Rrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrring!
The phone rang, but I ignored it. We'd recently installed an answering machine - a godsend, in my opinion. Hooky Days were few and far between, and a phone call from a relative charged with making sure I was okay was a sure way to ruin the mood.
Me and my friends called them Hooky Days. Sick days to the rest of the world, they were days that we'd play sick, faking fevers and seizures and whatever else we thought we could get away with. Most of the time we'd play sick simultaneously; planned in advance, we'd do whatever was needed to stay home, then spend the rest of the morning on the phone, on 3-way, sucking down microwave pizzas and watching daytime television shows together.
"I wish one of us was old enough to drive," Mark, my best friend at the time, would say. "Then we could pick each other up and do something!"
I, however, was glad none of us had a license yet. Mark's mom came home from her part-time job at noon; our other friend, Chris, would have to go when his mother arrived home from school shortly afterward. Then, for the next four hours, this Chris would subtract a dozen years, add a diaper, and spend the rest of the day in his favorite frame of mind.
Hooky Days.
Huggies Days.
One in the same. And I loved them.
This was before I had made my geriatric incontinence discovery. I didn't know about Depends. I hadn't heard of Attends. I knew about Hefty garbage bags, paper towels, toilet paper, and duct tape. Add these four ingredients and a ton of baby powder and a diaper was born - and, with it, a whole new Chris.
Cwis.
Often the process would begin in the morning. The minute my parents left for work and the bus rumbled off with my brother towards school, I'd climb out of bed, do a last-minute "run-through" - checking the whole house for stragglers. I'd click the garage door opener for the left door and watch it slowly rise; Dad's gone! I'd lower it and then click the right door. Mom's gone too! (On days they car-pooled additional checking was necessary and, believe me, I checked every inch of the house, the yard, even the mailbox). Once the coast was clear, the materials came out.
I remember being in the middle of my manufacturing as the phone would ring and that first call would come through. I'd be making adjustments and Mark would be ringing in. As eager as I was to flop my little naked ass down onto my newly-minted 'diaper', the idea of doing it while I was on the phone was too much for me. It was almost as though I felt like I'd be detected through the phone. So I'd stop with the finishing touches, pushing the diaper in between my mattress and box spring - can never be too safe if someone comes home for lunch! - and would spend hours on the phone, adult-like. It was torture!
The torture ended at lunch time, usually. My friends back to being sick, in bed for their mothers' benefits, and it would be just me. I had from noon until four, when family starting rolling in, and I was determined to make the most of it on every occasion.
I had a routine. I would scamper to my Pamper, pulling it back out from underneath my mattress. I'd be naked in nanoseconds, and with the garbage bag diaper square on my mattress, I'd center my bottom, pile on the powder, pull it tight, and apply the duct tape. By the time I finished I had shiny black plastic form-fitted to my bum. Walking was difficult; I had twenty or more paper towels square between my legs, and just climbing off of my bed without falling onto the floor was a chore. Somehow I was almost always successful.
I'd spend the rest of the day on the floor. Whether I was crawling across a room or sliding up and down the stairs on my bottom, I was determined to spend the rest of the day on my tummy. Or my bummy.
I'd crawl into the kitchen, open the fridge, and find the closest thing to baby food. Sometimes it was baby food, left over from a visit from our cousins. Other times it was applesauce. Pudding cups. You get the idea.
I'd crawl to the counter, pull open a drawer, and root around until I found a spoon. It, my baby food, and me would make our way to the middle of the kitchen floor, and I'd feed myself. I'd always wish someone was there to feed me but, when you're toddlerizing yourself, you have to make due with what you have.
After my tummy was full I'd crawl across to the radio, flip the switch, and listen to Paul Harvey. I'm not sure what this had to do with my infantized personality; maybe Mr. Harvey made me feel like there was a grownup in the house. In any event, I'd listen to the rest of the story and, as soon as I'd heard it, the radio would go off and it was naptime.
I would sometimes crawl upstairs for my nap, especially when the cousin crib was in effect. Other times I'd crawl to the window, position my little diapered butt in the sunny spot, and just lay there. If you've never felt the sun beaming down directly on your plastic-clad bottom you're missing out; I highly recommend it. Your butt will thank you...
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring!
Without fail my peaceful nap would end with the interruption of the phone, a parent or other adult relative calling or, even less pleasant, a telemarketer. There was a time when I'd crawl across the room lickety-split, trying to grab the phone before the answering machine did, fearing my parents may call and, not being able to reach me, come home early. A thirty-minute call with an aunt wrecked my regressed mood and reduced my toddler time significantly; from that point forward Li'l Cwis would stay on the floor and listen to voices recording on the machine. If it was a parent, I'd pick up.
