Sarah_Hillcrest

Chapter 4 Shifting Tides The guest bedroom walls glowed like a morning sky under Linda’s roller strokes. Baby blue, she hadn’t planned it, hadn’t even questioned the paint chip labeled "Nursery Dream" until the clerk was mixing the gallon. Now the color seemed to pulse in the afternoon light, humming with some unnameable promise. Clunk. Jim dropped another assembled cubby shelf onto the drop cloth, his Mickey Mouse shirt damp with sweat. “These look like something from a kindergarten,” he chuckled, running a hand along the rounded edges. Linda paused, her roller hovering. They did, the white shelving units with their chunky proportions belonged in a preschool, not a retiree’s spare room. Yet when she’d seen them at Target, her chest had tightened with a longing so sharp she’d loaded two into the cart without thinking. “They’re... cheerful,” she managed. Jim just grinned and went back to tightening screws with his newly nimble fingers. Linda observed the shelves and in her mind they were filled with colorful toys, arts and crafts supplies, picture books, stuffed animals, and maybe a cute package of diapers. ‘That reminds me we’ll need a changing table,’ she thought to herself and then stopped. She had become fixated on the idea of having a baby, where was this coming from? Linda checked her clock, it was 10:00 AM they had started the room at 6:30. She would normally be finishing a late breakfast about now. “Jim, what am I going to do about bridge club?” she asked. “Go, play bridge I guess?” Jim said and laughed. “No really, I got several strange looks a couple weeks ago, but I can’t hide it any more,” she said. “Just dress old, you’ll be fine. I’m going fishing with Bud this afternoon.” Jim said. “Oh, no… he’s going to notice too,” Linda said. Jim just shrugged as Linda went to get dressed. Linda stared at her reflection in the hall mirror, the lace collar of her “mature lady” blouse gaping where her collarbones had become more pronounced. The woman staring back had fewer wrinkles, brighter eyes—and now, thanks to her impulsive dye job last week, chestnut hair that hadn’t darkened her roots since the 90s. “You look gorgeous,” Jim called from the kitchen, crunching an apple. “I look forty,” Linda muttered. She dabbed at her lips with a tissue, too pink now for her usual mauve lipstick. The bridge club ladies would notice. They always noticed. Martha’s text buzzed in her pocket: Running late! Save me a seat and DON’T let Doris deal first, she cheats. Linda hesitated, then grabbed the floral scarf Jim hated, the one that covered her décolletage. Some disguises still worked. Linda arrived at Dorris’s house and did save Martha a seat, though not beside her. Things went South quickly, “OK, I wasn’t going say anything, but I have to know, who are you seeing?” Mary asked. “Seeing?” Linda asked. “You’ve gotten some work done, it’s incredible.” Mary said. “No, nothing like that, I just started a new skin care routine and diet, I’ve been going to that new spa in town, just taking care of myself ladies.” Linda said. Martha knew she was lying, she knew good and well that Linda was lying. “You’ve been redecorating it looks like?” Martha asked. When Linda looked surprised Martha said, “Oh I don’t mean to be the nosy neighbor, I just noticed you bringing in paint and some furniture.” “Yes, we just spruced up the guest room,” Linda said. Doris dealt the cards with manicured precision. “Where do you find the energy, you must share that new diet with us,” Doris. "And your skin. That glow." “Ladies, lets just play cards,” Linda said. "Please," Doris sniffed. "My thighs haven't looked that firm since the Reagan administration." "Maybe I'm just well-rested," she said sweetly. "Jim and I have been... simplifying our lives,” Linda suggested. “Well whatever you’re doing bottle it up girl,” Doris said. “You’ll be a millionaire.” Back at home Jim dug through his garage for his fishing stuff. The idea of going to the lake and catching fish was filling him full of excitement. He thought back to his last few fishing trips with Bud. They were really just excuses to go drink beer. Jim wasn’t really a drinker, but it was kind of a tradition. Starting in May that would load up the boat and then get loaded, float around and pretend to to fish for a few hours until they were sober and come home. Jim realized he hadn’t drank a single beer in months. Jim's fingers brushed against the dusty tackle box, sending a plume of glittering lures rattling inside. The sound should have sparked anticipation, memories of dawn mist on the lake, the thrill of a tug on the line. Instead, his stomach knotted. He lifted the lid. The familiar scents of aged leather and lead weights rose up, undercut by something sour. A half-melted gummy worm from last season clung to a hook, its neon green faded to a sickly yellow. Jim wrinkled his nose. Bud's last text blinked up at him from his phone screen: DONT 4GET THE JERKY!! That was the way they did it, Bud brought the beer and Jim brought beef jerky. He put his gear in the small truck and noticed in the reflection of his side panel he was wearing a Sesame Street T-shirt he had recently bought. “Maybe I should change shirts,” Jim thought. And found a grungy old T-shirt he wore fishing last year. On the way to the lake he stopped at a convenience store and bought beef jerky and a bottle of his new favorite drink Diet Mountain Dew. Bud did a double take as Jim swung out his truck and snagged his gear from the back. “Jim, is that you?” he asked. Jim barely had his door open when Bud's voice cut through the morning air. "Holy shit, Jim—what happened to your face?" Jim froze, one hand still gripping the Diet Mountain Dew. The truck's side mirror reflected his startled expression—smoother forehead, fewer crow's feet, the stubborn gray at his temples now streaked with brown. "Just... been sleeping better," Jim muttered, hauling his gear out, with the ease of a much younger man. Bud circled him like a confused shark. "Sleeping better my ass. You look like you stuck your face in one of those Instagram filters." He squinted. "Are you wearing facial cream?" Jim's hand flew to his cheek—damn it, Linda had talked him into that moisturizer last week. "It's SPF. For... skin cancer." Bud snorted. "Since when do you care about—" His eyes dropped to Jim's drink. "Is that soda? Where's your coffee?" Jim took a defiant sip of Mountain Dew. The sugary citrus burst on his tongue still