Watersports

Could have that, but I want a big shield in the front and maybe in the rear, so those could be between. 

Evelyn thanked her brother but said, "I'll have to see what Valeria says I'm trying to help her to become a bit more independent and able to voice her problems and be able to voice her complaints, concerns and most importantly choose, thanks to her therapist and going to school for half a day she has made some improvements and the therapist said that she is optimistic that in time Valeria will be far more grown up and while she will always be my little girl and there will definitely be things that she will have to get used to like sleeping in a bed with bars and needing diapers she will be far more capable on taking care of herself."

@Reddy Thank you for the update. Please keep reporting your experience.  

Paul's Trip to Hawaii I've had an idea for a story sort of like this for a long time. I've done versions of this as a role play a couple times, and finally to actually write it as a story. I have thorough notes, although I haven't written it to the end. There is an ending. I think it's satisfying. No characters will be harmed in this story. They will be embarrassed, but they will not be humiliated. The adults are all kind. Saturday Before Paul opened his eyes he knew something was wrong. It was cold. Or not just not, but wet. A specific kind of wetness. It always felt ice cold in that moment between sleep and waking. He kept his eyes closed, hoping he was wrong. He shifted his legs, just a tiny bit. He wasn't wrong. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. The room is still dark, the dull grey of an early Saturday morning. Outside his room, down the hall, he hears the shower. Mom is awake. He folds back the covers and looks. The goodnite had not done that good. He sees a dark patch spreading out from under him. His PJ pants are wet. And somehow, his shirt. That's the third time this week. The shower turns off. Paul reaches down and inspects the wet spot. It's not small. It spreads from under his hip almost to the edge of the mattress. He sighs. It's a long sigh, one he makes with his entire chest. It is not a contented sigh. His legs swing over the side of the bed and he stands up. The goodnite sags as he stands; he has to grab the waist band with his hands to keep it from sliding down. He peels off his pj pants and shirt. They're both wet, and he tosses them onto the wet spot. They can be washed with the sheets. He grabs the waist band of his Goodnite again. There are footsteps in the hall. Mom is walking past his door. He waits, hoping to avoid Mom. The bathroom is six steps away. He almost makes it, but Mom hears him. She's dressed and her hair is half brushed. She stops, looking at him, and takes him in. The goodnite he's holding up. The lack of pajamas. "Oh, bud," she says softly. Paul's face gets hot. He looks down. It's obvious what happened. Still holding the waist band, he moves his arms in front of him, trying to cover something. Mom doesn't say anything. She steps closer, puts her hand on his shoulder, and says "Bad one?" Paul nods. "Go hop in the shower. Goodnite goes in the trash can in the bathroom. I'll get the sheets." "Mom, I can..." "I got it, bud. Really. Hop in the shower and get warm." She squeezes his shoulder, then releases, and heads to his room. Paul shuffles his way to the bathroom and closes the door. He lets go of the goodnite, shifts his hips, and it slides down, landing with a plop. He steps out of it, and puts it in the trash can under the sink. The shower is warm as soon as he turns it on; Mom just got out. The hot water helps. It always does. He washes his hair, then his body. He stands there longer than he needs to. His mind wanders. Will there be a pool at the hotel in Hawaii, or just the beach? He thinks about nothing. He washes his hair again. When he can't delay any longer, he finally turns off the shower and grabs his towel. The bathroom is full of steam. He dries off, and then wraps the towel around his waist, tucking the corner in so it will stay. Then he remembers. The hallway. The wet goodnite. The wet bed. His face goes red. He cracks open the door, steam escaping. The hall is empty. Paul walks through the hall again and slips into his room. The bed is made. Fresh sheets, and the blanket pulled smooth and neatly made. Mom is sitting on the edge of it, her hands in her lap. Beside her is a plastic package. It looks kind of like the goodnites packaging. It's plastic, but mostly white, not blue. He notices the words "youth" and "briefs" on it, and that it looks vaguely medical. His stomach does a thing. He looks at Mom. Her face is calm, not the soft comfort from the hallway. She looks like she's ready to talk. "Hey, bud," she says. "Come sit down for a second." She pats the bed next to her, the side that doesn't have the package. Paul looks at the towel wrapped around his waist, tucked in at his hip. His hair drips a little. "Can I get dressed first?" Mom shakes her head, just a little. "Wait a sec, bud. Sit down first." He hesitates, then walks over, holding the towel around his waist, and sits down on the bed, right where she patted. Mom looks at him, but doesn't speak. She's carefully picking her words. "What is it?" Paul