Rainbow Diapers

But the story starts Saturday morning, so then how could I write about her diapering him? Obviously.  

Makes perfect sense to me.  If they didn't fit, she'd have to go back and get a larger size from the place she bought them.  Only thing that didn't make sense was not putting them on him last night, when she obviously bought them yesterday.  

Thank you for that feedback. I fortunately don't have any experience with that, but I've used some of the stories I've read for me to shape who she is. One of the things that makes her character so interesting to me is how mom doesn't rely on physical fear.  Even her punishments (the swaddling) is presented as providing care.  One of the keys that I'm building in the next chapter is how mom wants to be needed, which is way she likes taking care of young children.  That's also why she pushes so hard to keep Reggie in his infantile state, and she tends to do the same thing with Charlotte.   I think the first person narrative works in this story, because part of the reason that Reggie can fall into the trap is that he is self-critical.  

I edited the previous section, adding "It looks wet" and "But she also doesn't..." That makes it better. And now, onto Saturday, Part 4. I've placed a few literary easter eggs in this section, some of which will be recurring. Bonus points to anyone who finds them and comments. -- He stands at the mirror for a second longer. He turns away from it, walks to the door, and steps into the hallway. His ears are roaring. He looks back at the shorts on his bed. He asks himself why he's doing this, but then tells himself he's doing it anyway. He walks towards the stairs. The hallway is empty. The stairs are empty. Mom has the radio on. He walks down the hall and his diaper crinkles with each step. It's louder without his shorts, with no fabric to muffle it. He gets to the top of the stairs and stops. He almost turns around. His body starts to turn, like he's going to run back to the bedroom, put his shorts on, and pretend that this never happened. Why is he doing this? He has to put his shorts on. "Paul?" Mom calls from the kitchen. "You coming?" "Yeah," he calls back, his voice a little higher than normal. He starts down the stairs. The diaper crinkles with each step. He's holding the railing, and halfway down he can see into the kitchen. He almost stops again, three steps from the bottom, and turns around. He doesn't stop. He walks into the kitchen. Mom is at the counter, putting something on a plate. She turns when he comes in. She sees him. Her eyes take him in. Face, shirt, diaper, bare legs, no shorts. There's a tiny pause as her eyebrows go up a fraction. Then her face settles, softer now. She tilts her head, ever so slightly, the way she does when she's deciding how to say something. "Hey, bud." Her voice is normal. "Your sandwich is on the table. Do you want milk or water?" She doesn't say anything about the shorts. "Water," Paul says. His voice comes out a little thin. He walks over to the table. Or crinkles over to the table, since there's nothing to muffle the sound now, just his diaper against his skin and the air, and sits down in his chair. The diaper compresses under him, crinkling as it does. The chair is wood. He shifts, trying to find a quieter position to sit in, but gives up. Mom brings him a glass of water. She's carrying her plate, with her sandwich on it, and sets both down. "Thanks," he mumbles. She sits across from him and doesn't say anything about his clothing choices. She doesn't comment on it, and hasn't really even looked at it except for that initial half second glance when she paused. "So I was thinking," she says, picking up her sandwich. "How about we go to the library and bookstore tomorrow? You can get the next book in the series, and I need some beach reading. Then I want to start packing by Wednesday. Make sure we don't forget anything at the last minute." "Mm." He takes a bite, which means he has food in his mouth and doesn't need to answer. "And we should figure out what to bring in your carry-on. Books, of course, but anything else?" He's finished chewing this bite. "Okay." He’s not thinking about his carry-on. She watches him for a second. He takes another bite of his sandwich. "You ok, bud?" He nods quickly, and keeps chewing. She waits a second, and doesn't push. "If you want to talk about anything," she says, soft and mild, "I'm here. About this morning, about the trip, about... anything. We don't have to. But I'm here." He nods again, and stares at his plate. She lets it go. She takes a bit of her sandwich, then reaches for her phone and starts scrolling. She's giving him space. He gets through about half his sandwich before he says, quietly, "can we go to the park today?" Mom looks up from her phone. "Yeah?" He shrugs, looking at his plate. "Later, maybe. Not right now." "Sure, bud. Later's good. We don't have to decide now." She goes back to