A knock at your door snaps you back to reality out of whatever internet rabbit hole induced haze you were in and you jump a little in your seat. A shiver of panic wriggles up the back of your brainstem as you stand up and look towards the source of the noise.
“Coming!” you shout as you hurriedly walk to your front door. “Coming!” In a flash, a dozen or so scenarios project themselves onto your brain. You weren’t expecting anyone. Probably just somebody with a pamphlet. Census? Money scam? Church? It’s always something. Maybe a delivery (even though you didn’t order anything). You really hope it isn’t someone lost and looking for directions. You’re awful at that kind of stuff. “Coming!”
You open the door, ready to see an old lady inviting you to her church, or some guy in a brown uniform with an equally brown package and a clipboard for you to sign. What you get is a young woman in a maid’s uniform. Not quite a maid’s uniform, actually. There’s no sign of that stupid hat that maids stereotypically wear, the hemline goes well below her knee, and the primary color is pink instead of black.
But the thick white trim around the collar and sleeves, as well as the white apron signal that this is a “uniform” instead of an “outfit.”
“Hello!” She chirps at you. She appears to be in her mid twenties, with light brown hair that’s pulled back into a tight bun. “Is this 1017 Apple Boulevard? I’m here to babysit a very special little baby!” Her words have the gooey flow of someone speaking to a small child. Even though she has to look up at you when she does it, she leans forward with her hands on her knees, as though she’s talking to someone much younger and much shorter. “Are you that special baby?”
You shake your head. 1017 Apple Boulevard? That’s nowhere near your place! You’re terrible at giving directions but you’re fairly certain such an address doesn’t even exist in town. And the way this stranger is talking to you is giving you more than a small case of the heebie jeebies. “No, I’m sorry, ma’am. I think you have the wrong address.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, cutie! Miss Donna doesn’t make mistakes like that.” She stands up. “I think I found the right baby.” This is getting too weird! You step back a few inches so that the door doesn’t scrape your toe when you slam the door on this nutter’s noggin. You hear the slight crinkle as you back up, but it doesn’t register with your conscious mind just yet. It’s all effect, but no cause. As you inhale, you catch a whiff of lavender and you assume it must be the crazy woman’s perfume.
“No thank you,” you yelp as you slam the door shut and lock it. You’re already patting your pockets to find your phone. The more rational part of your brain tells you this is some kind of weird ass troll prank or the lady is some freak with an exhibitionist streak. You won’t need to call the police. It’d just be nice to have that option right on your person.
Empty.
That means you must have left your phone in your room. Before you have time to turn around, two hands grab the sides of your shorts and yank them down past your ankles. You’ve been pantsed!
You’ve never been pantsed! You’ve never pantsed anyone either. You assumed this was only the kind of thing that happens in movies…and not particularly funny ones. What’s even less funny is that your underwear is gone!
Instead of going commando, however, in their place is a giant, puffy diaper. “AAAAAAAAAAGH!” You shriek. Were this a cartoon, your hands would rush to your crotch, arms crossing over each other to hide the embarrassingly infantile garment that had manifested onto your hips. Your arms and legs do the opposite, however. Arms flap out and legs straddle to the side. You’re almost too afraid to TOUCH the damn thing strapped to your ass!
Diapers?! Really?! You haven’t been in diapers since…well…since you were in diapers! You don’t even remember being potty trained, it was so long ago!
“I knew it!” The woman standing behind you cheers. “Miss Donna is never wrong! There’s my special baby!”
You don’t even wait for the sentence to process. You don’t even care that there’s no way this crazy woman should be behind you instead of on the other side. All that matters is there’s someone in your home when there shouldn’t be!
You pivot and whirl to attack the intruder. What are you going to do? Even you don’t know the answer to that.. Slap? Punch? Clothesline? Tackle? Instinct tells you it doesn’t matter, so long as some part of your body collides with this stranger’s face!
All goes neither according to plan, nor instinct. The bulk of the nappy and your own shorts being puddled around your ankles causes you to lose balance and trip. Foolishly, you swung upwards, too. So instead of clocking this psycho woman in the face with…with…SOMETHING… you end up toppling over her shoulder.
Less than a second later your feet leave the ground. She’s picking you up! “Awwww, baby wants hugs!” The pressure from her squeezing you is inhuman! It feels as though a blood pressure cuff has encircled your torso and you all the air in your lungs is being pushed out at once.