asks. Mom takes a small breath. "I want to talk about something. Something I've been thinking about for a while, especially with our trip coming up." She reaches over and rests her hand on top of the package. The package that does not contain goodnites. She doesn't pick it up yet, her hand just rests on it. "The goodnites aren't working, Paul. This is the third leak this week. Your body is producing more at night than they're built for. It's not your fault, but it's what's happening." Paul looks at his knees. "So I ordered these," she continued, patting the package. They're diapers. Real ones. They tape on the sides instead of pulling up. They hold more. They shouldn't leak." She pauses. "I want you to start wearing them at night." "D... d... diapers?" Paul finally manages to say, the word catching in his throat. His face goes hot again, hotter than in the bathroom, when he remembered. "Yeah, bud." Mom's voice is even. She's not making a big deal about it, but she's not making a small deal of it either. "Diapers." She picks up the package, setting it across her lap so he can see it better, but she doesn't push it towards him. "I know how that sounds," she says. "I really do. But listen - they're basically the same things as goodnites. Goodnites are diapers, sweetheart. They just call them something else so it feels different. These do the same thing, but better. They just go on differently." He's still staring at his knees. The towel feels very thin. "The difference matters," she says, "because the goodnites aren't working. You're waking up cold and wet and embarrassed. Three times this week. We're washing the sheets constantly. You aren't getting enough sleep. I want something that works better for you, without leaking. You deserve that." Mom slides a finger into the plastic and tears it open. She reaches in and pulls a diaper out. It's white. It's thicker than a goodnite, folded into thirds. The way she's holding it Paul can see the tapes - two per side. His face goes from hot to burning. He didn't think it was going to get worse than trying to say d... the word. But seeing it, unfolded in Mom's hands, is worse. His eyes start to water. Mom doesn't say anything for a second. She lets him have a moment. "Hey bud," she says, quietly. "Look up for a sec." Paul looks up. Mom holds the diaper out towards him, not pushing it, just offering. He takes it with one hand. As soon as he does, it unfolds and opens up across his lap, and oh. Oh. It's a diaper. The hourglass shape, narrower in the middle and wider at the ends, the same shape he's seen and friends' houses with younger siblings. The inside is soft and white. There are elastics along the length, and little ruffles. It's thick, much thicker than a goodnite. It's also big. Folded, it looked manageable. Open, across his lap, it looks like something that will fit him. His ears burn. Mom watches his face. "Yeah, bud," she says softly. "I know, it's a lot. It's a diaper." She doesn't reach for it back. She lets him hold it. Paul folds it in half. It doesn't fold cleanly. The padding isn't creased in the middle, the wings are messed up, and the tapes get in the way. He ends up with a lumpy, awkward bundle in his lap that looks bigger than the thing Mom pulled out of the package. It crinkles as he holds it. It's loud. His fingers notice that it feels different than the goodnite. It's smooth, plastic, and a little stiff. It's a diaper. There is no part of his brain that can pretend it's anything else. His face burns. He keeps his eyes on it, still in his hands, because looking at Mom is impossible. Mom is quiet beside him. She lets the silence be. After a moment, she reaches over, and puts her hand on his shoulders, resting there. "I know," she says, "I know, bud." Mom takes the diaper out of his hands and sets it on top of the open package beside her. She pulls him into a hug, both arms wrapped around him. He goes stiff at first, but then relaxes and sinks into her embrace, because it's Mom. Her hand rubs slow circles on his back. "You're ok," she says quietly into his hair. "You're ok, bud." He doesn't realize what's happening at first. Her hand moves to his shoulder, and she's gently easing him backward. Her other hand supports his neck, and before his mind has caught up, he's laying flat on his bed with his head on his pillow. The towel is still tucked in at his hip. He blinks in confusion at the ceiling, then at her. "What?" he says, confused. Not alarmed yet, just genuinely not following. Mom is reaching for the diaper. She unfolds it across her lap. "What?" he says again, and this time it comes out higher, almost a squeak. Mom looks at him on the bed. Her eyes flick to the towel. "Lift up a sec, bud." Before he can ask why, her hand is at her hip, untucking the corner he tucked in earlier. She unwraps it, then pats his hip with her other hand. His hips go up, automatically. She unwraps the towel the rest of the way and slides it out from under him, folds it once, and places it at the foot of the bed. Paul's brain stalls. He's lying on his bed with no towel and no anything. His hands hover over himself, like they don't know what to do or where to go. Mom grabs his ankles, and she does something with them that sends his knees to his chest. With