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Mommies and Daddies
For the grown-ups to discuss ABDL topics. No babies unless you're looking for a 'pankin!
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By astrodiaper · Posted
The closest thing I can do for you is a virtual long distance hug. I've been off in my own little lala land world for quite some time. I was reminded tonight that the phone goes the other way too, and quite frankly, I haven't really been in contact with anybody, short of my parents for a while now. (I call them weekly or they'll freak out in their own special unique way.) I have thought about reaching out to my sister earlier this morning, but just didn't do it. I haven't reached out to a friend, only to let him know what his share of the phone bill is. I excuse a lot of this with my hours and the fact that I've been working more hours, but now that my relief is back on and doing well enough for me to relax. (Yeah, right....). I fear that one day, I am going to be alone, and there will be nobody to blame but myself. -
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Living life as a grown up in nappies produces a variety of unanticipated life challenges and criticalities. Not the least of these is a VERY high degree of dependency upon reliable, accessible and private laundry infrastructure. So in this week’s nappy-challenge, our washing machine cried “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war. Actually, it probably just went “Clunk, clunk, clunk!” but I suspect it cried for a bit first. In my experience such mechanical failures are rarely unheralded but sadly my beloved is “Ming the Merciless” with respect to appliances: utterly devoid of mechanical sympathy. Any warning groans of mechanised pain would have been blithely ignored by her until they’d risen to the roar of catastrophic failure. It was Friday morning and she’d started a load of clothes (mainly hers) sometime shortly after her usual 6am arise but before mine. I was lying in bed, scrolling on my phone through the series of morning bulletins outlining how the current POTUS was taking an already bad geo-political situation in the Middle East and making it far, far worse. Shortly after 7am she came back into our bedroom. Bidding farewell to me before she left for her office she tossed out a last request in an obiter dictum kind of way on her way out the door: “Can you please take a look at the washing machine? It keeps going out of balance and I’ve given up trying to reset it.” And then came the ominous rider: “It’s making some funny noises.” Terrific… Cue getting out of bed and greeting the dawn as her V8 rumbled down the street to a less mundane office world that had better air-conditioning and less washing water on the floor. Clad in a t-shirt and my suitably-attractive wet night nappy and plastic pant combo, I padded down the hall to inspect laundry infrastructure. It was “out of balance” alright. The washer tub had separated from the suspension that held it in place within the machine body. Upon reaching the “spin dry” cycle, it was then flailing around inside the case like a drunken aluminium whirling dervish in quest of escape velocity. A range of deep lacerations on the tub’s (now exposed due to its rather odd position) outer plastic lip bore silent witness to the mechanical carnage inflicted by beloved’s repeated attempts to re-start the spin cycle. Since the visual evidence of the machine’s self-disassembly was inescapable every time she opened the lid in another futile attempt to “re-balance” the load, I wondered at how superbly mechanically naive she was. Naturally it was Friday so the repair technician would have to be the next week. I don’t “do” washing machines and I’d stay in disposables over the weekend anyway. Upon her return that evening I reported the requirement for parts that I can’t buy retail, the possible fact that knock-on (no pun intended) damage may render repairs futile and that a technician would be required. “You used this yesterday for your ‘stuff’ – what did you DO to it?” she said. It was true that on Thursday I’d washed a monumental load of adult cloth nappies but the machine had silently accepted this slightly-revolting Sisyphean task and carried it through to completion without incident. I pointed out to her that in addition to this alibi, it was clear that her own washing load had actually completed normally until the final spin dry cycle. This is when the greatest mechanical load would have been upon the suspension system. The overwhelming likelihood that this was a fatigued component for which failure was inevitable and it was just bad luck that it happened on her load and not mine. Rather diplomatically I thought, I refrained from pointing out the additional damage caused by her repeatedly attempting to restart the device despite its obvious life-threatening injury. I mean, if a wheel fell off her car on the freeway would she just keep driving until the car stopped in a cloud of overheated engine and destroyed suspension? I chose not to persist with this thought experiment. She rolled her eyes. The infallible internal jury of my beloved’s prejudices had already returned the un-appealable verdict: my nappies had wrecked our marital washing machine. Yet another example of how my ridiculous lifestyle choice causes chaos and strife. On the upside for me, I HAD already successfully washed this week’s worth of well-used cloth nappies and was contemplating the wreckage of our washing machine from the damp comfort of my Rearz InControl Night Premium disposable nappy. Shortly it would be in a bin, not a washer. Had this happened yesterday I’d have been wrangling sodden towelling squares the size of bed sheets and thick, wet Velcro-and-padded-cotton. Three days and three nights of cloth nappies triggers several kilograms of wet washing. I could (and it seems will) remain in disposables for the next few days but disposable nappies or not, washing machines are still very important to the people who wear them. Staying out of cloth nappies alone does not absolve one from a fairly aggressive regime of garment ablution. Minor leaks happen. Wet plastic pants take their toll on outerwear and no matter how well padded the occupant is, sheets from a bedwetter’s bed need to be changed regularly to maintain the strict standards of minty freshness that 21st century suburban bliss requires. For now I pee in pulp-and-paper-padded-pants-protected-by-plastic. -
By Diapered Dave · Posted
Wow... Unless it's just the lighting, I say you REALLY got your money's worth out of that diaper!! 😁 -
By wetdiaper55 · Posted
I really like the story . I would love to read more . We can call it DL but I think it could go AB a little , I love it .
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