oznl

I'm curious as to what is happening here. For the most part, our trajectories have been markedly similar but here there is divergence. As you know, despite efforts to maintain #2 control (in the interests of maintaining sociability and marriage), there has been some loss of control but that always has been associated with GI disturbances. It's definitely been "urgency" rather than "overflow" when it's happened and there's been a veritable mariachi band of physical sensations heralding the imminent requirement for an immediate nappy change. It seems almost inconceivable to me that I'd sleep through such an event. This is in marked contrast to #1 which, on rare occasion, I've caught happening only through the sensations at the front of my nappy. I wonder if this somehow keys in to something that we subconsciously want but have done a superb job of repressing (because on the face of things, I'd tell you that I do NOT want such a thing although I'm quite unafraid of full nappies and do on occasion allow them to occur). Maybe we don't know what we want. Actually, minor update, I've "sharted" in a night nappy without realising it a couple of times but it's never been enough to physically advertise its presence come morning. It's just been a slightly unpleasant surprise at changing time.

Scan whole world's babble Math finds each word, beauty naught Mediocre prose! 🤣

In my part of the world public holidays are like buses. For ages there are none and then suddenly they all arrive as a pack. Consequentially, I’ve had a lot of short weeks recently but there’s a price to be paid. A few days after just one more upcoming long weekend, I will enter a public holiday drought that shall extend forth to the known boundaries of our space-time universe, or October, whatever arrives first. Last weekend (which was a four day weekend for me), my beloved decided to clean out her kitchen cupboards. Apart from needing to remain 20 meters from her at all times during this process (it seems that everything she has ever bought has been a critical piece of household support infrastructure and gazing upon her whilst she attempts to cull them vexes her), I realised she’d also managed to completely fill our 240 litre general waste “wheelie bin” with her rejects. Despite my relief at not having to pay a removalist company additional scarce resources so that she might throw them away from our impending sea-change location, our nominally-generous 240 litre “wheelie bin” was, to use appropriate Australian vernacular, chockers (completely full)... My Sunday-to-Wednesday bag of used nappies was already entombed beneath bags of obscure, plastic and most likely never-before-used kitchen appliances in that bin but I could see that a Wednesday-to-Sunday tranche of used nappies was never going to fit in there. Since I was “off” Thursday and Friday anyway due to a confluence of a rostered day off and another public, I just decided to go full time in cloth nappies for the balance of the week thus avoiding the wheelie bin issue. That’s four days and four nights in old-school cloth nappies. Generally speaking, everything went ok. Night times were pinned terries worn with the expected elevation in frequency of bedwetting: I suspect a function of the psychological comfort in bed of them being practically unleakable. I was however reminded of one of the perils of cloth pretty much straight away. Wednesday night’s terry nappy developed a distinct “cattery” odour pretty much the moment it got wet. This was unfortunately during a late-ish dinner. By the time I did eventually make it beneath the covers, I was acutely aware that I could easily smell my nappy. If I could smell my nappy, then so could my beloved, or maybe the neighbours. Strangely enough, she never said anything. By morning however, there was quite a strong ammonia whiff coming from beneath the blankets and I was glad to change out of it. She may have been glad for me to change out of it also but she didn’t say it which was nice. I recalled that a couple of weeks ago, I’d run out of laundry sanitiser. Rationing what I had, I’d run a load or two through without the anti-bacterial additive. Furthermore, lousy autumn weather had made drying a slow and I suspect, slightly incomplete process. I ran Wednesday night’s nappy through the machine on Thursday with some other nappy gear that needed a wash but THIS time, I used all the sanitiser. The weather gods also smiled upon me and I got in some line drying. On Friday I had coffee with a friend (from DD no less) in a white “DPF with extra padding” adult cloth nappy under jeans. Although a little puffy in the crotch and bum, he knew exactly what I was wearing anyway and was similarly attired so no dramas there. Friday night was another pinned terry but it was fine. Saturday saw the volume unexpectedly taken up a notch. At my beloved’s behest, I found myself waddling around a shopping mall. The issue however was that the bulky “Omutsu” cloth/Velcro nappy under milky white plastic pants I was wearing had already seen some hours use at home before I left. I could feel cool cloth wetness hanging down between my thighs and frankly, I felt a fraction more obvious than I was comfortable with. My beloved however didn’t seem to notice nor care. At least I didn’t leak. By Saturday night, looking for another night-shift nappy, I decided that Wednesday’s malodorous terry was dry enough to go another round. Normally this nappy wouldn’t rotate back on-shift for a couple of weeks (I have quite a few cloth terries) but I decided to bring it forward in the rotation to see if it had “improved” any. I went to bed that in Wednesday’s (laundered) terry, slightly damp at around 11pm and proceeded to dreamlessly pee myself through the night. By morning, whilst I couldn’t claim to be smelling exactly lavender fresh (when you pee in cloth nappies, they smell of pee), I didn’t smell like a cat’s litter box either. The scent coming from beneath the blankets was vastly muted relative to Thursday morning and was little more than a faint warm pee smell. I smelt no worse than your average toddler. Laundry wash sanitiser works. So does ultraviolet light but mainly it’s sanitiser.