her other hand she slides the diaper under him. "Moooom." He makes a small startled sound. "Shh, shh, almost there, bud." The sounds come out of her mouth on autopilot, soft and rhythmic, sounds that are familiar but that she hasn't made in a long time. She doesn't register that she's making them. Her hands are busy. They know what to do. She smoothes out the diaper under him, then lowers his legs back onto the bed. "Almost done." Paul finally manages to speak. "What are you doing?" His knees snap together the second they hit the mattress. The front of the diaper is still flat against the bed, between his legs, or under them, not yet pulled up. His thighs press together like a reflex he isn't aware of. Mom laughs. It's sudden, and bursts out of her. A short, surprised, real laugh. Paul's stomach drops because for one awful second he thinks she's laughing at him, lying on his bed, being changed like a baby. His face crumbles. "No, no, no, bud." She's shaking her head, one hand pressed against her forehead. "Not at you, I promise. At me!" She's still laughing a little. It's softer now, and he can tell she's embarrassed. "I just - Paul - I haven't done this in, oh, I don't know how long and apparently my hands remember everything. I just folded you up like you were two. I didn't even think about it. I'm so sorry, I just..." she lets out a half breath/half laugh/half snort. "Muscle memory is weird." She drops her hand from her face and looks at him. Her cheeks are pink. "You haven't been that small in a long time," she says. "Sorry, bud. I was laughing at me. Not you." "Mooooom," Paul says, drawing it out, the way he does when she embarrasses him at school pickup. His cheeks are still red, but the worst of it has passed. The awful feeling that she was laughing at him is gone, leaving normal ten year old indignation. Mom grins at him, and there's something in her face that's apologetic and amused and fond and soft all at once. "I know, I know, I'm the worst." She's already reaching for the front of the diaper. "Knees apart, bud. We're almost done then you can yell at me all you want." Paul shakes his head. Just once, but a small, stubborn shake. His knees are still pressed together. It's not really a no. It's something smaller. A last little bit of resistance that needs to register, for the record, that he doesn't want this. Even if it's happening anyway. Even if he knows it's happening anyway. Mom's hand pauses. She looks at him. Her face goes soft. Not the laughing face from a minute ago, but the one from the hallway. "Hey," she says. "I know." She doesn't push his knees apart. She just waits, her hand resting lightly on his leg. "I know this is a lot," she says. "I know it's weird and you don't want to be doing this. But we're like eight seconds from done, and then we can see how this fits and then you can get dressed and have breakfast and pretend like none of this happened until tonight. Okay?" She waits a second. "Knees, bud." Paul doesn't say anything. His knees stay pressed together. Mom waits another second. Then she slides her hands between his knees, not forcing. just there. Warm and steady. Gentle, but not asking permission. She presses softly outward. His knees give. Not because she made them. Because he let her. They both know, even if neither says it. She works quickly. The front of the diaper comes up between his legs. Her hands know what to do, smoothing, adjusting, and fastening the tapes one at a time. The diaper is snug against his waist. She runs a finger through the leg gathers on each side, checking and adjusting them. Then she pats the top of his diaper, just below his belly button, signalling "all done," her hands on autopilot like they've been for the rest of the change. Paul feels something, and realizes that she's done this before too, with him. He blushes. "Okay," she says, sitting up. "All done." Paul's face is on fire. He stares at the ceiling because he can't look anywhere else. His brain is trying to catch up with what just happened and can't. She was so fast. She knew what to do, his ankles, the tapes, the leg gathers, the pat at the end. It couldn't have been more than a minute. He just got changed, like... He can't finish the thought, but the word lingers there, just out of reach. Like a baby. His stomach twists. But it's over. That's the next thing he notices. It's done, he's been changed, and he doesn't have to think about how it goes on. A small wave of relief washes over him before he can stop it. He blushes harder. He's relieved Mom changed his diaper. What is wrong with him? His knees come together. It's a reflex again, wanting to be less exposed. That's when he feels it. There is a thing between his legs that he can't ignore. It's soft and thick and present in a way that a goodnite never was. The goodnites feel like underwear and disappear under his pajamas. These won't. He looks down. The diaper is white and bulky and obviously a diaper. The tapes are neat and symmetrical. It puffs out between his legs. He's never been more aware of anything in his life. He reaches down. His hand hovers for a second, like he's not sure he's allowed to touch it, even though it's on him. He presses the front. It crinkles. Loud. Louder than he expected. He feels the give of the