Fluffy Brain
You blink your big, sparkly eyes at the ceiling, your head hanging upside down off the couch. The world looks so funny this way! The carpet is now the sky, and the sky is now the carpet. You giggle, your pigtails swinging as you wiggle your toes. Your white socks are all fluffy, just like your brain. Everything is fluffy today. Especially your brain.
“Fae, sweetie, did you take out the trash like Mommy told you?” a voice calls from the kitchen.
You pout. Trash? What’s trash? You know the word, but it sounds like something a big girl would do. And you’re not a big girl. You’re a baby! Babys don’t do trash. You do… whatever you are told. Or whatever you forget. Or whatever makes your diaper squish.
You wiggle your legs, feeling the thick padding between them. Your pink diaper is nice and dry right now, but you know it won’t stay that way. It never does. You giggle again, kicking your feet in the air. The ruffles on your socks tickle your knees. Everything tickles today.
“Fae!” The voice is closer now. Mommy’s voice. You love Mommy’s voice. It tells you what to do. It tells you when to eat, when to play, when to be a good girl. Right now, it sounds a little cross. But that’s okay! You’ll make her happy again. You always do.
You flop yourself upright, or at least, you try. Your arms flail, and you end up face-first on the couch, your diaper making a soft thump as you land. You giggle into the cushion.
“There you are,” Mommy sighs, standing over you. She’s holding a black bag in one hand. A trash bag. Ohhh, that trash! You remember now. Sort of.
“Did you take it out, Fae?” Mommy asks, her hands on her hips.
You blink up at her. Her face is pretty. You like pretty faces. You like when she smiles at you. You don’t like when she looks at you like this, though. Like you’re supposed to know things.
“Uh…” You press your lips together. Maybe if you think really hard, the answer will come. But thinking is hard. Your brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton candy. Sweet and sticky and not very useful.
Mommy sighs again. She sets the bag down and kneels in front of you. “Fae, baby, you have to listen when I tell you things. The trash is full. It smells. You need to take it out, okay?”
You nod fast, your pigtails bouncing. “Okay, Mommy! Fae’ll do it!” You’ll do it right now. You’ll be the best trash-taker-outer ever!
Mommy helps you up, and you wobble on your feet. Your diaper feels extra thick today. Extra important. You pat it as you toddle toward the kitchen, your socks sliding a little on the floor. The trash can is right there, big and black and full. You wrinkle your nose. It does smell. Like old bananas and something yucky.
You grab the bag with both hands, but it’s heavy. And gross. You make a face, your tongue sticking out as you drag it across the floor. The bag crinkles and rustles, and you giggle because it sounds like your diaper when you move. Crinkle crinkle.
You get to the back door and push it open with your butt. The outside air feels nice. Cool. You take a deep breath and drag the bag to the big can outside. You lift the lid, clank!, and heave the bag in. It lands with a thud. You clap your hands. “I did it!”
You turn around, ready to run back inside and tell Mommy what a good girl you are, but then you see it. The hose. The garden hose. It’s just lying there, all coiled up and begging to be played with.
You forget about Mommy. You forget about trash. You forget about everything except the hose.
You grab it and turn the knob. Water whooshes out, spraying everywhere. You shriek with laughter, dancing in the spray. Your shirt gets wet. Your hair gets wet. Your diaper gets wet. But not only from the hose. No, that’s also you.
The warm trickle starts slow, but you don’t even notice at first. You’re too busy spinning in circles, the water making rainbows in the sunlight. But then it happens. That familiar warmth. That spread. Your diaper swells, the padding soaking up every drop. You slow your spinning, your eyes going wide.
You look down. Your pink diaper is getting darker. Rounder. Heavier. You press your hands against it, feeling the squish. The heat. The proof that you’re just a baby. A baby who can’t even make it to the potty. Not that you’d want to. Potties are for big girls. And you’re not a big girl. You’re a baby.
You giggle again, the sound bubbly and dumb. The hose is still spraying, but you don’t care anymore. You drop it and waddle back inside, your wet diaper making your walk all funny. Mommy is going to be so proud. Or mad. You’re not sure which. But it’s okay! Because you’re happy. And happy is all that matters.
Mommy is in the living room when you toddle back in. She takes one look at you, soaked shirt, dripping hair, full diaper and her eyes go wide.
“Fae! What did you do?”
You beam at her. “I played!”
Mommy pinches the bridge of her nose. “Baby, you’re soaked. And your diaper...”
You look down at yourself. Your shirt is see-through now. Your diaper is huge. You pat it again, giggling. “It’s okay, Mommy! Fae’s just being a good girl!”
Mommy lets out a long breath. “Come here, you silly thing.”
You bounce over to her, your diaper squishing with every step. Mommy kneels down and starts removing your wet shirt. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mutters, but she’s smiling a little. That’s good! Smiles mean you did okay.
Your shirt comes off, and you shiver. The air feels cold on your wet boobies. Mommy grabs a towel and dries you off, her hands gentle. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You don’t know what “impossible” means. But it sounds like a compliment. So you nod, your pigtails bouncing. “Fae’s the best!”
Mommy shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She helps you out of your soggy diaper, and you wiggle your toes as the cool air hits your bottom. “Stay here,” she says, standing up. “I’ll get you a fresh one.”
You nod, already forgetting what she said. Your eyes land on the TV remote. Ooooh. You grab it and start pressing buttons. The TV flickers on, some cartoon playing. You don’t know what it is, but it’s colorful. That’s all that matters.
By the time Mommy comes back, you’re lying on your stomach on the couch, your bare butt in the air, your attention completely stolen by the bright shapes on the screen. Mommy sighs again, but she doesn’t sound mad. Just… resigned. Like this is just how things are with you.
And it is.
She slides a fresh diaper under you, tapping your hip. “Lift up, baby.”
You do, giggling as she powders you and tapes up your new diaper. It’s thick. So thick. You wiggle your hips, feeling the crinkle. “Fae loves her diaper!”
“I know, sweetie,” Mommy says, helping you into a clean shirt. This one has unicorns on it. Unicorns are magic. Just like you!
Mommy sits you down and hands you a juice box. You take it happily, poking the straw in with your tongue. The juice is sweet. Everything is sweet. Especially you.
Mommy watches you for a second, her expression soft. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says again.
You don’t know what that means. But you know you are cute. And that’s enough.
You spend the rest of the afternoon exactly how you want, lying on the couch, watching cartoons, your diaper getting warmer and heavier with every passing minute. You don’t think about trash. You don’t think about chores. You don’t think about anything except how good it feels to be dumb. To be carefree. To be Baby.
And when Mommy finally comes to check on you, she finds you fast asleep, your thumb in your mouth, your diaper a round, squishy pillow under your bottom.
She shakes her head, but she tucks a blanket around you anyway.
Because that’s what Mommy does.
And you?
You dream about rainbows. And hose water. And the perfect squish of a well-used diaper.