felt thrillingly rebellious after decades of bitter black coffee. "Trying to cut back on caffeine." Bud's expression morphed from confusion to outright suspicion, are you going to one of those youth clinics, getting testostorone treatments or something? "Can we just get on the damn boat?" Bud kept stealing glances as they motored out, his usual fishing banter replaced by unnerving silence. Jim focused on untangling his line, but his fingers felt clumsy. The lure slipped, hooking his thumb again. Jim looked around the lake in wonder, it was a beautiful May day, birds sang, a fish jumped, “Oh Bud, did you see that?” Jim said to his friend manning the outboard motor at the back of the boat. Jim was grinning ear to ear, like a child on his first fishing trip. Bud frowned and motor towards a secluded cove. "Ow! Fudge—" He caught himself too late. Bud's head snapped up. "Did you just say fudge?” Jim sucked his bleeding thumb. The metallic taste should've made him reach for a beer to wash it away. Instead, he craved a juice box—the kind with the little straws. "Slip of the tongue," he mumbled. Bud opened his mouth, then shut it. For twenty blessed minutes, the only sounds were the lapping waves and the occasional whir of a reel. Then Jim's rod jerked. "Fish on!" Bud bellowed. Jim scrambled up, heart pounding. The line zinged, the rod bending nearly double. For a glorious moment, it was just like old times—the thrill of the catch, the fight— The fish broke the surface in a silver flash and dangled from the line inside the boat. A largemouth bass, barely bigger than Jim's hand. Bud burst out laughing. "That's a minnow, you idiot!" Something inside Jim snapped, "It's not!" His voice cracked embarrassingly high. "It's a good fish!!" Bud's laughter died. Jim's face burned. The bass flopped pitifully on the deck between them. A long silence. Then Bud exhaled hard through his nose. He said gruffly. "Gonna mount that sucker over your fireplace." Jim laughed, “Nope, I think this guy goes back in the water to grow up,” he said as he took it off the hook "After fishing we stop at McDonalds," Bud added, eyes glinting. "Gotta get you a Happy Meal for your big catch." The joke should've stung. But as Jim carefully released the tiny bass back into the water, he found himself actually considering the Happy Meal idea. “Well lets celebrate the first catch of the day!” Bud crowed, he cracked open a beer and thrusted the sweating can toward Jim. Jim stared at it. The aluminum glinted in the sun, beads of condensation sliding down like tears. His stomach turned. The smell—hoppy and bitter—suddenly reminded him of his father’s breath when he’d stumble in late. A memory he hadn’t dredged up in decades. “Nah, I’m good,” Jim muttered, busying himself with his tackle box. Bud froze. “Since when?” “Since…” Jim’s fingers fumbled with a lure, the sharp hook nicking his thumb. A bright bead of blood welled up. His breath hitched. Oh no. A hot, stinging pressure built behind his eyes. His vision blurred. “You okay, man?” Bud leaned in, squinting. “Hell, you’re not gonna—” The first tear plopped onto the tackle box lid. Then another. Jim squeezed his eyes shut, but it was too late. A wet, hiccupping sob tore from his throat. “Whoa, hey!” Bud recoiled like Jim had sprouted gills. “It’s just a scratch!” But it wasn’t the cut. It was the everything. The beer he didn’t want. The fishing rod that felt too heavy in his hands. The way his chest ached for Linda, for home, like some kind of… of homesick kid. Jim swiped at his face, but the tears kept coming. “I d-don’t—” Bud stared, mouth agape. Then, shoved the beer t into Jim’s free hand. “Drink. Now.” Jim took a shuddering sip. The taste was worse than he remembered—bitter and yeasty, like licking the bottom of a frat house dumpster. He gagged. And spit it over the edge. “Jesus,” Bud muttered. “You’re really losing it, huh?” Jim sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. A long silence. Finally Jim looked his friend in the eye, “I think I’m turning into a child.” Finally, Bud sighed and snatched the beer back. “Alright, new rule. You’re on juice boxes next time.” Jim’s laugh came out watery, but genuine. “No, I’m being serious, I’m…” he wasn’t sure how to explain it any further. This wasn’t Bud’s idea of a fun fishing trip, it reminded him of when he used to take his family fishing, 30 years ago. Despite his friend looking 20 years younger, he was showing signs of Alzheimer's “Look man, things can happen when you get older, you should see a doctor and get tested, there maybe there is something they can do. Fishing continued but neither friend was having much fun with it. Jim felt like a fool, and Bud was annoyed. They wrapped up the trip early As they started heading towards the dock Jim realized he needed to pee, bad. Soon he was clenching his legs together with his hand over his crotch as if he could somehow hold his bladder in. The moment the small boat hit the dock he leaped off and ran up to a small restroom in the parking lot. He started going even before he got his shorts down. Jim emerged from the restroom, face flushed and hands still damp from frantic washing. Bud leaned against the truck, arms crossed, watching him with the same expression he usually reserved for particularly stupid political ads. "Track star performance there," Bud drawled, tossing the boat keys in the air. "You forget how to piss off the side of a boat like a normal man?" Jim's fingers twitched toward his waistband where a few telltale drops darkened the fabric. He should've laughed it off, made some crude joke about prostate size—the old Jim would have. Instead, he heard himself whisper: "Didn't wanna get my shoes wet." Bud's eyebrows shot up. Jim's shoes—the Velcro-strapped sneakers Linda had bought him last week, bright blue with reflective stripes, perfect for a 3 year old. “Hey Jim, next Saturday, I think me and Jane are going shopping, so no fishing,” Bud said. “Oh, OK then,” Jim replied feeling relieved. “I’ll call you sometime, and man like I said, you need to go get checked out, something isn’t right,” he shut the door and motored off. Jim got back in his small truck and began to cry, In a few minutes the emotional outburst passed. He looked forward to seeing Linda again, then he got an idea. On the way home he stopped at Wal-Mart and bought the old classic boardgame “Operation,” they had it when they first got married and love playing that stupid game.