Warm pee in bed wakes No! Stop! Oh I’m in nappies It doesn’t matter

In my experience, this has been one of the most counter-intuitive phenomenon I have encountered. All the stuff about "affirmation" and "visualising"? Forget it. ANYTHING that brings the thought of bedwetting top of mind would stop it from happening. Forget to think about bedwetting? That's when I'd wake up to find myself already wet with further effort unnecessary. It's gotten more "robust" over time (if that's a thing) but still, planning for bedwetting has a chilling effect on it.

In my experience they might be ok for a period of time but incomplete washing may allow for a bacterial build-up inside the absorbent material. Incomplete drying seems to make that worse (it happens to me quicker if I'm forced to tumble-dry instead of line drying). When that happens, bacterial decomposition of any pee gets turbo-charged meaning they can smell of ammonia pretty much the moment pee hits them. It's a risk with cloth nappies and I've found that routinely adding some washing anti-bacterial additive to the machine when running nappies through them helps.

Hang on to your hats folks over stateside - weather looks wild there right now with off-the-chart tornado potentials 🤯 Squids are typically damp 🤣

Awww, I've said before, she gets a bad press here. This is because if you drew Venn diagrams between my nappies, her, and positive feedback there just isn't ANY intersection of those sets. There IS positive feedback from her. It just doesn't relate to nappies. I've still been impressed at her capacity to maintain her rage (or at least, a Mahatma Ghandi style position of passive aggression) for this long without either deciding to leave or giving in.

It’s never gotten to a money thing. This would be a tough line for her to run because of the massive asymmetry in our lifetime earnings. Although, after a late-career-life pandemic lay-off and the grim reality of being a white, male, aged middle manager from a major multinational in world dominated by woke HR and the resultant reality that I earn only a little now, the fact stands that the overwhelming majority of our marital fiscal pie came from my efforts. I’ve paid all the mortgages, paid her college tuition and built investments in her name. If THAT doesn’t work, then there’s always the counter-strike that there are more than 50 pairs of shoes in the house that we share and 3 pairs are mine… If THAT doesn't work, then there's the point that my nappies are much cheaper than alcohol addiction, drug addiction or ongoing therapy... I think it's always good to have a primary, secondary and tertiary escape plan.

