DadIsWriting

You said the diaper was falling, that it was too soggy. So Daddy was already on the edge of the bed, your shirt pushed up, and the four tapes were the only thing keeping the wet plastic from sliding down your thighs. He pressed the front once, as if he were weighing a fat fruit. The padding moved under his palm. “Stay still,” he said. You tried the potty sentence. Then he reached for the roll of grey duct tape. [1/2]

She stood in the bedroom with the suit already on the chair. The diaper was open on the bed. She stepped into it, waiting to be powdered. The plastic was cool, then warm once he pulled it up and smoothed the front. He pressed the lower tapes first. She felt the thickness between her legs and the way it changed the set of her hips when she shifted her weight. She thought of the wooden chair in the classroom, how the seat would press when she sat, the possibility that a sensitive ear might hear the crinkle. “They’ll see it,” she said. He did not answer. He took the navy dress from the hanger and held it open. She lifted her arms. The fabric dropped past her shoulders, past the rounded outline at her hips, past her knees. The hem brushed her ankles. She walked the length of the rug and back. At home, the diaper even made her feel safe and playful at times; she sat, stood, crossed the apartment on all fours, and forgot the outline under whatever she wore inside. Outside their place, the same poofy whiteness made her measure the distance between steps. She lowered herself onto the bed to see how far the dress would open at the knee. It did not open. She rose. The padding stayed in place. The movement that was automatic in the rooms where only he saw her now required a small, constant correction she could feel in her hips and in the set of her shoulders. She stopped in front of the mirror, hand on her bottom, before he turned her. [1/2]