Chapter 3 The Accident Jim woke slowly, wrapped in a warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. His limbs were heavy with sleep, his mind still floating in that soft, dreamy place where nothing hurt and nothing worried him. He hadn’t woken up to pee at 3 AM. He hadn’t woken up at all. Then he shifted—and froze. The mattress beneath him was cold. His stomach dropped. No. Not again. He lay perfectly still, as if maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t move, it wouldn’t be real. But the dampness clinging to his thighs was undeniable. The faint, sour tang in the air was unmistakable. He’d done it again. Two nights in a row. Linda had been awake for ten minutes, her nightgown cold and damp, just like yesterday morning. She felt Jim stiffen beside her, heard the sharp hitch in his breathing. She’d pretended to sleep through his frantic, whispered “Oh no, no, no—” as he realized. Last night, he’d blamed a spilled glass of water. This morning, she wasn’t giving him the chance to lie. She rolled over and flicked on the lamp. Jim flinched like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His pajama pants were dark with moisture, the sheets beneath him soaked. His face—younger now, smoother than it had been in a decade—was flushed with shame. They stared at each other in the yellow lamplight. Finally, Linda reached out and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said softly. Jim’s throat worked. “Lin, I—” “You wet the bed honey, don’t lie,” Linda said. “Yeah I guess, I don’t remember, I was asleep, it wasn’t on purpose.” “I know, lets just get cleaned up again, its no big deal.” Linda said. They stripped off their wet clothes and bedding, then Jim got towels to dry the mattress where there was a ring from last night's accident. The washing machine churned in the background as Jim sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a robe, staring at his coffee struggling with shame. Jim Patton, 71 years old—or was he?—had just wet the bed like he did when he was 6 years old. He remembered that shameful time in his life and how his Dad accused him of being too lazy to get out of bed. But Linda… Linda wasn’t upset. That was the strangest part. In fact she seemed to be amused, maybe even happy about it. She set a plate of pancakes in front of him, the syrup pooling golden in the center. “Eat,” she said. Jim picked up his fork, his hands steady. No tremors. No arthritis. Just smooth, easy movement. He took a bite. The sweetness burst on his tongue, rich and comforting. He hadn’t craved pancakes like this since he was a boy. Across the table, Linda watched him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. “OK, here’s what we are going to do, we’ll buy a mattress protector, and you’re going to go to the doctor and get checked out. Make sure you don’t have a bladder infection or something,” Linda said. “I don’t feel like I have anything wrong, and what about the changes..” Jim asked. “I don’t know but we need to be smart about this, your health is the most important thing to me sweetie. The doctor can rule out there is nothing wrong, maybe it’s just a phase, but I’m putting a towel between us tonight, she said. THey both chuckled. Jim got an appointment to see the doctor the very next day, and for the third morning in a row woke up wet. It wasn’t as bad this morning since Linda had placed a heavy towel under him. Doctor Patel entered the examination room and seemed surprised when he looked at his patient. “Wow Jim, you look younger, what's your secret?” Jim forced a chuckle. “Retirement and a good moisturizer?” The doctor’s laughter faded as he scanned Jim’s chart. “Says here you’re here for nocturnal enuresis.” His stethoscope hovered over Jim’s chest. “Three nights running?” “Yeah, but—” Jim swallowed as the cold metal touched his skin. “ “Hey bud, don’t be ashamed, you wouldn’t believe how many people have that issue, incontinence is way more common than you’d think. 20 million americans” Dr. Patel said. Jim didn’t feel relieved. Dr. Patel stared at the urine analysis results, then at Jim’s blood pressure reading (112/70), then back at the chart. “Your PSA levels are better than mine. Kidneys function like a twenty-year-old.” He flipped a page. “You say you stopped drinking?” Jim’s fingers drummed on his knees—smooth knees, no more creaking. “Not a drop.” “And you’re still taking the lisinopril?” “Every morning.” Until last week, Jim didn’t add, when he’d inexplicably started forgetting. The doctor scribbled notes, his pen hovering over the diagnosis line. “Jim… medically speaking, you’re in better shape than you were at fifty. There’s no physiological reason for the bedwetting.” Jim’s pulse throbbed in his suddenly dry throat. “So what’s next?” Dr. Patel wrote on a notepad and tore off the page. “Go to Wal-Mart and buy some of these. If it persists past a month, we’ll do a sleep study.” He hesitated. “Off the record my grandfather lived to ninety-six. Grandma said he wet the bed like a baby for years. Getting old sucks, my friend.” Jim stared at the script for Depend overnight protection. “Thanks doc,” he said. Jim was breathing heavily as he and Linda pushed a cart towards the incontinence aisle. "You can go back to the car," Linda said with a smile. "No, this is no big deal," Jim said though his quicker pulse would indicate otherwise. Jim's palms were slick against the shopping cart handle as they turned down the dreaded aisle. Neon blue packaging screamed "OVERNIGHT PROTECTION!" beside cheerful young men and women on packs of disposable briefs. His stomach clenched. There was someone down the aisle, an older woman. She placed a pack of Depends for women in her cart and turned. Jim and Linda froze, it was their neighbor Martha. “Oh, umm, Hi Linda, Jim,” she said. There was a large pack of Depends already in the cart and a container of baby powder. “So umm, shopping?” Jim asked. “Yeah, I pick up supplies for Mildred you know down the block, she doesn’t drive now,” Martha replied. “Oh, I see,” Linda said with a smile. “And what are you two doing here?” Martha asked. Linda didn’t hesitate, “Jim’s having accidents, he needs bladder protection,” she said. “What, no!,” Jim said in horror. “There’s no use trying to hide it honey, you’re not as young as you used to be,” Linda said and winked at him. Jim's face burned hotter than the Florida pavement in July. He opened his mouth, closed it, then saw the mischievous glint in Linda's eye. Two could play this game. "Well since we're airing grievances," Jim said, slinging an arm around Linda's shoulders, "my lovely wife here keeps buying prune juice and fiber supplements like we're running a retirement home cafeteria." He nodded to Martha's cart. "Though I see you're shopping for Mildred's... special needs too." Martha's grip tightened on her cart handle. The baby powder suddenly looked conspicuously placed next to the Depends. "Mildred has very sensitive skin," she sniffed. "Of course she does," Linda said sweetly. "You're such a good neighbor." An elderly man turned into the aisle, paused at the sight of the three of them, then quickly reversed his cart with surprising speed. Jim grabbed a package of men's briefs with exaggerated consideration. "Now Linda, do you think I need the overnight protection or just the light days?" He held them up like wine bottles. "This one has a floral scent - might pair nicely with Martha's selection." Martha's lips pursed. "You're enjoying this." "You're right," Jim sighed dramatically. "I should be embarrassed. But between Linda's fiber obsession and your... Mildred supplies, I figure we're all in the same leaky boat." Linda squeezed his hand in approval as Martha's stern expression cracked into a reluctant smile. "Fine," Martha grumbled, tossing a container of adult sized baby wipes in her cart with defiant flair. "But if either of you breathe a word about this at bridge club, I'll tell everyone about Jim's little waterworks problem." "Deal," Linda laughed. As they parted ways, Jim called after Martha: "Tell Mildred I hope her sensitive skin improves!" Martha flipped him off without turning around, the Depends in her cart bouncing as she rounded the corner. “Why did you tell her?” Jim asked as he dropped a package of the incontinence briefs in the cart. “She’s very nosy, she’d find out anyway, plus she’s very curious about our recent changes, she thinks we have a fountain of youth somewhere. So I thought if she knew you were having accidents then she might not worry about it. “Oh, clever I guess,” Jim replied. Later that night Jim found that there seemed to be no end to the depths of humiliation he was enduring. “OK sweetie, it’s bedtime, so lets get you in your night time pants,” Linda said. Luckily her parenting magazine had an article about dealing with older bedwetters so she was ready. Jim stood frozen in the bathroom doorway, clutching his pajama top like a shield. "Lin, I can put them on myself." Linda fluffed the freshly protected mattress, her tone breezy but firm—the same voice she'd used decades ago with her third graders. "Of course you can, sweetheart. But we need to make sure they're fitted properly or they'll leak." She patted the bed. "Come here." The parenting magazine lay open on the nightstand to an article titled "Nighttime Accidents: Keeping Your Child (or Loved One) Comfortable." Jim's eye twitched at the highlighted section: "Make changes part of a calming bedtime routine." "This is ridiculous," he muttered, but his feet carried him forward anyway. The crinkle of the mattress protector under his knees sounded absurdly loud. Linda knelt before him with the same focus she'd once given to knitting those tiny sweaters. She slid the undergarment up his legs and pulled it tight into his crotch. "There. Snug but not too tight." She patted his hip. "How's that feel?" Jim opened his mouth to protest, but—"Better than last night," he admitted grudgingly. The protection did feel secure. Less like a medical device and more like... well, he wouldn't finish that thought. Linda beamed and produced a blue plastic cup from the nightstand. "Here's your water. Just half-full tonight—we don't want too many accidents while we're training." Jim blinked. "Training?" "Mmm." Linda smoothed the sheets, avoiding his eyes. "The article says consistency is key for overcoming bedwetting. We'll start with scheduled bathroom trips." She fluffed his pillow. "Now, do you want a story or—" "Linda." She froze at his tone, then sighed. "Too much?" Jim studied her face—the genuine concern in her eyes, the way her hands still hovered near his shoulders like she might tuck him in. A month ago, this would've sparked an argument. Now, he just felt... cared for. "Just turn out the light," he grumbled, sliding under the covers. Linda pressed a kiss to his forehead before he could dodge it. "Goodnight, baby." The nickname hung in the air between them. Neither acknowledged it. The next morning Jim woke up with a soggy wet pull-up between his legs, but a dry bed. There were a few damp spots on his pajamas but it was worlds better than waking up and stripping the bedding. He quickly got up and carefully waddled to the bathroom. Seeing himself in the mirror with the wet garment felt strange, he had wondered what this would be like for years, and now all the sudden here he was, but it wasn’t really what he wanted, it wasn’t really babyish. He pulled the siggy garment down his legs. "Let me help." Linda stood in the doorway, bathrobe tied tight, her hair mussed from sleep but eyes alert. She'd clearly been awake waiting. Jim instinctively turned away. "I've got it." "I know you do." She stepped closer anyway, and took the wet pull-up from his hands and tied it in a tight ball. “The article said skin needs proper cleaning or you'll get rashes." She wet a washcloth under warm water, testing the temperature on her wrist. Jim stared at the tile wall as she gently wiped his thighs. The clinical touch should have humiliated him, but the warm cloth soothed him. "I bet that was better than waking up wet?" Linda murmured, applying powder with feather-light strokes. Her fingers lingered at his hipbone—thinner now, his body shedding the middle-aged spread. "You're doing so well." The praise settled in Jim's chest like sunlight. He caught her wrist. "Lin... are you enjoying this?" “Maybe,” she said and kissed him.