“Stop!” You gasp. “Please!” Your words come out as barely a whisper; more of a lipsync without a soundtrack. Thankfully the woman stops. You feel inhumanly strong arms readjust and boost you further over her shoulder. The back of your diaper is pulled away from you. (Except it’s not YOUR diaper. Just because you’re wearing it doesn’t mean it’s YOURS. You’re an adult, after all.) “What are you doing?” You manage ask. Those first few lungfuls of air actually hurt, as you work through the pain to get oxygen back into your bloodstream.
“Just checking,” the invader says. “You’re clean.” You wince as you feel a her hand grope your butt and between your legs; the crinkle of the padding covering up your confused and embarrassed gasps. “Dry too,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go to your room. We’ll get you sorted out.”
The problem with that statement is that “we” wouldn’t be doing anything. “We” implies consent or motivation. Neither of which you have given. Despite that, you find yourself carried into your own room with your pants still dangling around your ankles.
“Put me down!” you yelp. “Let me go!” Your wish is granted, but not even close to the way you want. With superhuman strength, this woman talking to you as if you were a child, heaves you onto a padded mat. For a hiccup, you think that it’s your mattress, but you’re too high up off the ground and the surface is still too thin to be your bed. The covering feels almost like a towel, and the shape cradles and cocoons your sides, making it difficult to roll.
The strap that is pulled across your chest pins your arms down making escape all but impossible. While your top half struggles almost out of a sense of obligation (at least your tried), the woman in the pink uniform sees to your bottom half.
“Shoes and shorts? You won’t need these.” She doesn’t say the word “anymore”, but even unspoken you can almost hear it. Your shoes and socks are stripped off. Your shorts follow soon after.
Looking up at the ceiling of your own room, you feel incredibly helpless. Powerless. You always told yourself that you’d be brave when faced with a serious threat: A mugger in an alley. A burglar. But you never expected anything like this. This is nothing short of extraordinary, and not in the good way. That thought gives you some comfort as your throat goes dry and your heart races. “Who are you?” You ask, your tone growing urgent. “What are you going to do me?”
“I already told you, silly,” the woman in pink giggles. “I’m Miss Donna. I’m here to babysit you.”
“But I don’t need a babysitter!” you whine. (Oh God. You’re already whining.)
“Sure you don’t.” She sticks two fingers past the leakguard of your diaper (not YOUR diaper…THE diaper!) “Still dry.” She seems a bit disappointed. “Oh well. Maybe later.”
Miss Donna reaches for the ends of your shirt. Oh no! She’s going to take your shirt off, too! Clearly she’s going to strip you naked until you’re left in nothing but your…the…a diaper! A metaphorical lightbulb clicks on over your head.
To get your shirt off over your head, she’ll have to unbuckle the strap across your chest. That will give you an opening! You’re not positive, but you’re fairly certain you can roll off changing pad (damn…that IS what this is, isn’t it?) and make a break for it. Having less clothes means there’ll be less that your attacker can grab on you. What would she do, grab you by the diaper? Chances are the thing would rip right off!
You’d almost prefer running through the streets screaming bloody murder in the nude over a giant pair of pampers. Come to think of it you might rip this thing right off mid flight if you can.
Only the mysterious woman DOESN’T unbuckle your strap. She DOESN’T yank your shirt up over your head. She yanks down. Your shirt stretches and stretches and stretches, yet you don’t feel more than a slight tug at your shoulders; almost as if your shirt is getting longer without getting thinner.
It’s barely down past the diaper now, almost covering it up. Almost. “Just a sec,” Miss Donna says as she lifts your hip up. The back has stretched too, you realize, maybe even a little more than the front. Your hips lower and the woman in pink starts brining the front and back ends of your shirt together. “Almost done, baby.”
“I’m not a baby!”
“Of course not.” You feel, more than see the ends of your shirt being snapped together, each snap coming together with a not-quite audible click. Just like your underwear ceased being underwear a minute ago, your shirt is no longer a shirt. “There we go! All dressed!”
The diaper is technically covered, but it is in no way obscured. The shirt-thin material of your new onesie does nothing to conceal the padded bulge around your loins and backside, and the frilly leakguards still poke out. The giant diaper is neither gone, nor forgotten; not is truly it out of sight. Out of mind isn’t even on the table.
Wordlessly, Miss Donna unstraps you from the mat and hoists you into the air just long enough to gently set you on the floor of your bedroom. Except this isn’t your bedroom! It has the same four walls, sure. The same layout to be certain. It even has a few of the old carpet stains from spilled soda that never quite cleared up… But this can’t be YOUR room.