her phone. He finishes his sandwich. When he's done he picks up his plate and glass and brings them to the sink. He rinses them off and places them in the sink. "I'm gonna go get my book," he says, moving towards the stairs. Mom acknowledges, not looking up from her phone. His room is exactly the way he left it. His bed is a bit rumpled from where he was lying on it. The book is on his nightstand. His shorts are on the bed where he left them when he didn't put them on. He's about to pick up his book when he looks at his shorts again, and stops. He picks them up. He doesn't think about it. He just puts one foot into them, then the other, and pulls them up over his diaper. He doesn't fuss with the waistband, checking to see if the diaper is visible. He doesn't tug on his shirt. He doesn't look in the mirror. He picks up his book and goes back downstairs. Mom is still at the table. Her eyes go to the shorts, but she doesn't look closely. She doesn't say anything, but her face softens a tiny bit, in a way that he doesn't notice. It might be relief that things are kind of normal again. "What are you reading?" she asks. He shows her the cover, with a mouse in armor and holding a sword standing in front of a building with high walls that almost looks like a castle. "Right, there are a lot of books in that series, aren't there?" "Yeah," he says. "They're good. Can I get the rest before the trip?" Mom smiles. "Sure, bud." He's already heading to the couch, wanting to read. She doesn't notice his diaper crinkle, but he is aware of it as he sits down. He starts reading. The book pulls him in. The final battle is coming up, and the mouse warrior is about to save the day - he just knows he has to, even though he hasn't read it before. He stops thinking about the diaper. It's not a dramatic moment. He doesn't decide to stop thinking about the diaper. He just gets distracted by the book. The diaper melts into the background, the way you can forget about a scraped knee once you start doing something else. He shifts on the couch, putting his feet up. The diaper crinkles, but he doesn't notice. Time passes. At some point, he's aware that Mom is walking into the family room. She has a bottle of water in her hand. It's cold, the outside is sweating, and she puts it on the coffee table. "In case you get thirsty, bud." He looks up. "Thanks." She's already walking back to the kitchen. He goes back to his book. He drinks from the bottle without thinking about it, the way he drinks water any day. A few sips, then a bigger gulp, then back to the book. He doesn't think about his diaper. The final battle is happening and his brain isn't paying attention to such things. The bottle is empty within twenty minutes. The final battle is almost over. He's vaguely aware Mom went upstairs, then back downstairs, and is sitting in her chair. The cat jumps up on the couch, sits on his feet, which she normally doesn't do, and falls asleep. Paul keeps reading. He turns the last page. He doesn't want the book to be over. Sure, the mouse warrior defeated the evil rat, but he  wants to stay in this world. He doesn't want it to be over. He looks up. Mom is still sitting in the chair. She smiles. She's been watching him. "Done?" she asks. Paul nods, still thinking about the book. Mom reaches behind her, pulling something out. "I got you the next one. I know you like them." Paul smiles, his eyes and excitement showing his thanks. He wants to get up to get the book, but looks at the cat, still asleep on his feet. Mom notices and stands up, bringing him the book. "Since someone," she looks at the cat, who does not acknowledge her presence, or even wakes up, "won't get up, I am happy to bring it to you." She hands him the book. He opens it and starts reading. Mom picks up the empty water bottle, saying she'll get him another one. Paul doesn't hear, but takes the new water bottle from her hand when she returns from the kitchen. The next book is set before the one he just read. There is an evil cat ruler, the hero's sword is broken, and he's thrown into a dungeon. He drinks. He looks up, pausing for a moment after an intense section. Mom is sitting in her chair, reading. He notices the empty water bottle on the coffee table. The cat is still asleep on his feet. He suddenly realizes he has to pee. He looks at the cat. She is out cold. Her breathing is slow and steady. if he moves at all, she'll wake up, give him that betrayed look, and stalk off somewhere. Mom looks up. "Enjoying the book?" "Yeah..." he answers, trailing off like he wants to say something else, but not sure how. Mom looks at him, at the empty water bottle, and at the cat. She knows. Mom knows he has to pee. There's no point in hiding it, but he still can't say anything. He blushes. The pressure in his bladder increases. "Need to get up?" she asks, looking at the cat. Paul nods. That's the most he can do. Mom smiles and stands up. "The cat can blame me." She