Thank you for the feedback! Chapter 2 Changes in the Air The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Jim Patton laced up his sneakers and stepped out onto the porch, breathing in the crisp dawn air. For the first time in years, his knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He felt… light. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, and took off down the sidewalk at a pace that would’ve left the old Jim wheezing after half a block. Now, he barely broke a sweat. Martha Whitmore, their nosy neighbor, nearly dropped her watering can as he jogged past. “Jim? Is that you?” she called, squinting through her bifocals. Jim slowed just enough to flash her a grin. “Mornin’, Martha! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She gaped. He hadn’t called it a beautiful day since… well, ever. Inside the Patton house, Linda hummed softly as she knitted. The needles clicked in rhythm, the yarn, soft pastel blue, coiling into something small, something for a child. She wasn’t sure why she’d picked that color. It just felt… right. She’d spent the last week deep-cleaning the house, rearranging furniture, even buying new throw pillows. Jim had joked that she was nesting, and she’d laughed—but then she’d caught herself standing in the baby aisle at Target, staring at stuffed animals for no reason. A knock at the door startled her. “Linda? You in there?” Martha’s voice carried through the screen. Linda set down her knitting. “Come on in, Martha!” Martha pushed inside, her sharp eyes scanning the living room—the freshly vacuumed carpet, the organized shelves, the half-finished tiny sweater on the coffee table. “You’ve been busy,” Martha said, raising an eyebrow. Their house hadn’t changed in years. Linda smiled. “Just feeling inspired.” Martha’s gaze lingered on the knitting. “That’s awfully small for Jim.” Linda’s fingers stilled. “Oh, it’s just… practice. I’ll donate it or give it to the Henderson’s for their little boy,” Martha wasn’t buying it. She set the sweater down and crossed her arms. “Linda Patton, I’ve known you for twenty years. You haven’t knitted since the ‘90s. And Jim? Jim is out there running like he’s training for a marathon. What in the world is going on with you two?” Linda hesitated. She hadn’t even realized how strange it must look—Jim, who used to groan getting out of his recliner, now bounding around like a man half his age. And her, suddenly obsessed with tidiness, with soft things, with, No. That’s ridiculous She forced a laugh. “We’ve just been… feeling good, I guess. Maybe it’s the weather.” Martha’s lips pursed. “The weather doesn’t un-stiffen joints or make women suddenly reorganize the house.” Linda’s cheeks warmed. “Well, whatever it is, we’re not complaining.” Martha’s eyes narrowed. “You taking some kind of miracle drug?” Linda stiffened. “Of course not!” “Vitamins? Experimental treatment?” "Martha, we're just feeling refreshed," Linda said, forcing a smile as she carefully folded the tiny sweater. The yarn between her fingers felt instinctively comforting, like she'd done this a thousand times before. "Jim started walking more, I've been gardening—it's amazing what a little movement can do." Martha's penciled eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. She leaned in, lowering her voice like they were sharing secrets at church. "Linda Patton, a week ago Jim struggled to walk to the park, now he’s out jogging.” Her eyes flicked to Linda's smooth hands. "And since when do your arthritis knobs not look like walnuts?" Linda instinctively tucked her hands under the knitting basket. The joints had been painless for days now. "Maybe we caught a second wind," she said lightly. Too lightly. "Hmph." Martha's gaze landed on the end table where a parenting magazine lay half-hidden under a crossword book. Linda didn't remember buying it. Had it come in the mail? The cover showed a beaming mother cradling an infant, the headline screaming "Your Best Nursing Bras!" A flush crept up Linda's neck as Martha's fingernails—frosted pink and filed sharp—tapped the coffee table. "You know," Martha said slowly, "the Wilsons down the street got one of those illegal youth hormone cocktails from Cuba. Woke up in the hospital missing a kidney." "For heaven's sake!" Linda's laugh came out shriller than intended. "We're not—" The teakettle whistled from the kitchen, saving her. Linda practically leapt up, knocking her knitting to the floor. The ball of blue yarn unraveled across the carpet like a retreating tide. Martha stooped to help gather it, her rhinestone glasses glinting. "This looks just like the layette set my niece knitted for her baby shower," she murmured. When Linda didn't respond, Martha added, "Funny how life works. All those years teaching other people's children... never got to have your own, did you?" Linda’s eye’s narrowed at her friends biting comment, “No… and by the way how is your daughter doing, she still on the other side of the country in Seattle?” Linda asked. Linda's fingers paused on the knitting needles as Martha leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Linda Patton, tell me the truth now." Her knobby fingers gripped the armrest. "Have you found some... fountain of youth out there? The laugh that bubbled up from Linda's chest felt lighter than it had in years. "Oh Martha, if I'd found the secret to youth, I'd have bottled it and sold it at the church bazaar by now." She set aside the tiny blue sleeve she'd been working on. "We're just feeling good, is all. Sleeping better, eating right—" The front door burst open before she could finish. Jim stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed pink, his white hair damp with sweat but his eyes bright. In his hand, a perfect yellow daffodil trembled with his excited breathing. "Thought you might like this, Lin," he said, presenting it with a boyish flourish that made Linda's heart skip. Martha's eyes narrowed at the flower. "That's from my garden bed by the mailbox, Jim Patton!" Jim blinked, then grinned unrepentantly. "Well Martha, beauty ought to be shared, don't you think?" He winked as he handed it to Linda, his fingers surprisingly steady for a man who'd needed both hands to lift his coffee mug just weeks ago. Linda brought the bloom to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent. When she looked up, Martha was studying them both with new intensity. "You're different," Martha murmured, more to herself than to them. "Not just healthier. You move like... like..." "Like we've got springs in our shoes?" Jim laughed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if to demonstrate. "Tell you what, Martha—come by tomorrow morning. I'll show you the stretch routine I've been doing. Might put some pep in your step too." Martha opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her gaze drifted from Jim's energetic stance to Linda's radiant complexion, then to the half-knitted baby garment on the coffee table. She was just starting to deal with the indignities of old age, They were getting younger, whatever they were doing she had to find out. "Well," she said at last, pushing herself up from the chair with considerably more effort than either Patton required these days, "I suppose some people just age better than others." The words held no malice, only wonder. "You two enjoy your... whatever this is. Oh and stay out of my daffodils Jim!” “She’s definitely on to something, do you think she’ll mind her own business?” Jim asked with a chuckle. Linda twirled the daffodil between her fingers, watching the petals catch the light. "Not for a second," she said, and found she didn't much care. Jim mopped his forehead with his sleeve. Then his smile faltered. "Lin... how many miles do you think I just ran?" Linda set the flower carefully on the coffee table next to her knitting. "However many it was, you weren't doing it three weeks ago." She reached for his hand, turning it over in hers. The age spots that had dotted his knuckles for a decade were fading. "Jim, what's happening to us?" Jim flexed his fingers, watching the smooth movement of tendons beneath unexpectedly firm skin. "Remember the day the guy we helped in the park bought us lunch.” "Clark," Linda nodded automatically, then blinked. She hadn't thought about him since that day, yet his name came to her lips without hesitation. "Yeah, well..." Jim rubbed the back of his neck where a very bad mosquito bite had nearly driven him crazy last week. "Then we were both bit by those giant mosquitoes, the next day, my neck was all swollen up and sore, but my back didn’t hurt.” Linda's knitting needles clattered to the floor as the realization hit. "The day my arthritis stopped." Her gaze dropped to the tiny blue sweater sleeve. "Yeah, it was a really bad bite, but the next morning my arthritis was better than it had been in years." Jim cleared his throat. "You don't think... I mean, it's not possible that we were infected with something?" "I don't know what's possible anymore. But I know I woke up yesterday wanting oatmeal with brown sugar for the first time since I was eight." Jim's laugh started deep in his chest, richer than it had been in years. "I ate peanut butter straight from the jar last night. Like a damn college kid." Their eyes met, and in that moment, an unspoken agreement passed between them. Whatever was happening - whether miracle or madness - they wouldn't question it. Not yet. Later that night the Pattons sat on the couch, Linda thumbed through her parenting magazine, trying to remember when she bought it. Jim flicked through TV channels, and settled on old cartoons that he’d watched as a child, but they seemed so new and he found himself engaged. During a commercial he glanced over and watched Linda reading, the article was top 5 things to do when preparing for a new baby. Then his eyes caught an ad for Pampers. He felt himself growing aroused and started staring at Linda’s breasts, they seemed far more supple and... Without thinking he reached over and lifted her nightgown. “Jim, what are…” Linda started but grew silent when Jim latched on to her nipple and began sucking, something he had enjoyed doing back in their youth when sex was far more frequent. She dropped the magazine and instinctively began rubbing his head, and in a few minutes they made their way to the bedroom for something they hadn’t enjoyed in a very long time.

