I'm staring at the ceiling again. I practically have the constellations of the popcorn plaster memorized now after 6 months of this.
“Your mom called while you were down for your nap...” She says as she tears the tapes of the diaper off. One, then the other, and the flap falls open. She barely even blinks, using the front of the diaper to scrape most of the mess down in one big swipe. “She’s still going on about that cruise.”
The package crinkles as she pulls out three wipes in quick succession. “I told her we'd think about it. But honestly, babe, I don’t know if I’m for it. Getting a passport is such a hassle these days, and those ships are gross.” She says as she wipes the shit off my creases with hardly even a wrinkle of her nose. She folds it over once, swipes again, then tosses it down into the open diaper and grabs some more.
With one hand, she grips both of my ankles and hoists my legs up. I feel so vulnerable and ashamed as my dirty crack is on display. But she doesn't hesitate, doesn't comment, just wipes me down front to back in one smooth motion between my cheeks like it's the most normal thing in the world. My sphincter twitches involuntarily at the sudden air and the wet drag. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She never does.
How does she not find it weird that she's wiping her 44-year old husband's ass? I want to disappear, I want the floor to swallow me. Even after all this time, I'm still so embarrassed and humiliated, but she couldn't be anymore non-chalant about it as her fingers dig the wipe over my butthole. She checks the cold fabric for a brown streak, folds it over, and does it again until it's clean.
“She asked how you were doing, of course.” Her voice stays light, conversational. “I told her you’re fine, no big changes. She sounded happy about that.”
My mother doesn't know that my wife keeps me in diapers 24/7. She doesn't know that call I someone else 'Mommy' now.
Ava lets my legs down, checking me over for any missed spots. Finally she takes one more fresh wipe and drapes it over my cage and balls. The wipe comes away sticky, ropes of constant pre-cum clinging to it. But once again she doesn't acknowledge or comment on it. It's just the norm now. Expected.
She drops the final wipe the dirty pile beneath me, and balls it all up inside the soiled diaper. Folding the tabs over to secure it tightly so it's a big round mound.
"I also called a plumber about the downstairs toilet." She continues casually as she sets the dirty diaper down next to us, and unfolds a fresh one, “Just because you don’t use it anymore doesn’t mean it can just sit there all backed up. He said he can probably make it out tomorrow."
A lump forms in my throat at that. A small part of me used the broken toilet as a reason why I had to use the diapers. Without that excuse, I was just left knowing it wasn't from lack of options, diapers were my only option no matter what.
She fluffs up the diaper as big as she can make it, then plants it down flat. "Can you lift up for me, hon?" she asks sweetly. Too sweetly. She slides it under my hips while she continues her one-way conversation. There's no talking while my pacifier's in.
“Taxes are coming up too," she says as she powders the area with cool, white clouds. Smoothing it in with the flat of her palm between my cheeks, over my balls, all with the detached efficiency of someone spreading sunscreen on a little one before the pool. No lingering. No teasing. Just matter-of-fact caretaking. "I’ve got most of the receipts and stuff pulled together already. Shouldn’t take long.”
Ava pulls the front of the diaper up snug. Another fresh little home for me to live in for the next several hours. She smooths it down, adjusts the fit, then grips one of the tapes. "“Oh, and Sandra texted too. She’s coming over Saturday afternoon. I told her we'd just be hanging around, doing the usual."
The implication hangs unspoken: I'll still be in diapers. Still dressed in whatever snap-crotch onesie or shortalls she picks out that morning. To Ava, none of this is taboo anymore. It's just Tuesday. Last time her best friend Sandra was over, Ava had me draped over her lap, latched to her breast, breastfeeding while the women discussed work drama. When Ava felt the warmth spreading between my legs and pressing against her thigh, she didn't even glance down or pause the story. She simply eased me down onto the living room floor, popped the snaps of my onesie open, and changed me right then and there while discussing the latest episode of Real Housewives. She even handed me a rattle afterwards to keep me 'entertained'.
And that’s the worst part.
If she laughed at me, if she smirked while taping me shut, if she yelled when I fussed, if she cooed exaggerated baby talk or spanked me for “being naughty,” if she ever turned vicious or cruel or even just triumphant: I could hate her for it. I could tell myself this is a game, a punishment, a malicious powerplay. I could cling to anger, to resentment, to the thin comfort of seeing her as the villain.
But she doesn’t. She’s gentle. She’s patient. She’s… kind.
It's incredibly disarming.
The last tape of the fresh diaper presses down firm, sealing me in with a final rip of adhesive. She pats the front once, twice, then grips my hands and helps pull me upright.
“They had a new flavor at the store today." She says, pulling out my pacifier, "Pureed Chicken and peas. Would you like to try that one, or stick with the carrot-squash?”
My nose turns upward at both options. "Carrot-squash."
"Good choice." She smiles, kissing me on the forehead, picking up the still-warm dirty diaper and placing it carefully in my hands. "Can you be a big helper and put this in the pail for me? I'm gonna go get your num-nums ready and warm you up a bottle."
She didn’t mock me. She didn’t pity me. She didn’t even acknowledge how absurd it all is.
She just continued the morning.
And somehow that made it worse. Because it means this isn’t temporary. It isn’t punishment.
It’s simply our life now.
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