walks over and picks up the cat, and puts her on her armchair. The cat is grumpy, until Mom places her in the armchair, and she realizes that the seat is warm, and there's a ray of sun coming in at just the right angle. The cat stretches out, purrs, and is back asleep. She is not going to let Mom sit back down. Paul stands up. He doesn't see this, because he's already walking up the stairs to the bathroom. He has to pee. A lot. It was bad when he was sitting, but standing up made it worse. He thinks back to his room, this morning, as he's walking up the stairs. He could... no, he doesn't finish that thought. He's walking to the bathroom, and he's going to use the toilet normally, like a normal person. He makes it to the top of the stairs and starts walking faster. He doesn't run, but he's focused on making it to the bathroom. He makes it, locks the door behind him, and stands in front of the toilet, pulling down his shorts. Oh. He didn't think this part through. His bladder is yelling at him. He has at most thirty seconds. His shorts are around his ankles. His first instinct is to do the same thing he does with underwear. He can reach into a leg hole, pull it out, aim, and go. Just like normal. His hand goes for the leg of the diaper. It's too tight. It doesn't work. The elastic is tighter, or the tapes make it more snug, or something. He can get his finger in, but there's no give. The diaper stays too snug and he can't maneuver it out. He tries to bunch up the diaper, hoping that will make a difference, but it doesn't. The padding is too thick. He tries the other leg hole. Same problem, but worse, because he never uses that side and his hands don't know what to do. His bladder pulses. Hard. He clenches, and manages to keep it all in. The leg-hole plan isn't going to work. He grabs the waistband, pulling it down. It moves a little. Not a lot, and not enough. The diaper is taped on snug. Mom is good at this, and the tapes are doing their job. The waistband shifts an inch or so, then something gets caught on his hips. He tries again, and it goes down a little farther, but not as much. He feels a sense of relief. This will work. He can shimmy out of the diaper and then use the toilet. Maybe if he moves his hips at the same time it will work better? He tries, and he gets the diaper down a bit more, but the movement does something to his bladder that makes it even more urgent. It's going to work. But it's also going to take a while. He could try to undo the tapes. If he rips the tapes off, the diaper will fall down, and Mom can put a new one on. No, he's going to do this himself. He tugs and shimmies at the same time. That shimmy was too much. His bladder releases, just a little. He feels it getting soaked up by the front of the diaper before he can clench again and hold it back. He can do this, but he has to be fast. His hands reach for the tapes. His hands are shaking. Riiip. Riiip. One side is free, but he's standing with his legs together, and that's holding the diaper up. He opens his legs, which was the final thing holding it in. His bladder releases, and he can't stop it. The diaper absorbs a little bit, but then slides down, still fastened around one leg. He gets it pointed at the toilet bowl eventually, but he can't hold it right, and he wants to cry, and everything is just going wrong. He finishes peeing, and his bladder is no longer complaining. He hears a faint drip from someplace in the bathroom, he's not sure where. He has a momentary sense of relief now that his bladder is empty, but then he looks around. It's... not good. His shorts are around his ankles, and there's a diaper around one leg. The diaper and shorts are both wet. There's a puddle on the floor. Even his shirt is wet, somehow. Paul stands there. His face is on fire. He looks around again. He doesn't know what to do. He closes the toilet lid, sits down, diaper and shorts still attached to him. He doesn't cry, he doesn't think, he just sits. The rest of the house is quiet. That cat is napping in the armchair. Mom is doing something in the kitchen. She realizes that Paul went upstairs, but she didn't hear him come back down. She looks in the family room, and sees only the cat. She walks upstairs, her pace quickening when she hears him crying. She turns the handle to the bathroom door, but it's locked. She knocks. "Paul? Bud, you ok?" Her voice does something to him. Like he'd been holding something in, and now he can't. The first sob comes out before he can stop it. Then another. He's shaking. It's not the kind of crying he can hide, it's the real thing, the kind that comes when you're past your limit and someone finally asks what's wrong. "Paul?" Mom's voice is sharper now. She's concerned. "Honey?" He can't answer. He's crying too hard. She tries the doorknob again. It's still locked. "Sweetheart, can you unlock the door?" Paul manages to get up, shorts around his ankles and diaper around one leg, and