Trading Post

Do you do the buildings and greenery and all, or just the train?

PeekABU (giraffe) today.  

I like scale model trains, I have a large track in my hobby shed. 

Chapter 7: Karma and Changing Tables The ride home was an exercise in pure mental paralysis. I sat rigidly in the backseat, the SUV’s leather cold against my bare thighs. My hands, still locked inside the heavy medical mitts, rested uselessly on my lap like two oversized clubs. Every time the tires hit a pothole on the gravel country roads, a loud, distinct crinkle echoed through the cabin, but for once, I barely even noticed the sound, much less the torrent of warmth in my lap which seemed to accompany each thud. My brain was entirely stuck on the image of Jacob and Tyler sobbing on their way to the diaper aisle. The reality was that I should have been focusing on the fact that my own situation was far too precarious to worry about anyone else. I should have been using that quiet time to figure out how to rebuild trust with my parents so I could eventually get my boxers back. How to prove that I did not need to be kept in diapers during the day, (or the night either) and that I could be trusted to stay clean and dry. Instead, my brain was running a frantic simulation on the other mom. Was their mom actually serious? The question repeated in my head like a broken record. There was no way a parent would follow through on an insane threat like that just because their kids teased someone. It had to be a scare tactic, taken to a whole new level. She would have them standing there, in front of the rows of oversized diapers, openly debating which size would be best for each and what pattern would look the cutest. Maybe she would make them actually grab a bag of diapers each and march them straight to the till. But no, that was too far for such a small infraction, any second now, their mom was going to pull them out of the aisle, give them a massive lecture, and take them home in their regular underwear. "Well," Mom said, breaking the silence as she glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "I must say, I am so glad I ran into Linda today. It is quite comforting to know I'm not the only mother dealing with an adolescent who needs a serious attitude adjustment. I think a nice, long stint in some thick, cute Pampers is exactly what Jacob and Tyler need to learn some humility. I am sure that after a week or two of toddling around, crinkling with every step that they take, they will think twice before they ever poke fun at another kid again." Panic flared hot in my chest. Linda. She was already on a first-name basis with the enemy. "M-Mom," I stammered, my voice cracking. "You don't think... they aren't actually going to buy them, right? It was just a joke. Surely she isn’t actually going to make them wear diapers. Wouldn’t it be a waste to make them wear diapers that they don’t need?" "A joke?" Mom let out a sharp, amused hum as she turned the SUV down our driveway. "Oh, there was nothing funny about how disrespectful those boys were. Linda looked entirely serious to me. In fact, I'm looking forward to her text later to see which brand she chose. Maybe we can get you boys together to play and they can show you how much they have grown from their experience. Besides, I have a sneaky suspicion that she won’t just let those diapers go to waste. Now hush up, Dylan. We're home, and your father is waiting." She won’t just let those diapers go to waste? Clearly mom didn’t think that Linda would actually make the boys use their diapers, assuming she even actually bought them? The thoughts continued to swirl, leaving my lizard brain overwhelmed and swirling at the thoughts of parents gone rogue, making me wonder how far my own mother might actually go. After all, unlike those boys, I had inadvertently actually given my mom a quasi-legitimate reason to put me back in diapers, and look at how far things had gone. And getting us together? Good god, three teenagers sitting around in oversized Huggies, what had gotten into her? The moment the SUV clicked into park, my survival instincts flared into absolute overdrive. Now, what I should have done was sit patiently, wait for Mom to come around, unlock my seatbelt, and guide me quietly into the house where no one could see me. I should have remembered that walking bowlegged in a loud, plastic diaper makes any attempt at a stealthy getaway completely impossible. But this was peak hysteria, and my peanut-sized source of grey matter decided that a tactical retreat was my only option to avoid letting her become any more delusional. Driven by pure panic, I managed to slam the blunt, fabric edge of my left mitt down onto the red release button of the seatbelt. The buckle snapped open with a loud click. Before Mom could even turn off the engine, I threw my weight against the door handle, using my entire forearm to shove the heavy SUV door wide open. "Dylan! Wait!" Mom yelled. I didn't listen. I tumbled out of the backseat, my thick daytime diaper crinkling furiously as my bare feet hit the gravel. I bolted toward the front porch, intent on making a frantic sprint straight up the stairs to the safety of my bedroom. But my luck had completely run out. Just as I cleared the corner of the garage, a bicycle with a basket came around the last turn in our rural driveway. It was Chloe Vance. She was in my grade. She sat two rows ahead of me in math class. The basket of her bike contained several cartons of fresh eggs from their farm, a routine delivery she had made dozens of times before, every single week. The horror unfolded in slow motion. Unbeknownst to me, In my absolute panic to escape, my oversized shirt had ridden up during my clumsy exit from the vehicle. As I skidded to a halt on the gravel, the hem of my shirt was bunched up past my waist. Standing less than fifteen feet away from a girl from my school, I was completely exposed—sporting a massive, loudly crinkling, cartoon-animal-printed daytime diaper, with my hands locked in bright medical mitts, and clutching a clear plastic bag that openly displayed a pair of sodden, urine-soaked sweatpants. Chloe froze. Her eyes went wide, darting from my mittened hands, down to the glaringly obvious plastic waistband and the swollen bright blue core of my diaper, and then back up to my face. Her jaw dropped in absolute, stunned silence as her free hand came up to cover her gaping mouth. "Dylan James Marshall!" Mom's voice boomed across the driveway as she marched up behind me, grabbing me firmly by the collar of my shirt. "What did I tell you about running off like a wild animal? You