Your room doesn’t have a giant changing table and contoured pad where your dresser used to be. Your room doesn’t have an overblown crib where your bed should be or an empty toy chest in place of your computer. Your closet should be filled with jeans, t-shirts and business casual clothes for work, not with giant versions of baby clothes. There DEFINITELY shouldn’t be a giant box diapers on the closet floor with models your age crawling around on the front. The waste paper basket that used to be by your dresser is now a diaper genie. There’s a faint smell coming from it that tells you a different kind of waste is contained therein.
Your room isn’t supposed to have baby themed wallpaper borders along the top of the ceiling either. Pastel zoo animals in safety-pin diapers would not have been your first choice to say the least. Your bookshelf is still filled to the brim, but you don’t have to read the titles to see that your collection of paperbacks are all now made of stiff cardboard.
It’s the pictures that really get you, however. The frames have remained unchanged, but the photos therein: Your highschool graduation photo, that awesome vacation, the one of your sweetheart that you keep by your bed. They’re all disturbingly babyish. Your graduation is now a first day of daycare photo, you were never in a stroller on that vacation, and while sharing a tub your S.O. would be sexy as hell, you wouldn’t be playing with a rubber duckie while doing it; nor would you both be sucking on pacifiers. And in each picture you have the same vacant look, and an obvious bulge underneath your clothes (not counting the bath picture of course).
Enough is too much! You scramble to get to your feet and try to bolt for your still open bedroom door. The trouble is, your legs won’t listen to you. They kick and flail, but they just won’t get under you! Everytime the soles of your feet so much as grace the carpet you lose purchase and fall down on your face. The friction just leaves the floor and you skid back down to your belly. Your Bambi on ice and there’s no Thumper to give you a boost up.
Bambi…the story of a baby deer. A poor choice of thoughts.
Only when you prop yourself up on your hands and knees can you get any kind of friction and your limbs stop wobbling. You can crawl, but you can’t run. Miss Donna is already standing in front of you, giggling and shaking her head. “Silly baby. Babies like you can’t walk.”
“I am not a baby!” you shout. “I’m an adult!” Even you don’t sound too convinced of yourself in the moment.
The pink lady gestures to you. “Then take off your onesie, silly. If you’re a big kid you should be able to get that right off.” It’s a challenge that you fail almost immediately. You roll over onto your back and paw at the snaps between your legs. You manage to dig your fingers into two of the spaces between the snaps but all that accomplishes is you get to graze the surface of the diaper. Nothing else budges. The buttons must be magnetized! (Or magic….probably magic…best not to think about)
Miss Donna giggles that same way she always does when you’re being silly. (Always does? You just met her!) “See?” she says. “Babies like you can’t dress and undress themselves.”
“I can too!” you insist, but the fight goes out of you pretty quick. Your panting and back on your hands and knees. “I think you just need something to eat.” She doesn’t ask for permission when she lifts you back up onto her hip. You’re too scared to protest when she walks you out of what used to be your room.
Are you a baby? No. Of course not. You’re a grown-up. You know this! Your certainly not the size of a baby. And yet here you are…
You shouldn’t be surprised that the dining room table now has a highchair in it. You’re not surprised, in fact. Not really. As you’re set down in the huge contraption, you feel little grooves in the cushions. It’s different from the contoured changing table in your nursery. Those were by design. This? This feels like something you’ve sat in…a lot. A well worn divot made from continuous regular use.
Miss Donna guides your arms through two shoulder straps and connects them in the middle. The two little metal tabs click into the buckle that’s just between your legs. Great. More restraints. To make matters worse, the buckle is pressing into your diaper making it all but impossible to forget what you’re wearing.
You’ve been in roller coasters with fewer restraints than this. Or have you? Do babies ride roller coasters? But you’re NOT a baby, you remind yourself. You’re a grown-up!
As the feeder tray clicks into place and a bib is tied around your neck, you decide on taking a different tack. “Miss Donna,” you say. “There’s been a mistake! I’m not a baby! I’m a grown-up!”
Miss Donna doesn’t break eye contact as she unscrews the jar of baby food. The baby on the jar looks more than old enough to shave. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Open wide.” Your jaw drops and refuses to raise until after the disgusting green mush has been shoveled onto your tongue. You close and swallow, unconsciously making a face as you do.
“No, ma’am,” you say. “Seriously. There’s been some kind of mistake. I’m a grown-” Your mouth opens as the big rubber tipped spoon zooms in. You swallow and make another face. “-up!”
What is that flavor anyway? Peas? Green beans? Lettuce? Broccoli? It’s green something. You can practically taste the chlorophyll with every bite.