padding beneath his hand, dense and soft at the same time. He presses again, and it crinkles again. His fingers trace one of the tapes. He's not really thinking, he's just... observing. Taking inventory of the thing that's on him. What it feels like, and what it sounds like. When he looks up, Mom is watching him. Her face is quiet. She's not amused, or pitying him, she's just present. Letting him have a moment, and feel his diaper. Their eyes meet. His hand snaps back to his side like he was caught doing something he's not supposed to. His hand is back at his side, but the feel of the diaper stays with him for a moment longer. The softness under the plastic, the way it gave slightly when he pressed, and how it felt under his hand. It hadn't felt bad. It felt... soft. Kind of nice, actually, in a way that he didn't let his mind examine. His face gets hot all over again. For the third time. He was touching his diaper. Mom saw him touching his diaper. And touching his diaper was soft. Mom smiles. "It's ok, bud," she says. "You're allowed to look at it. It's on you, you can touch it. You can know what it feels like." She pauses for a moment. "And for what it's worth - It looks like a lot. It is a lot, especially the first time. But these should be comfortable. I read that they're softer than the pull-up kind. Thicker, but not papery like goodnites. Maybe more..." She shrugs, searching for a word. "Pillowy? I guess?" She shrugs, unable to find a better word. "Anyway, you don't have to like it. You just have to wear it. And if it turns out to be a little more comfortable than you were expecting, that's ok. Good, even." Paul blushes at all of it, but especially at "pillowy." He pushes himself off the bed. His fit hit the floor and the first thing he notices is how he walks. His legs aren't quite right where they normally are. He takes a couple steps towards the dresser, feeling the diaper with each one. There is a mirror in front of his closet door. He looks at it, for just a second. A ten year old boy stares back. His hair is damp, uncombed. His chest looks like his chest. His arms look like his arms. His face looks like his face. A bit red, but his face. But around his hips and waist is a thick white diaper. It's bulky. It's obviously a diaper. The tapes are visible, two per side, neat little rectangles holding it on. The waistband sits higher than a goodnite, almost at his belly button, and higher in the back. It puffs out in the front. He turns sideways and catches his profile. Then around, looking over his shoulder to see the back. He keeps looking at the diaper. He tries to look away, but his eyes are drawn back, like he can't decide what he thinks, and if he doesn't know if looking at it makes it better or worse. Behind him Mom is still sitting on his bed. She's observing him. Not watching him, but just present, letting him have his moment. Paul catches her eyes in the mirror. She smiles, soft, and a little tired, like it's Saturday morning and she isn't fully awake yet. "You look just like ..." She stops herself, but she's started the sentence and they both know how it will end. Paul watches her mouth close, her eyes open a little wider, and her cheeks go a little pink. "... just like you did when you were little. And handsome. You look just like a handsome young man. Who happens to be wearing a diaper." She winces. "I'm going to stop talking now," she says. A few seconds later, she asks "Pancakes?" The change of subject is abrupt, but welcome to both of them. "Yes," Paul says. "Yes. Please." He feels a small flicker of relief at the idea. At the change in topic, and at pancakes. He's hungry. There's maple syrup. It's a normal Saturday thing. Then he looks in the mirror. "Like this?" The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he's said. He means "wearing a diaper" or "can I take my diaper off first," but the words that leave his mouth are "like this," which sounds like he's asking Mom whether it's ok to eat breakfast wearing a diaper. And only a diaper. Mom's eyebrows go up. She laughs, not at him, but at the question, at the morning, at everything. She covers her mouth with her hand. "Sure, bud," she says, when she gets her composure back. "If that's what you want. Pancakes in a diaper. Bold choice. I support it." Paul feels his whole face burn up as he realizes what he just asked. But then, somehow, without noticing it, his brain has moved past "can I take it off" and now assumes the diaper is staying on, and the relevant question is what clothes he wears over it. Mom didn't tell him to leave the diaper on, but she didn't tell him to take it off either. She's still smiling, watching him work through what he said. "Or you could put some normal clothes on and come eat pancakes like every Saturday. But up to you, bud." She stands up. "I'm going to start on the batter," she says, patting his shoulder as she passes him on the way to the door. "You can decide what you wear." she says, raising her eyebrows and trying to suppress a smile, "or not. I meant what I said. It's a bold choice. But you can pull it off." "Moooom." "I'm just saying." She's already in the hallway, talking over her shoulder. "Take your time, bud. Pancakes in 15 minutes."  

That one is much easier to make happen 8-)