The Gift Chapter 1. Spring Break Clark opened his eyes, and felt waves of pain through his head. He groaned and rolled over and felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Then he was hit with the realization that he couldn’t remember where he was or how he got there. He tried to take stock of his situation. Small insects crawled up his arms and legs, he was surrounded by small green plants and overhead a canopy of light green leaves, beyond that a blue sky, sun, but which sun? "Oh dear!" A voice, warm and inviting, cut through his haze. Clark squinted. A silver-haired woman in a sunflower-print dress hovered over him, her face creased with concern. Behind her stood a lanky man in a faded baseball cap, and baggy cargo shorts. “I’m, ummm. I need help,” Clark said. "Easy there, son," the man said, kneeling beside him with a grunt. His knees popped like bubble wrap. Up close, Clark could see the frayed stitching on his cap, the sunspots on his leathery neck. A retired human—or possibly a decaying biological android? Clark’s addled brain unhelpfully supplied. The woman Linda, her gardening gloves tucked into her dress pocket pressed a cold water bottle to his forehead. "You’re in Sycamore Park. Can you tell us your name?" Name. Right. Humans needed those. "Clark," he croaked. The water bottle crackled in his grip as he gulped. His throat burned like he’d swallowed a plasma coil. "I think I… overdid it last night." Jim snorted. "Spring break’ll do that. You college kids never learn." He eyed Clark’s rumpled clothes and frowned. "Where you stayin’? We’ll call you a cab." Clark’s fingers twitched toward his wrist communicator. Gone. Panic slithered up his spine. No tech, no memory, no way to signal his ship. Just these two soft-voiced creatures staring down at him with pity. Linda patted his shoulder. "Let’s get you out of the sun." Her palm was cool and dry, her wedding band worn thin. A lifetime of dishwashing, gardening, giving, this would make good material for his book, then it dawned on him, he was writing a travel book about Earth. As they helped him sit up, his vision cleared enough to notice the park around them: a laughing child chasing ducks, a couple pushing a stroller. Linda’s gaze lingered on the baby. Just a second too long. Clark patted his pockets, stupid human disguises with their useless seams and shook his head. "Must’ve lost it. Or got stolen. Last thing I remember is a karaoke bar and... something involving tequila and a dare about licking a battery." Linda tsked. "Lord, you kids." But her eyes crinkled with amusement. Jim just sighed like he’d heard this story before. Clark’s neural interface flickered weakly—still scrambled. He could’ve sworn his communicator was nearby, pulsing like a phantom limb. But the park’s oak trees and picnic blankets offered no gleaming alien tech, just the mundane magic of Earth: dandelion fluff, the sticky smell of sunscreen, Jim’s grip steadying his elbow. Linda was never one to turn down a challenge of finding lost objects and went to the base of the tree where Clark had been sitting. “She’s like a bloodhound Clark, if your phone is sitting around here, she’ll find it.” Jim said. Linda walked a search pattern around the tree and noticed a shinny silver bracelet in the grass near where Clark had been laying. “Well Clark, I don’t see a phone but is this yours?” she asked. Clark smiled and took the silver metal band from her. It looked like it sort of changed shape to wrap around his wrist. The Patton’s couldn’t keep up with all the technology these days. It immediately connected with his implants and rebooted them. “Oh, wow, that’s better thank you,” Clark said almost immediately, feeling better and speaking far more clearly. “I’d like to get to know my rescuers better. Please tell me Jim and Linda, what are you doing here in the park this morning?” Jim chuckled, scratching the back of his sun-freckled neck. "Same thing we do every morning, rain or shine. Walk the loop, feed the ducks, pretend we're not getting old." His voice dropped on the last word, eyes tracking a young father pushing his giggling daughter on the swings. Linda slipped her arm through Jim's, her thumb rubbing absent circles over his wrist. "Our doctor says it's good for our steps," she said brightly. Too brightly. Clark's implants registered the spike in her cortisol levels when Jim mentioned age. The communicator band hummed against Clark's skin, running diagnostics. At approximately 1:14 AM while at an establishment called “Skibidi,” he took a combination of chemicals that brought uncontrollable hallucinations. At 1:27 he was convinced by fellow revelers to lick a battery, the resulting shock disabled his implants. 2:13 AM while he was incapacitated against the tree a man rummaged through his pockets, finding nothing he forced the communicator off his wrist. The communicator administered a shock to the man and he dropped it there in the grass. Wow what a night. He tilted his head as new data scrolled across his vision. He silently commanded the bracelet to build a profile on the Pattons, he wanted to know the history of these people. "Jim!" Linda suddenly squeezed his arm. "Look, the Harrisons brought their grandson today." Her voice went soft as butter left in the sun. Near the duck pond, a toddler in overalls crouched to poke at dandelions, his bulging diaper making a quiet crinkling sound as he waddled. Jim's breathing changed. Clark's sensors picked up the increased pulse, the dilation of pupils. Something about observing the infant had affected Jim, "Real cute," Jim muttered, suddenly finding his shoelaces fascinating, but he quickly turned his attention back to Clark. “Oh, we’re just a couple of Florida retirees, nothing special.” Jim said. Clark’s bracelet pulsed softly against his wrist as it compiled the Pattons’ history. The data scrolled in his peripheral vision: Linda Marie Patton (née Whitaker), 68. Former elementary school teacher. Fertility treatments 1982-1987. Uterine scarring detected. James "Jim" Robert Patton, 71. Retired postal worker. Prescription for joint pain . Marital status: 45 years. No dependents. Nearest relative: Daniel Patton (nephew, estranged). Clark smiled, “Well today you’re my heroes, and I’d love to repay you for your kindness. Maybe buy you lunch?" He nodded toward the picnic area, where young families spread blankets under the oaks. "As thanks." Linda opened her mouth, to protest, no doubt but Jim’s stomach growled loud enough to startle a nearby pigeon. "Guess that’s our answer," Jim said, rubbing his belly. The way his eyes lingered on the ice cream stand’s Kiddie Cone sign didn’t escape Clark’s notice. His communicator informed him that their favorite restaurant was 2 blocks away. “How about the lunch at The Nook?” Clark asked. “Well that sounds great son, but we’ll pay, I mean you don’t even have a wallet do you?” Jim answered. “Oh, my bracelet is on the cloud, I can pay, no problem,” Clark replied. The Nook smelled of fried shrimp and lemon wedges a scent that made Jim's stomach growl again as they slid into the cracked vinyl booth. Linda automatically reached for the sanitizing wipes, scrubbing at the table's edge where some previous diner had left a sticky smear of ketchup. Clark watched her hands move in precise, practiced circles. Teacher habits, his bracelet noted. Compensatory nesting behavior. "Best hushpuppies in town," Jim said, tapping the plastic menu. His knee