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Baby Talk
Let your baby side show.
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****Sorry about the delay! Working on another story at the same time. That story is being written and gone through. Where most of my stories I've posted here are typed up for the first time right here. Hence the typos and grammar mistakes I haven't caught. Bear with me. Next chapter of this story comes out tonight or tomorrow morning. Thank you all for the support!**** -
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Congrats on 250K Frosty!! That’s super impressive accomplishment. You should feel proud!! -
By LittleAcorn · Posted
Note: I haven't been marking chapters. I don't really have chapters. The only natural break points are the ends of days, but that's too much to post at once. Or is it? I'm open to suggestions or ideas. I've been aiming for 3k to 5k words per post, ending someplace that feels like a slight pause, maybe with a bit of cliffhanger (hint, this one). The house is quiet. Mom finishes folding the second load of laundry at the kitchen table. She looks at the clock on the microwave. It's 12:20. She'd said lunch was in an hour and a half, so he's probably starting to get hungry. She listens for a sound, but doesn't hear anything - no footsteps, no creak of the floor as he walks around. "Paul? Lunch in fifteen?" No response. She walks to the bottom of the stairs. "Paul?" Still nothing. Her face does this thing it does when it’s running her maternal calculations. Is he ignoring her? Is he in the bathroom? Is he ok? She heads up the stairs. His door is shut. She knocks gently, twice. "Bud?" There's no answer. She opens the door slowly. He's curled up on his side, on top of his bed. His knees are pulled up, one hand under his cheek and the other resting against his stomach. His mouth is a little open, and his face is relaxed. Mom's expression softens too. She steps into his room, careful with the door. She stands next to him, watching her son. He's been worked up all morning. He was up early. His goodnite leaked, which he hates. She had him try on the diaper, which she knew would be a big adjustment, even if it's supposed to work better. She watches him a second longer. Her eyes drift over him, the way a parent's eyes take in their sleeping child, and she pauses. There's something about his shorts. The way the waistband is sitting. There's a bit more bulk in the front. She's surprised for a second, then her face softens. He must have kept the diaper on. She sits down gently on the edge of the bed, careful not to bounce the mattress too much, and rests her hand gently on his ankle. She wants to let him know she's there, but not wake him up suddenly. She thinks for a minute or two, then squeezes his ankle, gently. "Hey, bud. Paul. Wake up" He stirs. His brow furrows. His hand twitches on his stomach, moving his shirt slightly. The waistband of his diaper is just barely visible. "Paul, sweetheart? Lunch is almost ready, time to get up." She puts her hand on his back, and rubs gently in small circles. "Paul. Up. We need to get you cleaned up before lunch." He opens his eyes. Just a little. He stares at her without really seeing her. "mmmh?" "Hey, bud." Her voice is warm. "You took a nap. It's lunchtime. Let's get you changed and go downstairs, okay?" The word "changed" lands somewhere in his half-awake brain. He blinks at her. Slowly. Paul yawns. It's a big, full-body yawn, the kind that happens when you wake up and that you can't fight, even if you were awake enough to try. He stretches his arms above his head. His shoulders pop, and his back arches off the mattress for a second. He flops over onto his back, his arms flopping above his head. His eyes are still half closed, heavy with sleep, unfocused and looking at the ceiling. His shirt rides up, exposing his belly button. Mom can see the white of the diaper above the waistband of his shorts. He doesn't notice. He's not fully awake. Mom's eyes go to the diaper. He's lying on his back with his arms above his head, his diaper visible, and his eyes mostly closed. She's changed thousands of diapers. She knows what this is. He's ready for a change. His body language has flipped something in her, something related to muscle memory, even though she doesn't use those words. She knows what to do. "Okay, bud," she says, quiet and brisk. "Let's get you sorted." She works his shorts down, quick and efficient. She lifts his hips with one and slides the shorts down his legs with the other, sliding them over his ankles one at a time. She drops them on the bed next to him. Paul's eyes flutter, almost open, then close again. He makes another small noise, and doesn't resist. His arms stay above his head. The diaper is right there. Obviously wet. Mom looks at it for a half second before continuing. Her hands move. Riiip. She starts undoing the tapes. Mom's hand goes lightly to his knees. She nudges them outward, not lifting, just easing his legs apart. She brings the front of the diaper down between his legs and folds it back on itself, the wet padding tucked inside and out of the way. Paul's eyes open. He's awake