Here in our sympathetic echo chamber we can lose sight about how far outside societal mores we have strayed. One of my beloved’s very last ageing ancestors, an antiquated aunty who was already slightly dotty when I first met her nearly forty years ago, had been, from the comfort of her very expensive and almost embarrassingly luxurious aged care facility, spending more and more time off with the pixies. We were aware that her dementia had been proceeding at pace and my beloved’s phone calls with her had been becoming more and more surreal. Recently, Aunty Dotty had decided that the aged residential facility in whose secure “high care” wing she now resided, was in fact a corporate headquarters and furthermore, she was its CEO. Apparently she’d been issuing managerial imperatives and unemployment threats against a range of staff. Before however she could proceed with the restructure of her business and presumably laying off most of her workers, she got pneumonia (again) precipitating the care facility calling the “next of kin” after packing her off in an ambulance. I listened to one half of the phone call from the aged care facility. When it concluded, I was duly briefed: both on Aunty’s C-suite antics at her “corporation” and the sudden hove into view of unplanned medical interventions. “She’s been admitted into hospital again but we’ve got a do-not-resuscitate directive now so if it comes to that, I’ll have to fly down for the funeral” my beloved informed me. That seemed a little harsh. It’s just a touch of pneumonia and as far as I could tell, she was otherwise very happy running her business. It was her “employees” that I felt sorry for. “Really?” I said. “I know she’s got a bit of dementia but she seems well enough. I didn’t think she was THAT far gone?” “Well it’s not just that. She’s TOTALLY incontinent now” my beloved explained. And that was that. Clearly her life was no longer worth living, at least in the eyes of her family. In fact I know that her care facility is completely geared for nappy-clad residents and probably, for reasons of safety and convenience, prefer them that way. Similarly, Aunty Dotty was troubled by her new padded underwear, after her own idiom, many around her would know. This was NOT a lady who was afraid to complain. I strongly suspected she hadn’t even noticed that going to the toilet had mysteriously become a thing of the past for her. On the face of it, it’s just her next of kin that’s decided that things can’t go on. I HAD to say something, despite my life experience telling me that saying something on the home front when silence is an option is rarely a great idea. “Well I’ve been in nappies for more than 5 years now and so unsurprisingly, there’s a bit of incontinence creeping in there. Does that mean I get a do-not-resuscitate label from you on the way past the admissions desk?” “Don’t be ridiculous” she replied in a clipped voice. Unsurprising. Also unsurprising was the immediate termination of discussion. With a theatrical sigh, she pointedly picked up her smartphone and proceeded to ignore me with it for what would otherwise have been, the balance of our conversation. My mentioning of my nappies and my emerging dependence on them precipitated the usual reaction: a complete shutdown of engagement. It was like somebody pushed the discussion off a cliff. Sitting forlornly in my new and unexpected breakfast table solitude (along with sitting in my reasonably wet night nappy), my imagination wandered forward a couple of decades: into the enlightened age whereby voluntary medical euthanasia decisions had been extended to family members of the perpetually bewildered. Doddering around in my late autumnal years, in defiance of ample evidence for cognitive decline I would still escape from my beloved’s supervision to “fix” things around the house. On day after a slip on a ladder, an expletive, a thud and sudden and unexpected ambulance ride, I found myself laying on a trolley in an ER, my beloved at my side. Men in white coats clustered around. They didn’t talk to me. I’d been finding it hard to find the correct words inside my head to use sometimes and the fall hadn’t helped this at all. “Mrs Oznl we’re sorry that Mr Oznl has suffered this fall but given his age and co-morbidities we’re wondering what your wishes are with respect to his medical interventions?” “Oh don’t worry dear, I mean, he’s TOTALLY INCONTINENT! I don’t think there’s really any point in him soldiering on.” “We respect your choice Mrs Oznl. It IS a nasty ankle sprain and he’d almost certainly need physiotherapy afterwards. We’ll cancel the x-rays and just give him something for the pain until the termination team can get down here from upstairs. We probably don’t even need to change him. They won’t be long and he’ll probably just use his nappy again anyway during the procedure. Most people do.” “Well at least he got the TV aerial fixed before it came to this!” Her position on this cannot be written off as a societal outlier. Since the introduction of voluntary assisted dying laws for the terminally ill in my jurisdiction, many individuals have nominated nappy dependence as the trigger point for them “pulling the plug” so to speak. The truncated conversation and the decision that triggered it writ large her thoughts on the matter: death before diapers. That’s what “normal” looks like apparently…

You've answered your own question: Burning “good” in the pursuit of “better” is a risky strategy 🤣 In my more cynical moments (and my baseline level of cynicism is fairly high to being with) I suspect that the secret to a successful marriage is low expectations. Whilst I myself know for a fact that I am a tungsten monument to perfection 🤣, I accept that my befuddled beloved may misconstrue her bedazzlement at my wonder as flaws on my part and yet she (largely) overlooks them. For my part, I’ve learned to accept that there are aspects to her that will simply never, ever improve. For example, irrespective of lecture, learnings or lived experience, she has zero mechanical sympathy for any device that she uses and consequentially is continually breaking stuff (cue the standard disclaimers: “It just fell off”, “It was like that when I found it” and “Why does everything bad that happens have to be my fault?”) We put up with each other’s imperfections and look at the relationship in terms of its overall balance sheet. If we’d expected an uninterrupted “hearts and flowers” frolic through a field of perpetual nirvana-like state of bliss the union would have carked it on the first rubbish bin night. The nappies are a huge number in the "debit" column however. She’ll trash a washing machine and a mattress every year and nymphomania sounds like a lot of work to me 🤣 Well it's a bit better if you're not the only idiot on the special bus to crazy town 🤣 I'm trying very hard not to regret it but my beloved has other ideas.