bounced under the table, making the silverware rattle. Clark's sensors picked up the elevated dopamine levels as Jim scanned the cartoonish kids' menu tucked behind the regular one. Linda sighed. "Jim, get the grouper like the doctor said. Your cholesterol?" "Spring break rules, Lin." Jim winked at Clark. "When a fella buys you lunch, you order the onion rings." The words came out lighter than his hunched shoulders suggested. A waitress arrived, her nametag reading Darla. "Y'all ready to Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Patton!" Her penciled eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got a friend today, is that wonderful nephew you’re always talking about? Linda stiffened. Jim's menu slipped from his fingers. THey had often complained to Darla about how useless their nephew was. Clark beamed. "No mam, I was struggling in the park after what you would call, heavy partying, and these fine people helped me, so I’m buying them lunch. I'll have the fried platter, extra tartar sauce. And whatever these two want especially the onion rings." Clark could see why the Patton’s loved this place, good food, friendly service, and a cozy atmosphere, it was mostly inhabited by other retirees their age. Between bites they talked, he told them about some of the other parts of Earth he had visited in the last few months, Mongolia, Prague, North Korea, Idaho. The Patton’s smiled and nodded. Jim was sure the young man was, in his own words, “full of crap” but to his surprise when Clark held the bracelet up to the credit card scanner it was approved, he even left Darla a 20 dollar tip. The three shook hands, Jim and Linda walked back to the park while Clark walked around the corner and made himself invisible. He wasn’t quite through repaying the Patton’s yet, but needed more information. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the park as Jim and Linda settled back onto their weathered bench. Clark leaned against an oak tree twenty feet away, his bracelet glowing faintly as it calibrated its thought-scanning function. Establishing neural link... 67% synchronized... Linda's gaze locked onto the young mother playing with her son in the sandbox, helping him build a sandcastle. With care she wiped sand off the smiling boy’s face, and then pats his diaper checking to see if he’s ready for a change. The Patton’s watched in silence as Clark's bracelet translated the synaptic patterns into words that flickered across his vision: "Her hands are so sure... never fumbling. She just knows what he needs. If I'd had the chance—" The thought dissolved into a wave of longing so acute Clark actually blinked. Jim shifted beside her, his baseball cap pulled low. His mental signature spiked with erratic activity as the toddler plopped onto his padded backside, giggling. The bracelet decoded: "No bills, no aching joints, just... someone bringing you juice when you're thirsty. Naps whenever. Seeing the world for the first time again, not having to go to the toilet 50 times a day, God, that must feel so great.” Clark's eyebrows rose. This was more profound than simple wistfulness. Their neural patterns showed active fantasization, Linda's motor cortex lighting up as if rocking an invisible infant, Jim's prefrontal cortex creating a visual image of himself as the toddler, even imaging what it might feel like to be carefree and swaddled in affection. The toddler waddled to his mother, arms raised. As she lifted him, Linda's breath hitched. Her silent thought rang clear: "I'd give every penny in our savings to hold a child like that just once." Simultaneously, Jim's subconscious whispered: "To be held like that again..." Clark connected to his ship in orbit, “Computer, please formulate the following retroviruses with the specified effects. Create an appropriate delivery system and transfer to my location.” He commanded. A chime sounded in Clark's auditory implant. <<Ship systems online. Retroviral formulation parameters received: Subject L: Ovarian reactivation + mammary recalibration + accelerated cellular rejuvenation (target age: 24 years) Subject J: Neural age regression + musculoskeletal de-aging (target age: 2 years) Delivery system: Biomechanical mosquito. ETA 4 minutes.>> The toddler in the sandbox chose that moment to squeal, clapping his sticky hands as his mother produced a juice box. Jim's knuckles whitened around the bench slats. His surface thoughts now screamed with startling clarity: "No prostate exams. No Metamucil. Just... someone deciding when you eat and sleep and—" His pupils dilated as the boy's mother tapped his diaper again. "—when you get changed." Linda's hand had crept to her own flat abdomen, her neural scan showing a cascade of what-if scenarios involving nursery wallpaper and tiny socks. Clark's bracelet vibrated. <<Warning: Human endocrine systems require gradual adjustment. Recommend phased transformation over 52 weeks to prevent psychological shock.>> "OK, but target psychological and secondary physical changes first, so they are ready when their bodies change," Clark murmured. A few minutes another chime announced the completion of the virus and Jim heard the distinctive sound of two large mosquitos buzzing near his head. “Initiate,” he commanded them. The mosquitoes flew quickly across the park towards the Patton’s bench. The two bio-engineered mosquitoes dove toward their targets with mechanical precision. Clark watched through his ocular implant as the first landed on Jim's wrinkled neck just below the hairline. <<Injection commenced - Subject J>> his bracelet pulsed. Jim slapped his neck hard. "Got the little bloodsucker!" He examined the smeared remains on his palm with satisfaction before wiping it on his cargo shorts. Across the bench, Linda absently swatted at her own mosquito mid-bite. "Ugh. Hate these things." She flicked the crushed insect off her finger without even looking up from watching the toddler. <<Delivery confirmed. Viral assimilation initiated in both subjects>> Clark's display read. The mosquitoes had served their purpose. Jim suddenly rubbed his temples. "Whoa. Feel kinda lightheaded all of a sudden." Linda pressed a hand to her stomach. "Me too. Maybe we should've skipped those onion rings." Her face had taken on a slightly greenish tint. Clark discretely monitored their vitals as the retrovirus began its work. Their temperatures spiked half a degree. Jim's blood pressure dipped slightly. Linda's endocrine system showed the first flurry of activity as the viral payload attached to her dormant reproductive cells. "You alright, Lin?" Jim asked, though he himself was sweating more than the warm evening warranted. "Just need some water," she said, fanning herself with a napkin. "Let's head home." As they stood unsteadily, Clark's bracelet confirmed <<Stage one complete. Physical manifestations will begin in 72-96 hours>>. Perfect. He watched the Pattons shuffle toward the parking lot, Jim's arm around Linda's waist more for his own support than hers. They'd spend tonight feeling flu-ish - maybe blame it on bad seafood - but by tomorrow morning they'd just feel unusually well-rested. The real changes would come softly, like the tide creeping up the beach. Clark tapped his bracelet, activating the recall beacon. As his ship's transporter beam enveloped him, he smiled. The Pattons would wake up changed, never knowing exactly when or how their second chance began. Some gifts were best given anonymously.