now, his eyes are focused on the ceiling, then on her, and then on what she's doing. His brain slowly catches up to what's happening to him. She's changing me. I'm getting changed. He doesn't move. He should move, or do something. Sit up? Say something? His arms are still above his head from when he stretched. His knees are apart. Mom is doing something with the wet diaper there, her hands working. He can feel the cool air of the room. His face goes warm. But he doesn't move. He's fully awake, but his body stays where it is. Arms up, knees apart. He feels the heat building in his face and the embarrassment building in his chest, but he doesn't sit up. He doesn't close his knees. He doesn't tell her to stop. He just lies there. He tells himself that she's already doing this. If he stops her now, she'll just start over and that will be worse. She's almost done, and he should just let her finish. Underneath all that, in a part of him he's not fully conscious of, he thinks that she's doing it and he doesn't have to. He doesn't look at that thought. He looks at the ceiling. His arms stay where they are. Mom is reaching for something. She doesn't say anything, she just works. Paul closes his eyes, but he's awake. Awake in a way that makes not-moving harder to explain. He could move. His body is online. He can feel the cotton of the shirt bunched up under his back, the cool air on his hips, and the bed under his back. He could sit up. He could close his knees. He could say, "Mom, I'm awake, I can take this from here." He doesn't do any of those things. He lies there with his eyes closed and his arms above his head. He is aware he is lying there. He is aware of his own stillness, and that he's letting this happen. He is aware that letting is the right word, because there is a choice, and he is making a choice by lying there. His face is hot. He can hear Mom moving around. There's a quiet rustle. The wet diaper is still underneath him, partially folded back. He can feel the cool air where there used to be padding. Then her hand grabs his ankles. He startles. His whole body jerks. Not a big jerk, but an involuntary twitch, because he hadn't been tracking where she was, and her touch surprised him. His eyes open for a second. "Just lifting you up, bud." Mom says quietly. Matter-of-fact. There's no cooing or baby-talk in her voice. She's warm, because she's Mom, but her tone is that she is handling it and Paul doesn't need to do anything, the same way she'd help him get a splinter out of his hand. His ankles relax in her grip. She lifts both ankles together, smoothly, the same motion as the morning. This time he knows what's coming, this time he's not surprised because he knows what's happening. His hips come up off the mattress and his knees go to his chest, and his body lets them. His arms stay above his head. He doesn't help, but he doesn't resist. Mom is handling it. He hears the wet diaper being pulled from under him. Mom drops it on the floor. Then there's a wipe. He pulls away, because it's cold. "Shh, shh, this part is almost over," Mom says, not entirely done with soothing. His eyes are on the ceiling. Distantly, he thinks, "I'm ten years old and my mom is changing my diaper." He thinks he should be doing something. He doesn't do anything. His ankles are in her hands, and the room is quiet except for the sounds of her changing his diaper. "One more wipe, Bud, it might be cold." He doesn't flinch this time. Lying there, not helping, he notices things. Mom is quick and efficient. His arms are still above his head. What should he do with his arms? If he moves them, where do they go? He leaves them where they are. Mom grabs another diaper, and unfolds it with one hand, the other still holding up his ankles. She slides it under him, and lowers him back to the bed. He startles a bit as he feels the new diaper. Yes, Mom was changing him, he knew that. But he hadn't connected that to wearing a diaper the rest of the day. And he's letting her put another diaper on. His face gets warmer. His knees fall to the side this time. It crinkles as she pulls it up to his belly button. She holds it snug and fastens the tapes, bottom first on each side, then the top. She runs her fingers along the leg gathers. It almost tickles, and he moves a bit in response. She pats the top of his diaper twice. His eyes open. He didn't realize he'd closed them. The ceiling is right where he left it. He tilts his head down. His arms are still above his head. He brings them down slowly, almost shyly, and lays them at his side. He looks past the hem of his shirt, down at himself. At the diaper. His diaper. It's white. Just like before. It's his diaper. The thought lingers, slightly uncomfortably. It's his diaper, not just any diaper. It's on him because Mom put him in a diaper this morning, and then changed him now because it was wet. His face, which had been cooling, gets warm again. Mom is sitting on the edge of the bed. She's rolled up the wet diaper into a neat ball, taped to itself. Another thing her hands remember. She's looking at him. Their eyes meet. She doesn't say anything at first, but she smiles. "All set, bud." "Thanks," Paul says