting Mommy to make everything better.

“Can you warm these up, babe?” Mommy asks, shoving a handful of wipes into Daddy’s hands.

“Sure thing. Warm wipes coming up!” Daddy says, smiling at you as Mommy wipes the snot from your nose.

Mommy uses the front of your diaper to clean up most of your mess before lifting your legs and sliding the diaper off you. She balls up the diaper and tosses it into your diaper pail as Daddy finishes warming your wipes.

“Thanks, hun.”

Mommy takes the wipes and gets to work. Daddy makes silly faces at you.

You giggle at the silliness of Daddy’s faces.

A genuine laugh that even surprises Daddy.

By the time Mommy finishes changing your diaper, you've forgotten all about your poopy diaper tantrum.

Mommy blows a series of raspberries on your tummy, forcing you to squirm in laughter.

“Hehehehe Mommyyyyy!”

Daddy crinkles your new, fresh diaper. “Feeling better, tiger?”

You nod with a smile.

“There’s my good boy!” Mommy says proudly.

Without warning Daddy scoops you up and carries you back to your crib. You’re about to complain about being sent back to bed when you hear Mommy’s voice.

“One sec, babe. Let me sit down first.”

Daddy stops so Mommy can sit against the rails of your crib. Once comfortable, she starts adjusting her shirt.

“C’mere, stinker,” Mommy coos as Daddy places you on Mommy’s lap.

You look at Mommy, confused. She never sits in your crib like this.

“Wha-wha doin’ Mommy?”

And why is she taking off her bra?

Utterly bewildered at seeing Mommy’s boobs for the first time in over a year, you look at Daddy, as if seeking reassurance that it’s okay to look at your wife’s boobs.

“Go on, squirt,” Daddy says with a smile, removing your pacifier. “I’ll give you two some privacy.” He turns off the light and headed out the door.

Before you can ask a follow-up question, Mommy’s hand pulls you into her chest, her nipple tickling your lips.

Instinctively, you open your mouth and latch on. Warm milk trickles into your mouth. You try to pull away.

“Hush little one. Just suckle like a good baby,” Mommy assures you, forcing your head back to latch.

You suckle, letting Mommy’s milk fill your mouth. It tastes…good.

It tastes like home. Safety. Comfort.

Mommy hums “Hush, Little Baby,” fighting off tears of joy as your eyes grow heavier and heavier, knowing you’re no longer her husband. You’re no longer an adult.

She finally got everything she wanted.

Perhaps tomorrow you’ll think about the implications of your poopy diaper and the warm milk filling your tummy. Maybe you’ll understand there is no going back.

But for now there is nothing beyond this moment.

Mommy’s gentle humming, the warmth of her breast against you. The feeling of satisfaction as your tummy fills up.

Not even the gentle crinkles as Mommy pats your diaper can break the spell.

The truth is, summer nights will never be defined by freedom again. Not for you. You’re not like the baby birds chirping outside your window or the bear cub learning to hunt salmon.

By the end of summer, they’ll have a level of independence you’ll never have again.

Unlike them, you’ll never outgrow your Mommy. You’ll never regain your independence.