“You’re a big kid?” Miss Donna asks. Her voice is back to that same syrupy tone as if she doesn’t expect you to understand what she’s saying. “Are you a big kid?!”
“No!” You press. “I’m a-” The spoon cuts off your speech, forcing you to swallow.
“Baby! That’s right! Now be a good baby and eat all your food!”
You swallow, but not enough. “Notta baby!” A bit of green flickled spittle lands on your bib. “I’m a grown-!” Your protests are cut off by another spoonful. Bits of blobby green stuff start leaking from the corner of your mouth. The vile taste makes it so difficult to swallow. Not to worry though, as Miss Donna is quick to catch what leaks out and spoon it back in the moment you open your mouth. “-up! I’m a grown-!”
“We’ll get you up as soon as this jar is finished.” Again, who is this “we”, she’s talking about? Why do adults always use the “royal we” when they’re trying to be cute? (More importantly, why are you referring to adults as though you weren’t one of them?) You shake the worries aside and muscle down the remaining nutritious goop. (It has to be good for you, otherwise it wouldn’t taste so bad.)
It’s either ten more spoonfuls or an eternity later when the jar is finally scraped clean. “Gotta keep you hydrated,” Miss Donna reminds you as she shoves the rubber nipple into your face. You’re about to renew your protests when the juice leaks out of the bottle and onto your tongue. Your eyes roll so far back you feel you catch a glimpse of your frontal lobe. Finally, something sweet!
“Can you hold the bottle all by yourself?” Miss Donna asks. You can! You know you can! To prove it you grasp the sides with both hands, putting it in a death grip as you chug away. You also don’t know the flavor of this, and frankly you don’t care. It’s so much better than the green stuff that’s now sunk to the bottom of your stomach like a rock.
Freedom, you start to think as your mouth is wiped and the tray and bib are taken away. Not quite, as it turns out. The moment your highchair harness is unbuckled, you find yourself draped over the impossible woman’s shoulder. “What gives?” you ask, wincing as she supports your padded bottom with only one arm.
Instead of replying (or perhaps in reply) Miss Donna begins patting your back. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not exactly gentle either. You’re being burped!
Your voice comes out in bits and pieces as she whacks your back. “I’-I-Im not a-a-a-a…urp…ba-a-a-a-by,” you try to explain as calmly as you can. “I’mm-a-a-a-a-a grown-…URP!” The belches bubbling up from your stomach aren’t helping your case. “I-I-I-don’t nee-ee-ee-eed to be-e-e-e URP…burped! A-a-a-and I do-o-o-on’t need di-i-i-i-i-” You stop talking as you feel a wet spot forming in your diaper.
More than just a spot. It’s spreading, splashing around and then being absorbed into the thirsty padding around your crotch. You’re peeing your pants, you realize. (Except you’re not wearing pants). You’re wetting your diaper. (And it IS your diaper now. You’ve marked it.) You can feel the diaper start to sag, but your onesie easily supports it, holding the warm wetness to your skin.
Speaking of skin, surely the woman holding you knows this as well. You’re close enough to dry hump her and one hand is still beneath your bum. She definitely knows that you’re not dry anymore. It’d be impossible for her. “Good baby!” your sitter praises as she stops patting your back. Is she praising you for getting burped or for wetting yourself? (Do you really want to know the answer?)
You start to sniffle. You’re on the verge of tears. You don’t even notice when you’re carted off into the T.V. room. The decor here has changed too. Your gaming system is gone and the floor is littered with toys: Stacking rings, stuffed animals, chewed on teething rings, blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks. Miss Donna’s gait becomes bouncy and uncertain as she high-steps over what can only be your playthings.
Another chair holds you, now, this one lower to the ground so your feet don’t dangle. The seat isn’t a seat as much as it is a sling, granting you zero relief from the wetness encircling you. Like the highchair you just escaped, you’ve got a plastic tray in front of you. Unlike the highchair, there’s toys on it: Spinny toys, buzzing toys, wobbly-bobbly toys, all suction cupped on so that you can smack and slap and buzz, and spin and wobble them without them leaving the tray.
The soles of your feet can touch the ground, and if you push up with both arms you can stand at your full height for a few sections before your knees buckles and your ass falls back into the sling. It’s a walker; save that there’s no wheels on it. You have nowhere you can go.
The intruder pops up front and center? “How about you watch some cartoons while I clean up?” She asks in that way grown-ups do that isn’t really asking. The screen is on before you can reply and your eyes start to stare blankly as music fills the air.