quietly. It's automatic, like what you say when someone passes you the bread at dinner. Then his brain catches up and he realizes what that just meant, "thank you for changing my diaper." His face goes instantly red. He sits up. The diaper crinkles as he moves. He stands. He doesn't reach for the shorts. He doesn't really decide not to reach for them, he just doesn't. They're right there, on his bed, right where she left them when she took them off. He stands there in his t-shirt and diaper. The shirt is long and he's covered enough. Mom collects the used wipes, balling them up with the diaper. She stands too. "Honestly, bud, it's good you kept the diaper on for your nap," she says warmly, making conversation. "I wasn't sure if you were going to leave it on after breakfast or not, but good that you did." Paul realizes what she just said. "If you were going to leave it on after breakfast." So he could have taken the diaper off. "If you were going to leave it on" means there was a "If you didn't leave it on" option. It had been a choice he didn't know he had. A choice that she'd let him make. And he made the wrong choice, except he didn't know he had a choice, and to her it was the right choice because he wet the bed when he was asleep, like he always does. That means she doesn't know. She doesn't know that he tried to hold it. She doesn't know that he used it while standing in this room, awake, while trying to hold it. She thinks he took a nap and had an accident. His mouth opens. He could tell her. It's the truth, and he might as well tell her the truth. But he can't. He can't tell that's not what happened. He closes his mouth. Mom isn't looking at him. She's heading to the door, holding his wet diaper. "I'm going to throw this away. Lunch in ten. You want a sandwich or leftover spaghetti?" "A sandwich." It comes out slow. Mom doesn't notice the pause. She's already at the door. "Sandwich it is, come down whenever." She steps into the hall. He hears her footsteps on the stairs. Paul stands in the middle of his room. He's wearing a shirt and a fresh diaper. The shorts are still on his bed. His brain is moving slowly. He can hear noises coming from the kitchen, but he's not paying attention. She had said, "If you were going to leave it on after breakfast or not." He ponders the sentence. “If” means whether. So "Whether he was going to leave it on." Or, "Whether he was going to take it off." Which means that it had been a choice, and it had not been what she expected. Which means she had told him he could take it off this morning. But she didn't, because he would have heard that and we would have taken the diaper off, becuse he’s ten, and then he would have used the toilet like normal. What had she said he could take it off? She had asked about pancakes. She had said "Bold choice." She had been joking when she said it. And if she was joking, that meant she was telling him what to do. She had told him to take it off, since the not bold choice was also an option. That would have been the normal option. She thought he was choosing. She thought the kid she'd put a diaper on, just to see if it fits, had decided to keep it on during breakfast, and afterwards, then took a nap and had an accident. That's the story in head. What actually happened is in his head, and the moment to correct her was a minute ago, and he didn't take it, and now it's too late. Because if he tells her now, he has to tell her why he didn't tell her earlier, and that's worse than the original confusion and a whole separate layer. He sits down on the edge of his bed. His diaper crinkles. He winces at the sound. He looks at the shorts beside him on the bed. He could put them on. He should put them on, go downstairs, and eat a sandwich. The morning would just be a morning. A weird morning, not a normal morning, but a morning followed by a sandwich for lunch while wearing normal clothes. He picks up the shorts. Then puts them down. He's not really sure why he picked them up. He was going to put them on, and then he just didn't. The shorts are sitting there, and he's still wearing just a shirt and a diaper, and he's not reaching for them again. He looks at the shorts. He thinks that he should put them on. He wonders why he's not putting them on. His face is warm. It's not burning, like before, but warm. It's the low background feeling that's been there most of the morning and isn't going away. He stands up. His diaper crinkles. He walks to the mirror and looks at himself. The boy in the mirror is wearing a long gray t-shirt and a white diaper. The shirt mostly covers the diaper, but not all of it. The bottom is visible. His legs are bare. He looks young. Younger than ten. He doesn't look like a baby, but like something else. He looks comfortable. He stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn't quite hate it. He doesn't like it, really, because his face is warm and his ears are hot and who would like that anyway. But it looks ok. It looks like a cozy day at home. But he can't go down for lunch like this. Can he?Mom's voice floats up the stairs. "Bud? Sandwich is ready. Come on down."
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