I Think We’re Alone Now

If you asked me a year ago, I’d have said that wearing diapers was the ultimate sign of babyhood.

It’s not.

Don’t get me wrong, diapers are inextricably intertwined with babyhood, but they’re not the defining aspect of babyhood.

Trust me, I know.

If she taught me anything over the past year, it’s that diapers are only the symbol of babyhood. Believe me, I’ve filled enough diapers this year to become an unwilling expert on the subject.

It’s not the diapers—it’s the utter lack of privacy and autonomy.

Yes, I wear diapers. And yes, she checks and changes them. That’s infantilizing enough.

But that’s nowhere near the worst part.

Do you know what it’s like to have absolutely no privacy? Knowing your own diaper is under her control?

Of course you don’t. You’re an adult. Adults take the right to privacy for granted.

How could you possibly understand?

Nobody randomly stops you and slides their hand into your shorts to check your diaper without asking. Nobody pulls down your pants and exposes your mess without you having any say.

Babies have no expectation of privacy.

And neither do I.

Look around. Does this look like a private place to you? Would you feel comfortable messing your diaper right here?

Yet, look at the way she’s smiling at me, patiently waiting for me to finish loading my diaper like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She doesn’t think someone like me—a baby in her eyes—has any use for privacy. She expects me to squat down and fill my diaper whenever and wherever the urge strikes.

Like right here, in this busy hallway full of people.

Real adults do their business in private—nobody ever would watch you do this—let alone smile as they watched. You get the dignity of handling it yourself.

Everything I do is public. Even if I’m fortunate enough to mess my diaper in a private place, it’s not like I get to hide what I did.

Nope, she’ll push me down and open up my diaper anyway, exposing my shame. I can’t run. I can’t hide. She is in control.

There is no dignity in this situation.

If you asked her, she’d tell you it’s perfectly natural, babies can’t help making poopoos when they have an icky tummy.

And yes, she’d use those same horrible, infantile words. Do you really think she uses adult language when she talks to me?

Get real.

I mean, look at her! That’s how a mother looks at their toddler when they know they’re about to be on diaper duty.

She’s my wife!

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when you’re in diapers. She’s way closer to a caregiver than a lover.

And I don’t want to talk about that right now. I have enough on my mind right now.

As soon as she’s satisfied I’m done pushing, she’ll check my diaper as publicly as this mess. She’ll say something in that same sickly sweet, babyish voice and march me to the nearest women’s bathroom to change me.

“Good job, kiddo! Did you push all that icky poopoo into your diapie? Yes you did! Turn around, Mommy has to check on her mush tush.”

See?

Savor your privacy. You have no idea how terrible it is without it.