🎢 Mathilda at Europa-Park
Part 2: The trip
⚠️ This is a work of fiction
⚠️ Reproduction and distribution prohibited
Once we arrived at the airport, after about an hour's drive, Mom and I headed towards the toilets. I could already feel a bit anxious, but it was manageable. I hoped it would stay that way. We agreed with Mom that I would take precautions for the journey.
"Do you need help putting on the sanitary napkin?" Mom asked me.
"I should be able to manage on my own, I think," I replied.
I entered a stall with a napkin that Mom had handed me while she went to another. Quickly, I went to pee and wiped myself.
As I was about to open the napkin and put it on, I heard a woman talking behind the door, probably thinking, at least I hoped, that she was alone.
"Don't move, I'm peeing, and I'll change your diaper," she said softly.
The voice didn't seem to come from a very young child, and I was curious to know who could be wearing a diaper. In any case, it was a boy's voice, but how old could he be?
This made me think that if I had listened to Mom, I could have been in a diaper, or rather, a DryNites too.
It's true that if rides stress me out, it's not the only thing; planes do too. I'm not sure why, though. I have an apprehension that they'll crash while flying, even though I know the statistics claim they are the safest means of transportation in the world.
Getting back to stress, it has caused me many accidents in my short experience. While some went unnoticed, that wasn't always the case. And in those situations, it adds even more stress to the situation; it hasn't always been a pretty sight.
So, I hurried to do what I had to do, which was to put on the napkin in my underwear. Mom had explained and shown me, and it was quick. A few seconds later, I opened the toilet stall door, and I saw a little boy looking at me. I'd say he's about 6 years old, maybe the same age I was when I wore pull-ups at Nora's.
He looks at me, and I look at him. If I'm dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that completely hides what I'm wearing underneath, it's not the same for him. His gray sweatpants reveal what he's wearing underneath: a diaper. Whatever its nature, there's no doubt it served its purpose, and quite well judging by the bulge.
I feel embarrassed for him! And yet, he doesn't seem bothered at all. Maybe we need to put things into context. Perhaps at this age, you don't think about these things, and people's looks on you aren't the same as at 10. It's often said that girls mature faster than boys, and I think that's true. Far be it from me to think I'm smarter than average, but I can sense that I don't think and react like other kids my age.
Mom comes out of the toilet too. We both wash our hands, and the little boy's mom comes out of another toilet stall.
Without warning, she lowers his sweatpants, and looking through the mirror's reflection, I can see that he's wearing pull-ups, like the ones I wore one night. Without saying a word, his mom tears the sides, takes it off, rolls it up, and throws it in a trash can.
The little boy is pulling up his sweatpants when his mom talks to him:
"Don't pull up your sweatpants," she tells him. "I'll take a clean diaper from the bag and put it on you."
"Are you coming, Mathilda?" Mom asks me.
"I'm coming."
I realize that I've been staring at this little boy for a long few seconds, and I don't know why. Well, maybe I do; he reminds me of myself at his age, and perhaps because I also have pee accidents.
As soon as we leave the toilets, Mom questions me:
"I saw that you were looking at the little boy a lot. Is it because he was wearing a diaper?"
"Um... yes, I think so," I honestly say.
"I'll tell you again that if you want to try wearing one too, I'm not against it, and it's up to you to decide."
"We've already had this conversation, Mom! I'm too old to wear DryNites."
"Why do you think manufacturers create these diapers for kids your age and even older? Because some need them. Some at night, others during the day."
Deep down, I imagine that I know there's some truth in what Mom is saying, that it could be a solution, but... it's difficult for me to accept. Being someone who considers herself tall, mature, and intelligent, how can I accept wearing a diaper, especially during the day, in front of people I know and even strangers?
"And you know," Mom continues, "if I suggest this, it's only so that you feel better, maybe it could help you destress and help you grow so that this problem stops. You could wear it on certain occasions, not every day, of course. I'm thinking of days like at school when you know you'll have a test or during dentist appointments. In short, all those moments when you know you'll stress and have had accidents before."
"I don't want to, Mom!" I say, hoping to cut the conversation short.
"Very well, know that you have the right to change your mind. Also, know that I talked about it this week with a friend of a friend who is a psychologist, and she agrees with me. She confirmed what I was thinking and what I just told you. Anyway, let's go to the boarding gate; our plane won't wait for us."
I walk alongside Mom, reflecting on everything she just told me. There would be advantages to wearing it, that's undeniable, but also disadvantages and, above all, great shame for me.
With each step, I feel the napkin I put on in the toilet. As discreet as it may be, it reminds me, and I can't imagine what it would be like with a DryNites.
We pass by large glass windows, and through them, I can see planes taxiing on the runway and others taking off or landing. Stress rises a bit more, and I'm really glad to be protected. I don't feel the need to pee at the moment, but I know that sometimes my accidents happen without even feeling the urge to pee beforehand.
We reach the counter, there's no one, and Mom takes care of the check-in formalities, especially the luggage. I see our suitcases moving away on a conveyor belt towards the cargo hold, and each of us keeps only a small backpack that we'll take with us.
"How are you?" Mom asks me. "You seem worried."
"I'm fine, just a little stressed, I think."