My XXL Goodnites came a few days ago and got a chance to really try one out today. I have about 38 inch waste and weigh around 220. The fit is almost perfect, just need to be a tiny bit larger. I wore one today for a shopping trip. Very comfortable, barely knew it was there. I gave it a few tiny wettings during the day and it worked great. I gave it a full wetting near the end of the trip and it felt a bit heavier but still comfortable. Drank a coffee on the way home and went for a drive and walk, after 3 wettings it felt very soggy, and leaked a tiny bit. After 5 I had a big wet spot on my pants and car seat... Opps. Very pleasantly surprised, very comfortable, and actually works, probably better than an adult pull up, though about 3 times the cost.

Well sort of... I had a very busy day, lots of driving, lots of exercise. Had a headache and low blood pressure at night so I drank alot of water and gatorade in the evening. I woke up at midnight and had to pee. I had visited my parents that day as well and I was having a very vivid dream that I was there talking to them. I went to the bathroom and pee'd then I realized I was peeing. I jumped out of bed, big wet spot on underwear and small wet spot on sheets. It was 4AM. I went to pee again and just went back to bed too tired to worry about it. My wife didn't wake up. When I got up this morning I couldn't even really tell it happened. I think this is the third time in my adult life this has happened. Seems like I have about a four hour max bladder capcity, as I've been waking up to pee almost every night about 4 hours after I go to bed.