“Circle, circle. I wanna be a squaaaaare. I wanna be a triangle, and have three sides, one-two-three. I’m a triangle, I wanna be a staaaaar. Shine bright in the night, where ever you aaaare! I’m a star. I’m a diamond. I’m an oval, I’m a heart.” The singing shape with eyes and a smiling mouth changes to whatever it’s singing about. It’s a star. It’s a diamond. It’s an oval, now a heart.
And you let your mind go quiet.
You lean forward, your lips mouthing along with the lyrics as if you’ve heard them a million times yet can’t quite remember the words. You’re simultaneously faking and making it. Your stomach feels funny, but you ignore it, mouthing along with the cartoon.
“Pentagon. Hexagon. Heptagon. Octagon. Nonagaon. Decagon. Hendecagon. Dodecagon. And take it back to the staaaaart!” You lean back in the sling. Something feels different, though you can’t quite tell what. You register that something smells different, too. Not bad different. Just different. “I’m a circle, circle. I wanna be a squaaaare!”
You don’t know how many times you sing that song. And while you’re doing it you don’t care. You feel drunk; or at least how you think you feel. That’s how the grown-ups on T.V. seem to act. All wobbly wibbly and happy; just like your toys.
In a blink, the screen turns off. “I think that’s enough cartoons for now,” Miss Donna says. You shake the cobwebs out of your noggin and look around. Where are all your toys? They’re all gone! Cleaned up. You don’t have time to confirm though.
“Ooof!” Miss Donna waves her hand in front of her nose. “I think someone needs a change.” From the sling to her hip; back you go. You wince as you feel her hand press against your bum. Your diaper isn’t warm anymore, but it’s extra squishy.
“I don’t need a diaper change,” you try and tell her.
“I think you do!” She tweeks your nose for emphasis.
In a few fast paced strides your back in your nursery, and staring up at the ceiling. Even the second time, you don’t think to put up your arms before a strap is pulled over you, trapping you.
‘I’M NOT A BABY!” you scream in desperation as she unbuttons your onesie for you. What was impossible for you is nothing for the pink lady. “I’M NOT! HONEST! I’M A BIG-”
SCRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!
The sound of the velcro tab being ripped off your diaper interrupts your train of thought.
“I’M NOT!” you start up again. “I’M A BIG-!”
SCRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!
The second one is off. SHE’S NOT LISTENING?! WHY ISN’T SHE LISTENING? (WHEN DO GROWN UPS EVER LISTEN?!) You’re about to being shouting, to start screaming to the high heavens when the diaper comes undone.
Miss Donna doesn’t need to argue with you; no rebuttal required. The inside of your diaper is proof enough against you. “I didn’t…” you stutter….”I didn’t do that?”
“Of course you did!” she chirps back at you. “Did some other baby use your diaper for you?” She pinches your cheeks just before she grabs a baby wipe and goes to work.
You don’t talk. Instead you lie there, numb as she cleans you. (Internally numb. Externally WOOOOO THAT’S COLD!) After far too many wipes, Miss Donna starts balling up your old diaper and tosses it away in the diaper genie along with all the other accidents you can’t remember having.
You start to feel a bit of a burning sensation as the room air hones in on your sensitive areas. Some special cream takes care of that. Your nose wrinkles a bit at the medicinal smell…it’s actually worse than how you were smelling just a few minutes ago (to you anyway). But you still sigh a bit as the itching and burning de-escalate. The diaper that gets slid underneath you feels soft as you’re lowered onto it, softer than even the changing mat. The puff of baby powder covers up the rash cream smell.
Good.
NO! NOT GOOD! THIS SHOULDN’T BE HAPPENING!
If you could reach your head, you’d be tearing out your own hair in frustration as the new diaper gets brought up between your legs. You bite your own tongue anxiously as it’s taped on around your waste; hating the familiar and refreshing feeling. Your grown-upness tries to swell up inside you, even as your onesie is buttoned back up.
“I keep trying to tell you,” you implore your baby sitter, “you’ve got the wrong house. I’m not really a baby!” She’s clearly not listening. “This isn’t even the right add-”
You stop talking as the two of you exit your nursery. Miss Donna closes the door behind you on your way out. That’s when you see the little novelty sign hanging from the nail, far above where a crawler might be able to pull it off. It’s eye level now.
It’s green with white lettering; a thin rectangle, like a street sign you might see anywhere in town from the back of your car seat.
1017 Apple Boulevard.
The fight goes out of you. Miss Donna did get the right address. You really are a special baby that needs caring for. You shrug and start sucking on your thumb as Miss Donna carts you to parts unknown of your own home. Nothing left to do but to wait for your Mommy and Daddy to come home…