Mom runs her hand through my hair and gives me a kiss. I don't like it too much when she does that, but I don't say anything. The next few minutes pass in the boarding lounge, and I look around to see what's happening to pass the time. I can see different groups: friends who seem to be leaving together, families like mine, but also others with a dad and a mom.
That's when I see the little boy from the toilets again, accompanied by his mom and what seems to be his dad. There's also a young girl with them; I would say she must be the same age as me and is probably his sister. I look at both of them, and she takes good care of him. Suddenly, she lowers his sweatpants, and through the mirror's reflection, I can see the top of his DryNites.
"Are you okay, Joris?" his sister asks him as she approaches him and helps him up.
"Emma," he says, "I think I peed."
"It's okay; that's why you wear a diaper."
Emma's gaze then meets mine, and she smiles at me. She must have seen that I was watching them. I'm a bit embarrassed by the situation, but I smile back at her.
Emma seems to take her role as a big sister very seriously and takes care of him as if she were his mom. Suddenly, she lowers his sweatpants and checks his diaper with her hand.
"Yes, indeed, it's a bit wet, but it's okay."
She pulls up his sweatpants, and she goes back to her parents while holding Joris' hand. I observe Emma, and she seems nice. She's dressed in a pink top, white tights, and a short skirt. It's an outfit I could wear and find very pretty.
"Go talk to her if you want, Mathilda," Mom says. "I have the feeling they're taking the same plane as us; I saw them looking at the screen announcing the same departure as ours. It will make you a friend."
"Maybe later," I tell her.
Once again, I'm embarrassed by the situation, but I don't know why. Is it because Joris is wearing a diaper? Or because Mom also saw that he was wearing one?
"Oh, look, it's time to board!" Mom tells me while looking at the screen and pointing her finger.
I see that Joris and Emma's parents ask them to come closer to them before heading to the counter. It's a new wave of stress for me because I know it's a signal that tells me the takeoff moment is approaching!
Emma and her family are just in front of us on the boarding bridge and then sit behind us on the plane.
By the way, turning around once seated, I see Emma, and she smiles at me. I'm worried; I bite my nails, and this sign doesn't lie. I really hope I won't have an accident or, at least, that the makeshift protection Mom gave me will be enough to contain it.
“It will be okay, Mathilda," Mom says, reassuring me. "Moreover, the weather is perfect, not a cloud in the sky."
It's useless for her to tell me that; it doesn't help me, but well, I won't tell her.
Oh, there it is. I feel the plane starting to roll on the runway. I check for the fifth time that my seatbelt is securely fastened. But why did Mom want to take the plane? I hate it, and she knows it. I resent her, but anyway, it's too late now.
The plane gains speed. A quick glance out the window confirms my feeling; we're moving. My eyes return to the front, and I realize that both my hands are gripping the armrest.
We're rolling faster and faster. My bladder makes itself known; I hope it holds on. I try to reason with myself and think of something pleasant. I've read that it could help, but apparently, it doesn't work for me because I even feel tears welling up in my eyes.
The flight attendant's voice says something over the loudspeaker, but I don't hear or understand what she says, but it amounts to the same thing.
I hope the flight passes quickly and without any problems. Still, I have a sense that it's going to be long...
No, not this. The plane starts to lift its nose; the front wheel is no longer touching the ground, and then the rear wheels. Mom puts her hand on my arm, but all I feel is a strange sensation. It feels like my heart, after racing, seizes up and drops into my chest.
It lasts for long seconds, an eternity would be more fitting as a description. It finally starts to get a little better. I see everything black; I don't understand why; it's as if I've lost my sight.
"You can open your eyes, Mathilda."
It's Mom's voice; I recognize it. So, according to what she said, if I can't see anything, it's just because I closed my eyes?
"The hardest part is over," she continues.
Come on, I decide to open my eyes, and indeed, I see again. Mom looks at me and smiles.
"Did you have an... accident?"
I wasn't even thinking about it anymore, and I don't know, to be honest. I lower my head and check my crotch. I don't see anything special; at least, my jeans aren't wet. That's something.
"I don't know," I say.
"You'll go to the bathroom as soon as we can unfasten our seatbelts. Let's not take any risks."
And with a certain fear, I unfasten my seatbelt shortly after, once the seatbelt sign goes off.
Mom hands me a clean towel, which I try to hide in my hands before heading to the bathroom. The plane moves slightly, and I have to hold back from curling up and sitting in the middle of the aisle.
Upon reaching the bathroom door, I turn around and see Emma looking at me from her seat. I quickly enter and close the door. The place is cramped, and it's not as easy as at home to pull down your pants.
The verdict is final. After lowering my panties, I can only see that my towel is wet, very wet indeed. I quickly take it off and replace it with the clean one. I throw the used one in the trash, get dressed, wash my hands, and return to my seat.
Mom asks me questions, and I answer her quickly. I don't really want to talk about it.
The journey passes surprisingly quickly, faster than I could have imagined. However, this doesn't prevent me from thinking that I've had another accident.
The landing is also better than the takeoff, fortunately.
It's finally time to leave the plane, and it feels like a breath of fresh air when I step outside, even though we're in a tunnel to enter the airport terminal.
Joris, Emma, and their parents are just ahead of us. I can see that Joris's diaper has again gained volume; his gray joggers mold it on his backside.
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