Cuddled against Papa Underpants, the Cloth Diaper took in the world: that once-flat swirl of color that each day had grown sharp and three-dimensional. Ankle Socks shook branches, jumping from one tree to another; sweet twittering emanating from some mysterious source hidden in the clouds. The Cloth Diaper thrust itself against Papa Underpants with a delightful grunt.

The Cloth Diaper’s demeanor mystified Papa. How it could be in such a good mood after wailing through another sleepless night defied reason. But, sure as the morning sun had burnt off the dew sprinkled about the ground, the breaking day brought about the Cloth Diaper’s playful side, and in turn made way for Little Briefs’ and Boxer Shorts’, and therefore Papa Underpants’, own foul moods.

Papa Underpants mocked in a whining falsetto: “Why do I have to do everything?”

“What did you say?” said Boxer Shorts.

Boxer Shorts’ voice brought Papa Underpants’ eyes into focus on the walkway beneath his feet.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You were being Little Briefs!”

Papa didn’t respond. Keeping his pace, his eyes reblurred. Boxer Shorts, unfazed by his unresponsive father, came closer to him and egged on the Cloth Diaper. He pretended to poke her. He made funny noises. The Cloth Diaper squealed in elation and kicked up and down. Papa Underpants reared back his face for fear of another headbutt. When he reached their destination, he stopped and waited for Little Briefs.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’re going to be late.”

“What?” Little Briefs sulked behind them on the verge of tears. “What if class starts without me?”

“Who’s fault would that be? Hurry up.”

Little Briefs struggled to catch up, and Papa Underpants retreated to pulling the loose threads of his mind: the barrage of complaints gushing from the children’s junior-sized fly holes that morning; the refusal to let the Dust Bunny out; the steaming pile of said Dust Bunny’s particles all over the bottom of Papa Underpants’ foot. 

His preoccupation kept him from registering the first explosive blow. But when the Cloth Diaper refired, its second squishy fart ripped him from his brooding. An orangish sludge smeared itself on Papa.

“I have to clean her up,” he said.

“How much time do we have?” asked a misty-eyed Little Briefs.

“We’re not going to be late.”

“School starts in 2 minutes!” said Boxer Shorts.

“What!?” said Little Briefs.

“No it doesn’t. Stop it.” Papa Underpants checked his watch. “We have 12 minutes.” He laid the Cloth Diaper down on the grass and cleaned her with the same channeled efficiency with which he zipped up lunch pouches and fielded questions from the children and performed his professional duties and swam through the emotional volatility of one day after the next with his young family, all too aware of the elasticity in his waistband he’d never get back.

“Good enough,” he said.

He hoisted the Cloth Diaper off the ground and carried it into the Young Laundry Care Facility.

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