look absolutely ridiculous!" She didn't even acknowledge Chloe. Mom simply spun me around, a sharp, heavy slap landing directly against the centre of my well-padded rear with a loud, hollow thwack that echoed across the yard. A small cloud of baby powder puffed out from the leg gathers. "Inside. Now. Your father and I have had just about enough of your tantrums today and we clearly need to change your soggy diaper." Dejectedly, my face burning with a heat so intense I thought my skin might actually melt off, I waddled past the garage door and into the house. I could feel Chloe’s eyes burning into my back the entire time. My social life was officially dead and buried. "Go straight up to your room and wait on your bed, Dylan," Mom instructed sternly as she shut the front door behind us. "Your diaper is beyond soaked from all your little outbursts, and I need to gather the new supplies we just bought and then I will be right up" I didn't argue. I couldn't. I just trudged up the stairs, the loud crinkle-crinkle-crinkle of my plastic-backed prison marking every single step as I slunk toward my room to face my exile. Downstairs, Richard Marshall stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a work rag. He looked at his wife, noting the heavy pharmacy bags in her arms. "How did the clinic visit go? Did Dr. Arnold figure out what's causing our little relapse?" Susan sighed, walking over toward the spare room on the main floor. "Physically, he's completely healthy. It's his sleep cycle, Richard. He's staying up so late gaming and drinking pop that his internal clock is totally broken. The doctor thinks he's falling into such an exhausted, deep sleep that his brain completely misses the cues to wake up. The fatigue is carrying over into the daytime, leaving him moving through his day like a zombie. He wrote a prescription for a heavy sleep aid to force a routine." Richard followed her into the spare room, his eyebrows furrowing. "A sleep aid? Won't that make him sleep even heavier?" "For the first few weeks, yes," Susan explained, setting the pharmacy bags down on a side table. "The doctor said it will likely intensify his lack of bladder control at night because it may become physically impossible for him to wake up. He explicitly told us we should keep him heavily diapered as he will need to be well hydrated before bed due to the side effects of the medicine. We bought these flow-through booster pads to line his nighttime diapers so the mattress stays dry. Cheryl mentioned that we may need to take precautions to keep him safe from rolling out of bed or wandering if he sleepwalks, which is a potential side effect," Susan said. "I am sure we still have the old bed rail in the attic, would you be able to bring it down before I put him to bed tonight?" "A toddler rail won't hold a sixteen-year-old if his body starts moving on autopilot," Richard muttered, tapping his chin. "Tell you what, let me think on this. I have lots of spare lumber in the shop. Maybe I can convert the spare bed into an enclosed, high-sided sleeping space. Something sturdy enough to keep our little wanderer completely safe and contained while those meds are in his system." Susan raised her eyebrows and then smiled, clearly relieved. "Richard, are you suggesting that you build our son a crib?” “Well I wasn’t going to use that word, but yes, I think something closer in format to a crib but sized up for a growing teen might be what we need him safe. It wouldn’t take me more than a few hours to whip up. We can give the bed rail a try tonight, but we should probably keep his bedroom door closed in case he does make it out of bed.” Well, that is certainly unconventional, but given that it isn’t too much work and you already have the material, I think that would be wonderful. It will give me so much peace of mind. Speaking of woodworking, you mentioned earlier that you were working on something, how did your project turn out?" Richard’s face lit up with a proud, handy-man grin. He gestured toward the far corner of the spare room, where a large, freshly assembled wooden structure stood. "See for yourself. Built it to last, and it's perfectly sized for our boy. Assuming we are going to be changing his diapers for the foreseeable future, we might as well be doing it somewhere that is easier on our backs." The structure was a custom, heavy-duty diaper changing table, built tall enough to ease the task of changing oversized diapers and long enough for a teenager to lie down comfortably. At the foot of the table, Richard had constructed a small, sturdy two-step ladder to let Dylan climb up on his own. Beneath the padded vinyl surface, deep open cubbies were already filled with rows of Dylan's newly unpacked, neatly stacked daytime and nighttime diapers. One central cubby held a freshly organized array of Sudocrem, baby powder, and adult-sized wipes. "Oh, Richard, this is absolutely perfect," Susan beamed, running a hand over the polished wood. "It's so organized. It looks just like a professional nursery setup, but built for a big boy. It's exactly what we need to keep things manageable. I do have to ask though, what is with the straps?" “Well, this one here across the middle is just a simple reminder to him to lay still and keep from fidgeting on the table. Now these,” he motioned to a pair of shorter straps with what appeared to be Velcro cuffs, “are just in case he gets really fussy during a diaper change. Again, I am not sure how long this will last, but I wanted to be prepared as I suspect he may not always be cooperative. She turned back toward the hallway, a firm, no-nonsense expression settling over her face. "Well, there's no time like the present to test it out. His diaper is thoroughly soaked from his antics today, and we might as well get him used to the new routine." Susan walked to the base of the stairs, her voice echoing up to the second floor. "Dylan James Marshall! Get down here right now! It is time fto change your diaper, and your father built a surprise for you!" Upstairs in my room, my heart plummeted into my stomach. The tone of her voice left absolutely no room for debate. Still pantless, clutching my locked mitts against my chest, I slowly stood up from my bed and began the long, humiliating walk back down the stairs, the loud, rhythmic crinkle of my soaked diaper counting down the seconds until I discovered exactly what my father had spent the afternoon building for me.

We are hosting a littles campout at our home next weekend. We have a functioning campsite my family put in 1/2 mile from our house, it is not visible from the road. I win!