His Place in the Pecking Order

God, this little cousin of mine is such a riot!

Now I don't mean that Dane thinks he is. Nor do I mean actually "little" as in, like, a six-year-old. He's turning freakin' nineteen this fall, believe it or not. It's just that, well, he's always gonna be little to me. I'm a good four years older, after all. I'm a good eight inches taller than him. And maybe most importantly, I'm actually more mature than this prissy, pissy little wimp of a city slicker will ever be.

Did I say pissy? Because I meant it.

The early June sky is just beginning to lighten in the east when I wake him. "Bro, time to get up! You wanted to help with the chores, right?" Of course he did – or at least, that's what he told Mom and Dad yesterday before they left. Honestly, I'd love nothing more than to ignore the twerp and let him sleep until ten or whatever like he did during his first week here. But he insisted… and so if I don't want to get in trouble with Mom and Dad,  I have to grudgingly oblige.

Listen up, though. If I have to put up with him helping me around the farm, he's gonna be doing it on my own terms. Which, you see, is why I stayed up late last night making sure he has the perfect outfit for the job.

"Whhaaaa?" He's groggy, burying his head in the pillow even as I yank back the covers and let the cool air do its work. "Come on – rise and shine, farm boy!" I enthuse, noting with satisfaction his petite frame, and shoulder-length blonde hair, and most of all… that telltale bulge around his bum that not even his baggy sweatpants can hide.

Nope, I'm not kidding. He's still a freakin' bedwetter. At nineteen years old.

"Come on! Don't you want to help Cousin Sharon do the chores?" I prod, watching him struggle upright and shake the tousled hair out of his face. "We gotta hurry, Dane! The milk truck will be here at 7, and we've got a good forty cows to get milked before then. Here, I'll help you get dressed…"

Oh, I will. Heh-heh.

"I- But please, I'd rather-" he starts, but I breezily wave away his objections as I tug his T-shirt merrily off. "Oh, bro, just chill! You gotta lighten up around here…" And before he can object, I've grabbed the shirt I've chosen just for him and yank it helpfully down over his head. "Here, this top will keep you nice and warm out there…"

It's nothing but the truth. Leaving aside, of course, the fact that it's one of my old bodysuits from when I was, like, twelve. And that the white, grey, and pink horizontal stripes – to say nothing of the ribbed collars and sleeves and the snaps at the crotch – make it look less like a guy's shirt and more like a onesie for a toddler.

Speaking of toddlers…

"Wait, but- but-" "Oh, it's okay!" I smile, easily pulling down his sweatpants despite his clumsy attempts to keep them up. "Dane, just relax, okay? I know all about your little problem. Heck, I'm the one Mom had sew up that diaper for you-"

"Night pants," he mutters, cheeks beet-red with clear mortification. "Please, it's not a-" "Oh, I'm sorry!" I giggle, though with every blush and splutter from him, I'm further than ever from being  even remotely sorry. "I forgot you don't like when I call it a diaper. Well, call it whatever you want, then! Let's get your overalls on. Can't be a farm kid without overalls…"

And on they go, despite his half-formed protests that seem to be something along the lines of how he should maybe take it off first, that maybe if he had time- "Good grief, we're already running late!" I cut him off, as he hesitantly steps forward into the denim fabric I'm holding open. "I'm sure you can wait an hour or two longer, even if you are wet. Come on, let's get our butts in gear!"

And on they go: those lovely, adorable, utterly awesome overalls I completed late last night.

As I tug the straps up over my little cousin's shoulders, I'm practically beside myself with delight. They're just so… perfect for him. Because, to be perfectly honest, they're not really overalls at all. They're shortalls, with legs ending some three inches above his pale, knobby knees. They're wide-cut, too – just perfect for fitting over the bulk of those "night pants" that I had already planned to keep him in. And maybe best of all – best because of just how embarrassed he'll be once he discovers it – is the way I've sewn snaps into the entire length of that inseam.

You know, to give me access to his "night pants", AKA diaper. Just like a genuine, pants-wetting, pampers-filling toddler.

Like a toddler, too, is the way I fetch his socks and put them on for him. Like a toddler is the way he pads obediently ahead of me down the stairs, his clearly diapered butt straining the denim fabric and setting him into a veritable waddle. Not for nothing did I persuade my mom that our mattress deserved such generous, multi-layered protection – you know, in addition to his silly Good Nights or whatever they're called. See, it's that protection that right now is making my timid little sissy of a cousin look even more like an absolute baby.

Oh, I almost forgot the final touch!

"Hey, you're not going out with your hair like that." It's not a question I pose to him, but a statement. "Come here – let me tie that back for you! Can't have it getting in your way…" Oh, I tie it back, all right: into two blonde pigtails on either side of his blushing face. Sure, he protests and mutters something about it being stupid and girly – but so what? "Come on, let's go already!" I urge, and so we step out into the gray dawn: me and my overgrown toddler of a cousin.

***

And then we set to work, and it gets even better.

Bringing in the cows is a riot when you get to watch a nineteen-year-old baby gingerly waddling through the pasture in his squeaking new rubber boots, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the inevitable cow pies. Showing him how to clean their udders and hook up the milkers is just as fun, especially when you let yourself lapse into using the sort of vocabulary you might use when explaining it to a preschooler. "See that? That's a teat, and where the milk comes out! Now we gotta make sure it's all nice and squeaky clean!"

But the best part?

Well, at first I think it's that moment in the chicken pen, when he starts back at the sudden, noisy flapping of a hen eager for her spot at the feeder. God, the look on his face when he tripped and fell splat right on his dumb diaper butt! Of course I helped him up, though I couldn't help but laugh. (I mean, who wouldn't, right?) Talk about such a babyish reaction! And the sight of his now-dirty bum, waddling sheepishly out of the pen…

Nope. Hysterical as it is, even that pales in comparison to what happened not fifteen minutes later.

You know that cows poop a lot, right? And when you have a lot of cows you end up with a lot of poop? Yeah, that's why we have a manure pit: a nice, deep pit with a nice sturdy concrete ramp beside it. Over the floor you run the skid loader, and up the ramp you go, and sploosh goes all the fresh cow poop into the pit. Easy-peasy.

Welp… let's just say that this ignoramus of a cousin didn't quite realize that the ramp ended there. And so, like the absolute dork he is, he ended up being the one going sploosh… right into a four-foot-deep pond of thick, goopy cow manure.

And in his new shortalls, too!

"Oh god-! What the heck? Here, Dane, no- Don't try to-" I begin, but he's already done it. He's attempted to wade out… and predictably stumbled, face-first, right into the gooey sludge before him.

That's how he ends up looking so pathetic when I drag him back to the house – to the wonder and astonished mirth of the two neighbor girls who just happen to be stopping by for eggs. He's honestly little more than a smelly, poo-covered mess: squishing and squelching in his poo-filled boots, waddling his fat, bulgy ass along as babyish tears stream down his dirty face and his manure-caked blonde pigtails flop despondently on either side of his filthy head. He's… well, he's quite a sight.

And you know what's the best part?

Well, it's hard to pick. One is me knowing that this whole time, Dane's been waddling around in his own wet diaper: a diaper genuinely soaked by his own pee. Two, that I'm gonna be the one undressing and showering him, consoling him… and yeah, probably teasing him about what a yucky mess he made and that we shouldn't play with poop.

And number three? Probably making him wash and then hang up all of his clothes on the clothesline in clear view of the driveway. For the neighbors' benefit, you know. Including his precious new shortalls… and of course, that giant cloth diaper of his.

Hoo-boy. There's nothing more fun than teaching this guy where he falls in the pecking order around here!