Personalias's Flash Fictions

Chapter 7
Worst. Playdate. Ever

Worst. Playdate. Ever.

“Oh no!” Lindsay cried. “Not again!”

You watch as Lindsay stands there, bow legged on the playground, yanking her skirt down as best she can even as the wetness indicator along her formerly fresh diaper turns blue.  She looks like she’s on the verge of tears…again.

Come on! It’s not that bad!  You keep the thought to yourself.  Lindsay has been grieving lately.

“Stop it!” Dave screams. “Stop it!  Nnnnnn…” Dave’s protests are cut off by his Mommy’s nipple entering his mouth.  Lightweight that he is, you know that Dave is going to pass out soon after his Mommy burps him.

So much for that playdate.

“Please!” Monica screams atop the picnic bench.  “I can use the potty! I mean toilet! Toilet!”  Her Daddy ignores her, as grown-ups tend to do and continues to change her diaper, a soft satisfied look on his face.

You see Lindsay’s face wracked in revulsion in seeing Monica get her poopy bottom wiped and re-powdered.  Yours is also contorted, albeit for a completely different reason.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Couldn’t he have at least taken her to a bathroom?”  Lindsay wonders aloud.

“Why would he?” You ask.  “He doesn’t have to go.”

“Yeah…” Lindsay drops her head. “Neither do I, anymore.”  Her laugh is low, bitter, and short. You allow your hope to flicker on.  Maybe she’s finally starting to get used to it!  See the bright side!

“Do you wanna go play or something?” you ask.

Lindsay looks like you just slapped her  “Play? How can we play at a time like this?”

“I..uh..”

“I just pissed myself! Everybody seems to think we’re babies and we still have no idea why! Dave’s getting breastfed over there for gosh sakes!  Why would we play?”

The beads of sweat you’re breaking out into have little to nothing to do with the heat.  “I dunno. I just thought it could be…fun?”

“Fun?!”  Lindsay shrieked.  “How could any of this be fun?  We’re in friggin diapers!  Dave is getting breast fed!  Monica is being forced to expose herself to everyone! And you…did you just shit yourself?”

Your cheeks flush.  The word ‘just’ was doing a lot of lifting there.  “Yeah…” you whisper.

“Ew!  Go get changed!”  She takes several steps back from you.  Her compassion suddenly kicks in.  “Sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?  You seem to have been um…slipping more these past few days.”

You really have, though maybe not in how Lindsay is using the word.  “Yeah,” he sigh. “I’m okay. It’s just tough.”

“It really is,” she agrees. “It’s like we’re being punished or something.  Like we didn’t appreciate our adult lives and so somebody took them away to teach us a lesson.”

“Yeah…” you half heartedly agree. 

“Do you think we’re getting worse?  Like, if we stay like this, we’ll forget that we’re really adults?”

You shrug and say “Maybe,” to prevent lying.  If only it was so easy.  But if that happened, would they really still be your friends? You wistfully look over at the slide.  Should have gone down that first.  “I should go.”

“Oh yeah,” Lindsay says. “Go ahead and get that taken care of.  Don’t want to get too comfy in a dirty diaper.”

“Nope…” You lie and trudge off to find Daddy.

Lindsay throws her head up to the sky!  “WHY ARE WE LIKE THIS?!”  To all outside observers her existential crisis looks more like a tantrum.

The better question is: ‘Why do they keep choosing to be miserable?’.  All of you were run ragged by your adult lives. Lindsay in particular should have been happy to not have any responsibilities. Her deadbeat boyfriend turned it around too in becoming her Daddy.

But she bitched and cried about her job all the time. The only difference between now and a few days ago is the aesthetic. 

You really thought they’d enjoy it, or at least give up on trying to figure out what turned y’all into babies; maybe give it half a chance.  But two weeks later and their resolve has yet to break.

All you wanted to do was share this side of yourself with them. Treat them to the nostalgia of Sesame Street and nap times.  But they’re still resisting.  To hear them talk, sleeping in a crib is akin to a prison cell.  Being bathed, dressed, and fed by someone else is some kind of torture, and laying down for a diaper change is a fate worse than death.  Yet Heaven forbid you keep playing in a diaper that isn’t perfectly pristine.

Worst. Playdate. Ever.

As you approach Daddy to get his attention, you notice that Lindsay has sat down on the ground and started sulking.  That’s good, at least.  The first time she wet herself she was bawling uncontrollably.  Now she’s up to sitting and pouting while wet.  Probably because her Daddy won’t change her until she actually needs it.  You definitely like her boyfriend better this way.

It’s progress though.  Maybe a few more weeks of this and they’ll come around to the upside of it all.

Then you can stop pretending to struggle, too.

“Awwww,” Daddy coos.  “Do you need a change? Smells like it?”  He picks you up and grabs for the changing supplies.  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up you little stinker.”

“Yes Daddy,” you say.  Then you remember yourself.  “NO! WAIT! STOP! I’M NOT A BABY! I’M NOT A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABY! PLEASE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”