Sometime a little over a week ago, I think it was a Saturday, the odometer on my permanently nappy-clad life clocked over 5 years. Any chronologists reading may already have realised that my blog on this is already well more than 5 years old and so my life in nappies must also be more than 5 years. This is true. I went into nappies full time in late 2018 but this only lasted a little more than 2 months before I went back into grown up pants in order to spend a few weeks working integrated with a short holiday in the USA. It proved to be my last ever annual month-long pilgrimage there for work as the world, and my world in particular was going to implode in 2020 but I didn’t know that then. Furthermore, if I’d known then what I know now about how to wear nappies as a grown up, I wouldn’t have come out of them for that trip. It was the first week of April 2019 that I put on a BetterDry in the Qantas Club lounge bathrooms at Los Angeles airport to stay in them ever since and that was a little over 5 years ago. Five years would have seemed like an impossibly long time back then but here we are. I think I was downstairs painting a garage at the time our planet completed its fifth orbit of our star whilst I peed in my pants. I forgot to celebrate, or even to remember. I think that’s emblematic for how things look like to me right now. There isn’t much “nappy news” to see on a daily basis and frankly, it’s sometimes tough to think about what there might be left to write about them. Frankly, I’ve found it to be a curiously flat milestone although this may well just be my general mood. There’s a bit going on right now in the “rest of life” department. So many other things have changed in my life over this 5 years that it’s hard to work out what, if any, changes are nappy-related. I still think I’m happier in my nappy. It’s hard to be sure because I’ve largely forgotten what it’s like NOT to be in them. For sure the thought of taking them of does induce some low-level anxiety but who’s to say that this isn’t a natural anxiety in the face how accustomed I’ve become, both physiologically and mentally, to semi-automatically peeing myself. There’s also some legitimate anxiety about keeping the marital bed dry. Speaking of marital, I’m still married. It’s not been without collateral cost and I think at 5 years, I need to accept that I have all the tolerance and support that I’m ever going to get (ie: not much). She still hates my nappies which means she hates an aspect of me and that eats away at me like battery acid. I thought I’d be more resilient to that but rust never sleeps. Back on day zero I’d just assumed that if I ever lasted as impossibly long as 5 years in nappies, I’d be totally incontinent and the burden of choice would have been alleviated from me. I would no longer have to CHOOSE nappies, I would simply NEED them. That’s proved to be not quite true. What I have is nappy dependence. It means that I need nappies for simple practicality. I need to pee far too frequently and with far too much urgency to stray too far from a toilet. This is now to the point where it’s too burdensome to remain dry whilst conducting something resembling a normal day. My nappies let me operate like a normal person, or even on some levels a bit better. It’s ME who can sit through the whole “Dune” movie but at the end of the day, I’m in nappies because I have made a weird choice. I could retrain. I have still not escaped the responsibilities of my strange choices. Having said that, there’s been, quite recently, one or two glimmers of something that looks like incredibly mild incontinence. There have been damp sneezes. There’s the bedwetting thing but some part of me knows that paradoxically, this is some kind of deliberate behaviour, albeit “deliberate” at a subconscious level where logic and strategy don’t get much airtime. The occasional decision to pee without waking up is coming from my brain, not my bladder though. There’s probably some volition-worthy choice points I could make that would avoid my occasional bouts of night swimming. I’m just not sure what they are. So where to next? Five years isn’t really that long, only half as long as Ivan Denisovich’s Gulag sentence in Solzhenitsyn’s novel and generally speaking, in my Gulag the catering is better. Year 6 I suppose. Perhaps something interesting will happen then. “Interesting’ of course, may well be more in the context of the apocryphal Chinese curse than “engaging” but we’ll see.

Positivity and negativity towards a particular topic are objective terms. They become subjective when prefixed by “toxic”. Toxicity is pretty easy to test for in the science space but social toxicity is a value judgement projected by one group onto another that may or may not share those values via moral relativism. There’s no doubt that ABDL behaviours can be confronting to the social norm and that some degree of negative social sanction can be expected from the general population. In this particular self-selected demographic, the normative values are greatly skewed one way and it is unsurprising that the degree of sanction is high. The corollary of that is that a place like DD is another self-selected demographic and is skewed the other way. Is there an objective “correct”? I don’t know. I didn’t much like the neo-religious preoccupation with the negative: guilt, repression, fear etc. It doesn’t seem very psychologically helpful to me. It was an interesting perspective though.

And that's how it is now for me. Whilst not incontinent, if you ask me not to pee for anything more than an hour or so, that's liable to provoke catastrophic failure. I can be "continent" but I need a clear path to a toilet and zero delays. I truly wonder if we would EVER become incontinent by doing what we do (although dripping-on-sneeze the other day was something new). Having said that, if we were assessed by how able we were to stay dry under daily life challenges, would a practitioner consider us functionally incontinent (or heading towards such a state)? Be happy it wasn't a catastrophic blow-out. I've worn THAT t-shirt. All things being equal, I have full control. Throw variables such a too much of the wrong food into the mix and accidents may well happen now.

To get back to the original topic: Yeah..... Nah.... I don't think so. The politie just haven't considered her best camera angle when removing her. Even if we disregard Occam's razor, a modest tweak of image enhancement suggests a very distinct bum crack, the landscape for which is obscured by diapers. If you look at the fat deposition on her thighs, that would be consistent with the slightly puffy derriere. Of course, as others have said, if she WAS diapered, I'd expect sustainable hemp cloth under canvas pants, something like that 🤣