takes two steps towards the door. He twists the handle, enough to unlock the door but not open, then stumbles back to the toilet. The door opens. Mom takes it in, the way moms do. She registers everything at once. Paul sitting on the toilet, lid down. Diaper around one leg and shorts around his ankles. The wet spot on his shirt and the puddle on the floor. Her face does something that he doesn't see, because his hands are over his face. It's soft and caring and complicated, and then replaced a half second later by the practical mom-face that handles things. She steps inside, leaving the door open. "Okay," she says. Her voice is steady. Not soft, just efficient and competent. She's in charge, and she will handle this. "Hey, bud. It's ok. We'll figure this out, ok?" She steps towards him and crouches down just in front of where he's sitting on the toilet seat, so her face is below his. "Look at me, sweetheart." Paul looks up. His face is wet, his eyes are red, and there's snot on his upper lip. He hiccups. His mouth is open a little because crying makes you breathe through it. He looks at her. He looks like he's ten, and he's had a bad day, which he is, and he has. Mom's face is steady. She smiles. It's not a cheer up smile, but an I'm here smile. She reaches to push the hair off his forehead. "Stand up for me, bud." He stands. The shorts are still around his ankles, and the diaper around one leg. His thighs are still wet. She stands too, and pulls him into a hug. It's a full body hug. She doesn't care that he's wet. She just hugs him, tight. The way you hug a kid that needs a hug more than you need to stay clean. He cries against her shirt. She rubs his back. She doesn't say "shh," or that it's ok. She just holds him for a minute. "Yeah, bud," she says into the top of his head. "I know, I know." She keeps rubbing his back a minute or two more, until his sobs mostly subside. She separates, looking at him. "Okay," she says, her voice gentle but efficient. "Let's get you cleaned up, ok? Arms up." She steps back just enough to take the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms automatically and the shirt comes off. She drops it on the floor. She kneels down again, and grabs his ankle, lifting it out of the shorts. She guides it down, avoiding the puddle. He grabs her shoulders for support and she pulls the shorts and diaper off the other leg as he lifts it up. She drops them on top of the shirt. He's standing in the bathroom wearing nothing. Mom doesn't make it a thing. She doesn't avert her eyes or make a joke. She just reaches past him and turns on the bathtub tap, holding her wrist under the water until it's warm. Then she blocks the drain. "Hop in. Let's get you clean." He steps in. The water at his feet is the perfect temperature. He sits down. Mom tests the temperature again. Somehow Mom guides his back against one side, and he relaxes. His eyes close. He can sense that Mom is busy in the bathroom, picking things up and walking out of the room.  He's not exactly sure what she's doing. All he knows is that the tub is filling up and the water is warm and he doesn't have to do anything. He keeps his eyes closed until the water turns off. Mom is standing there, and the tub is three quarters full. The bathroom looks like nothing happened. Mom has a washcloth in her hand, and a bottle of something with a pump top that he can't identify. She senses his question, and says, "It's fine if you just want to rinse off. And we don't need to do your hair. But a little soap never hurts." He blushes. He's been taking showers for a while. He forgot about this part. Of course you use soap in a bath, but how? He blushes, just a little, still relaxed, and opens his mouth as if to ask a question. Then he closes it and nods. Mom smiles. She gets the washcloth wet, and pumps some soap into it. She holds it in front of her. Paul is still relaxed. He doesn't move, nor does he recognize Mom's silent question. Mom waits another second, then says, "Come closer to me, bud. Let's start with your back." He hesitates for a second, then shifts in the tub so his back is turned to Mom. She starts scrubbing. He startles, just a bit. He hadn’t realized she was asking if he wanted her to do it. But the bath is warm, and he’s tired. Paul closes his eyes. It's... nice. Like someone scratching his back, or taking care of him so he can just let his thoughts float in the tub, and doze, and be. He's dimly aware she's moved on to his arms. She lets him drift with his thoughts for a moment, then gently teasing, says "Hey, bud, don't fall asleep in the bath." Paul opens his eyes. He blushes, realizing he was enjoying Mom helping him in the bath, when he's ten, and he takes showers. His ears burn. Mom tells him to stand up so she can get his legs. He does, then sits back down. Mom wrings out the washcloth and hangs it over the towel rack. "You can relax for a few more minutes - I'll get things ready for you."