“What do you want to do today, baby?” I ask him after Mandy’s car has reversed out of his driveway. “Or do you want Daddy to plan a day of all your favorite Little things?”
“I’d like that,” he says, but then his teeth sink into his lip and I frown.
“But…?”
His cheeks turn pink. “I, um, can we…I mean, I know we briefly mentioned it a while ago, but…”
Closing the front door, I take him by the hand and gently push him to sit down on the couch in his living room. Sitting beside him, I encourage, “You want to try something new?”
He nods, swallowing roughly. His fingers tangle in the hem of his t-shirt as he fidgets. “I…I want to, um…can we…can we try an accidental wetting scene?”
A thrill of anticipation shoots through my body. He’s right: we did talk about it a long time ago but never got a chance to explore it further with everything that happened. And yet it was his trust and vulnerability the first time he asked which made me realize how serious my own feelings had become, and now that we’ve exchanged declarations of love…well, I can’t think of a more perfect time for this, really.
“I’d love that,” I answer him honestly, watching him relax with my easy answer. “How do you see it playing out?”
We talk through his options, and eventually he decides that going with my original idea of regressing as usual and enjoying all of his favorite Little activities will feel the most natural. I’ll get him extra drinks while we play, and I won’t remind him to go to the potty. Whatever happens from there is up to how deeply regressed and comfortable he feels: we’re not going to force the scene to go any particular way.
“I’ll probably feel really embarrassed,” he says as we talk about comfort levels and re-confirm safe words. “But…I’m kind of excited about it, too. Is that weird?”
“Not at all,” I assure him. “There’s something really liberating in giving up complete control. It’s why so many people who like wearing diapers use them when they’re regressed. I know you’re not interested in that,” I add, smiling, “but we’ll see how you feel after today. You might really like the idea of trying potty training play or pushing the limits of your bladder and seeing if you can make it to the potty in time, that kind of thing. Because you knowthat, no matter what, your Daddy won’t be angry or annoyed, and I will really enjoy getting you all cleaned up again.”
He squirms, his cheeks pink again. “Can I wear my training pants today, Daddy? I’m a big boy.”
I’m not surprised that he’s already sinking into his headspace. He’s been anxious to do so ever since Mandy texted to say she was kidnapping Owen to give us some much-needed grownup time.
If only she knew.
“No pull-up?” I ask him indulgently. “Just in case?”
He gives me one of his sassy little eyerolls. “I’m a big boy. I don’t need a pull-up.” Even as he says it, he blushes again. We both know that he’s lying about that today.
I lead him into his room and let him pick his outfit. Surprising me, he chooses puppies instead of penguins. Then I realize that he’s leaving me the option to dress him in his penguins later.
Normally, I would tell him to go potty before we start playing, but today I stick to the plan we’ve discussed. As I help him into his training pants, I ask him one more time about his safe words, and he responds with a sweet, “Still green, Daddy.”
We start by playing cars in the living room, and he guzzles a sippy cup of apple juice happily. It gets refilled with water, and he drinks that more slowly when we switch to playing with a train set I bought for him during an away game not too long ago.
“Toot toot!” he cheers, watching the battery-operated train chugging around the plastic track. “Look, Daddy, it’s going under the bridge!”
“You did a very good job building that bridge,” I tell him, having enjoyed watching him construct it with his small collection of blocks, his tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth as he concentrated.
He wriggles a bit, and I watch him carefully, though he hasn’t had that much to drink yet, and we’ve barely begun playing. I guess I’m as excited for this new experience as he is, especially when it could happen at any time. A pleasant sense of anticipation bubbles away in my gut.
“Daddy’s going to start making us some lunch,” I tell him, and unlike his Big self, Little Justin doesn’t take the opportunity to remind me to make a proper meal for myself, too. He just beams at me and asks, “Dino nuggets?”
“And tater tots and carrot sticks,” I confirm. “Maybe some cucumber, too.”
He sits up straighter, the train forgotten for a moment. “Can I have a chocolate milk, too?” The far-too-innocent question is posed with widened eyes and batted lashes.
He’s so damn adorable.
“If you eat all your veggies.”
Heading into the kitchen, I throw the tots and nuggets into the trusty air fryer, chopping up some veggie sticks while the machine hums on the kitchen counter. I can hear Justin making train noises in the living room, intermittently talking to Kelvin, his co-conductor.
I sit with him while I wait for lunch to finish cooking, just enjoying seeing him regress so completely.
I love seeing Justin so comfortable with being Little. I love watching him so relaxed and free. It’s even more rewarding to hear the lightness in his voice now, after so many weeks of strain and worry.
