“Papa, what does it mean to be ‘tried on?’”

Papa Underpants choked on his dinner. After a brief coughing fit, he cleared his throat. Papa generally lived life on the fly, but this one caught him off guard. He looked across the table at Boxer Shorts.

“Where did you hear that?” he said.

“At recess. Some kids said, ‘I bet you haven’t even been tried on,’ and I said, ‘So?’ and they all laughed… Have you been tried on, Papa?” Both Boxer Shorts and Little Briefs glued their eyes to their father.

“Well, um… ”

“If I had to guess,” Live-in Lingerie cut in, keeping her eyes fixated on the Cloth Diaper sitting in its high chair, “I’d say Papa’s been tried on at least three times. Maybe more.” She wiggled a bit of string in front of the Cloth Diaper and smiled.

Boxer Shorts and Little Briefs looked at Papa Underpants in astonishment. “Really?” said Boxer Shorts. “What’s it like? Does it hurt? I want to be tried on!”

Papa Underpants fidgeted in his seat and pulled at his waistband. Before the right words came (ahem), Little Briefs fired off the next round.

“Do you get tried on at work, Papa?” he said.

“Yeah, do you?” said Boxer Shorts.

“Do you, Papa?” Live-in Lingerie said with sudden interest.

“What? No, of course not,” Papa Underpants said, shaking his head. “I mean… I’m not sure what those kids were talking about. Maybe it’s just one of those weird things you say, like ‘seven-eight.’”

“Seven-eight?” Little Briefs said. “It’s five-six, Papa. You’ve been tried on three times and you don’t even know what five-six is?”

“Can you try me on?” Boxer Shorts said. “Will you try me on before bed?” His eyes grew wild. “Please, Papa, will you?”

“What if I want Papa to try me on before bed?” said Live-in Lingerie.

“No… Stop it,” said Papa Underpants. “Nobody’s getting tried on before bed.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Live-In Lingerie.

“Papa?”

“Yes, Little Briefs?”

“Are you going to talk about getting tried on in class tomorrow?”

“Class tomorrow? Why would I…” Papa Underpants suddenly recalled his appointment the following day at Junior Size Elementary School. “No,” he said, covering the oversight, “I’m going to talk about my job, right?”

“I don’t know.” Little Briefs shook his head. “That’s what all the other parents did.”

“Am I supposed to bring anything special?”

“How should I know? You’re the grown-up, do whatever you want!”

In the growing excitement, the Cloth Diaper let out a velociraptic screech and slammed her fists on the table. Live-in Lingerie looked at the protesting infant and smiled. “All done?” she asked, performing the universal hand motions for the same phrase. “Is the Cloth Diaper all done?”

Not one for signing or small talk, the Cloth Diaper held its breath and tightened its seams. Reddening to a deep ruby hue, it shook like a powder keg teetering on the edge of mass destruction.

“All done?” said Live-in Lingerie.

The Cloth Diaper replied, making its answer loud and clear.

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