Looking forward to trying them, but not really that excited. They are very expensive and the design now is super plain. The one thing that does excite me is to try a pull-up that doesn't have the fluffy elastic that all the adult pull ups use. One other possible exciting thing about these, if they are comfortable enough then people could use them like everyday underwear, which I guess would be pretty cool.

It's funny how it's grown over the years. In my teens I had a small box in the closet. Now it's 4 plastic totes in the basement, a chest of drawers, a few boxes in a storage building and stashed in several other various drawers but still mostly in the basement since my wife is always super scared of someone discovering. If I lived along I would probably have a nursery room and leave everything out there. Interesting side note. I once visited an online ABDL friend while I was on a roadtrip. He lived alone and rarely had visitors or guests so I was really surprised to find that he kept all his ABDL stuff hidden, despite having a spare bedroom.

This is great news! I've heard her on a few podcasts and read some things and was impressed. I was really excited for her book when it came out, and honestly I was kind of let down as it felt like it could have been any self acceptance book, just with whatever issue copy and pasted out to diapers. Though I guess the process of accepting that you're ABDL isn't much different than accepting anything else about you.

Yeap, I'm exactly the same and I think it's a combination of things, but it probably doesn't have anything to do with the the diaper material. 1. Brain chemistry: For me getting diapered is a hormone rush, and it's so powerful because I believe it's a massive dose of Dopamine, Oxytocin, and Endorphins. Generally when a person gets a hormone rush it should wear off a little while after the activity is complete, but every time I remember I'm diapered I get a little kick of dopamine to the system. It's very hard to go to sleep with all that exciting feel good juice running through your blood. 2. Toliet Training: Your whole life you've been trained to keep your bladder under a control. When you're diapered you can consciously let that go, but when you're asleep you can't. My mind knows so strongly that it's wrong to wet the bed that I'm anxious about using my diaper in bed and afterward anxious about leaking. 3. Physical sensation: The diaper places a strong physical sensation on a very sensitive part of your body, and for most people it's hard to sleep in something uncomfortable or even different. Plus of wearing a ABDL diaper or cloth the thickness changes the way your body lays in bed. Here's the good news, if you want to you can get past all this. First off make sure you have a mattress protector and know that it's no big deal if you do leak. Get diapered well before bed. It's OK to go to bed in a slightly wet diaper. Don't drink many fluids before bed. If you find yourself thinking about your diaper when you get in bed then go ahead and masturbate and get that out of the way. Get into a solid routine, I find reading a boring book will help turn my brain off. It will probably take several days of this but eventually going to bed diapered will just be normal. You'll probably wake up in the middle of the night needing to pee, and afterwards go right back to sleep. You'll probably have some small wet spots on your sheets, and know that's its no big deal, you can wash them when you need to. But... If you try to get to bed without the diaper you'll have the exact same experience of not being able to sleep. Something is missing, you'll be anxious about wetting the bed, and needing to get out of bed to pee all the time and it will take time to get accustomed to not going to bed diapered. One last tip, I'm a side and front sleeper and that caused leaks. How I dealt with was layering a cloth diaper and plastic pants over a disposable.

I don't really get ABDL diaper companies product branding. They often make a diaper's branding totally around the imagery on it. There are exceptions, like Kiddo "Juniors" which is one of my favorite brand designs. Peekabu and Superdry kids, come to mind as well. If I was a brand designer for an ABDL diaper I would first focus on the actual diaper and brand it accordingly. The art would be secondary and could change. For example, instead of Tykables "Unicorns" I might do "Dreamtime" diapers. The brand would be targeted for girls and the diaper would always feature soft pink designs, and every year they might change from Unicorns, to Princess, to Magic Stars. I don't think this is that original of an idea, just look at Pampers, they have Baby Dry, Cruisers, Swaddlers, Pure, Overnights. Functionally I don't think any of these diapers are really that different, but they all have different product presentations.

Those are amazing, but I would imagine that they will be sued for copyright infringement if they keep that up.

About 20 years ago, I bought a bicycle from a person not too far from my hometown, he was a friend of a friend so I didn't really know him. I drove to his parent's home he was older than me, by several years so I thought it was funny that he still lived at home. We go into what he said was his bedroom, there was a crib in the room with a mobile and baby bedding. There all kinds of Fischer Price baby toys all over. I was like, is this really happening? He shows me the bike and then he remembers the original pedals it came with. He opens of a chest and it's full of baby stuff, he takes out a baby blanket and a brand new diaper bag and finally finds the box with the pedals. I'm just kind of standing there staring at all the stuff, then he was like, "Oh yeah you can have the bike shoes I got with it. He opens up his closet and it's filled from the very bottom to the very top with diapers. It's like Jenga in there. I knew that some of the packages were older, like from several years ago, and they were all different brand and styles and some were opened. There were no clothes in his closet, but some shoe boxes on the top shelf mixed in with the diapers. He takes out a package of Pampers that were in the way and tosses them to me then takes out the shoes and says, "I'll trade you," I was like, "OK I got ask, what's up with the diapers?" I remember thinking that this was an acceptable time for me to use that word, if that makes sense to you. He went to explain that he got his girlfriend pregnant, that she was due in a few months. They were broke and had been getting donations of baby stuff from churches, diaper banks, friends, rummage sales. He had been staying with his girl friend so that's where all his clothes and personal belongings were and he was just using his old bedroom as storage. So not as interesting as I thought.

The diaper genie was fun, I seemed to outsmart him, but I was stuck in a nursery with a robot Nanny after I wished him back in his bottle LOL.

Put on a Tykables Unicorn this morning at 6AM, a onesie and regular clothes then did some exercises. I planned on just wearing until 9 when my wife got out bed, but she got up extra early. We ended up taking a shopping trip, which involved a several hour car drive. I decided to just leave the diaper on. It was nice to be able to just let it go on the drive and while walking around, but I made sure to use the bathroom a couple times. By 2 I was feeling pretty soggy and she announced one more stop. My discomfort at being wet started feeling more like anxiety. The diaper was super swollen and surely I shouldn't wet it more, but I did. The best way to describe my mood was "fussy," everything started bothering me. I wasn't in physical discomfort, but the diaper felt so big and heavy. I wet a couple more times on the way home and was sure that I was leaking. When I got home the diaper had been on for 10 hours and I realized that the back was barely wet. Could probably get several more hours out of this, if I could calm down, but I think it's time to change.