Toward the end of my nap - usually about an hour - it was time to pee. If you're a seasoned diaper user you know the difference in absorbancy between Attends and Depend. Or Abena and Attends. Or Abena and CVS. You get the idea.
The absorbancy of Hefty... it makes CVS look like a Sham-Wow.
So, without fail, I'd soak that shit, and then leave a trail of wetness wherever I went. I'd have to be careful to stick to my route; I didn't want to leave dampness in spots I would forget to clean up. ("What's this yellow wet spot in the den, Chris?!")
As I urinated the paper towel would soak first, followed by the toilet paper, making the diaper fell heavy; as the diaper filled a puddle would form, allowing for some sloshing as I moved around. I'd try to position my diaper at various angles to maximize the effectiveness of the paper towel product but, without fail, I'd eventually feel the warmth and wetness trickling down my legs. Drip. Drip. Drip. Driiiiiiip.
Real diapers stay warm over time. Garbage bag diapers, though, quickly become cold and clammy. Still, I enjoyed the feeling of wearing a wet diaper, and would enjoy my last hour or two of toddler time soaking wet. I'd sit on the ground, my bottom pressed against it to retain the warm feeling for as long as possible; once it was gone I'd return to the sun spot, letting Mr. Sun work his magic. Re-heating a wet diaper? I wasn't above it. I'd grab a coloring book on my way back and spend my last hour creating art while the rays came through the sliding glass door and landed directly on my backside. Wheeeeee! Sometimes I'd be laying next to two feet of snow on the other side of the glass, but as long as the sun was on my ass...
Sometimes I'd rotate pacifiers and bottles into the mix, but most Hooky Days were minimalist: a diaper, a floor, and the house to myself. Nothing else needed. The fake baby food and Paul Harvey were just little bonuses.
I'd always enjoy my li'l kid persona right up until ten minutes before Parental Return Time. It was a daring move, but I perfected it; I'd remove my diaper and dispose of it, rush around letting my formerly-soaked diaper area air dry as I 'cleaned up' any wet spots on the floor. A quick washclothing later and I, and the house, would be clean, if not dry. I'd finish with some sprays of air freshener and the house would be back to its original state. Almost.
There were close calls. The time that the UPS driver parked on the road and walked up to the house. I hand't heard the truck, and looked up just in time to see him walking up to the door. I'm sure he saw me through the window - from the waist up, fortunately! I quickly slid my little wet bottom across the floor out of his view, listening while he knocked and rang the doorbell. Over and over. And over. He must have wondered why someone was laying on the floor, not answering the door. I felt sure he was going to break in! Maybe call 9-1-1? Instead he left the package and returned to his truck; I heard it rumble off, and ripped my diaper off fast as fck. I spent the rest of that day as a grownup, in fear of a return visit from the UPS driver, an ambulance driver, anyone. It later occurred to me that he probably sees all kinds of stuff. And how lucky I was that he hadn't seen the garbage bag diaper. If he had, he'd probably be writing about it in his Delivery Driver Blog today.
There were a few times, too, that the odor of wet diaper still hung in the air later that night, when my best cleanup efforts hadn't been good enough. Over time I became an expert-level scent replacement technician, learning the tricks to replace diaper smells with less offensive ones. Still, each time I felt would surely be my last as I watched family members sniff, whiff, and wonder.
I've since grown up.
Garbage bag diapers are a thing of the past, replaced with some of the best diapers money can buy, and all of the accessories to boot. I've got disposable diapers, cloth diapers, plastic pants, jammies, footed sleepers, and all of the toys. I even have a bib. I've diapered more than seventy people, a number which continues to grow as time goes on.
None of my baby stuff is put to better use, though, then Hooky Days.
Even today I take an occasional Hooky Day. I wake up, call the job, take the day, and resolve to stay on the floor for as long as possible.
Mark and I haven't spoken in ten years. I lost touch of Chris in high school. There are no early-morning calls, no coordinated television watching, nothing else to mess up my Hooky Days now. Today I turn the phone to silent, and my diaper day begins way earlier than noon. And it goes way longer than 4 p.m., too; sometimes until the wee hours of the next morning. No relatives call to check up, and if they did the voicemail is there for them.
The one thing that hasn't changed is the feeling I get knowing that I've slapped adulthood in the face, at least for the day.
My responsibilities then included going to high school but I voluntarily vomited and told school "fck you!"; today the job is waiting and, in deciding to spend my day in a diaper, I've given it the finger.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!
Eek! It sounds like Grownup Responsibility calling.
Fuck it. If it's important it'll call back...
