Mommies and Daddies

There are some pretty solid survival advantages conferred to us by fear so I’d be wary about TOTALLY disregarding it.  Despite what Hollywood suggests, fearless people statistically end up lifeless people. Having said that, I accept that since being eaten by wolves is less of a daily risk in modern life, our propensity to weight the risk of catastrophe so much more highly than reward can hold us back.  Maybe we should learn to evaluate our fear a little more clinically rather than being simply ruled by it. I still think running with scissors is a bad idea 🤣 Do you really think it was fair for your Dad to weaponise his own demise as a tool to try to force behavioural change from you?  To me that was an attempt to manufacture and exploit fear but all it achieved was loading you up with guilt at his (statistically inevitable) demise. On pure statistics, the chance of him dying on his birthday were no greater or lesser than any other day of the year.  In reality however, it's probably a little more likely than not.  Friends in the medical trade who work with the aged have told me before of significantly enhanced mortality risks on or shortly after significant life events.  It's as though our brains pass a mile marker and realise at some level that the next mile marker is too far away and so there's not so much point in continuing. Congratulations on having an entrepreneurial persuasion:  I’ve never possessed that and I suspect this deficiency has cost me in term of foregone opportunity but on the other hand, I haven’t been eaten by wolves: so far, at least.  I will check out the window before going to the mailbox.

Sorry for the long wait. I have been busy and struggling with my own depression a little, but I am doing better now.  Here is the next chapter. I know I got a little wordy, but I felt it was needed. As always, I am open to feedback and appreciate all the support everyone has given me. Chapter 60 - Nightmare Avery’s nap was not the healing peace Darlene had hoped for, but a descent into the churning logic of a nightmare. The cozy, lavender-scented blanket felt heavy, the soft mattress of the crib a pit of inescapable darkness. The Schoolyard The dream began with a blinding, sun-drenched day that felt strangely hostile. Avery was standing not in the quiet nursery, but in the center of a schoolyard, a cruel amphitheater of bright concrete and mocking laughter. Kids were playing on the playground, and some were playing dodgeball, their movements fast and aggressive. He was wearing yellow, elephant-print footed pajamas, the thick, blue-train diaper massive and obvious beneath the thin cotton. All of a sudden they stopped playing and turned to him.  The children were pointing, their faces contorted into masks of mean-spirited glee. "Look at the big baby!" one girl shrieked, doubling over. She was Tilly, but her face was cold and hard, stripped of its usual kindness. "He’s got elephant feet! And he smells funny!" "Look at his diaper!" a tall boy yelled, stepping forward. It was a distorted, older version of one of the foster kids Avery had known years ago. "It’s huge! Does the man-baby need a changing?" The laughter ratcheted up, a piercing, hysterical sound that drilled into his ears. He tried to run, tried to cover his ears, but the footed pajamas made his legs feel clumsy and slow, and the heavy, saturated diaper felt like two bricks strapped between his thighs. Every move he made was a loud, humiliating squelch. "Go to the bathroom, baby!" another voice, high and taunting, called out. "Can’t you even wipe yourself? Are you useless?" He stumbled, falling hard onto the concrete. The impact jarred him, and the pressure of the wet diaper against his bottom was a sudden, sickening confirmation of their words. He tried to stand, but the shame was a physical paralysis. He was helpless, useless, trapped in the body of a boy and the clothes of an infant. Then he looked up, and John’s Shadow was over him. The schoolyard suddenly dissolved, the harsh light turning into the familiar, suffocating gloom of his old apartment. The children vanished, replaced by a sudden, absolute silence that was even more terrifying. A shadow fell over him, immense and cold. Avery looked up, and his blood turned to ice. John was standing over him, his face a mask of furious disappointment, his eyes holding the flat, dead look Avery remembered from the worst beatings. John was holding the massive adult high chair from the kitchen, wielding it like a weapon. "Get up, you useless waste of space." John’s voice was a low, menacing rumble that seemed to shake the very air. "Look at you. Still a baby. Still needing to be coddled. You think a pretty little outfit and a warm lap can fix what’s wrong with you?" Avery whimpered, trying to scramble backward, but he was pinned to the floor. The shame of his wet diaper and childish clothes was an unshakeable weight. John knelt, his face inches from Avery’s, the scent of stale whiskey and menace filling the air. He reached out and pinched the thick, sodden diaper between two fingers, a gesture of absolute contempt. "This is who you are," John sneered, twisting the material painfully. "A broken, pathetic thing that needs to be cleaned up. Your new mother is just playing dress-up. She doesn’t want a broken boy; she wants a doll to control. And you are so weak, you let her put you in this cage." "No," Avery choked out, the sound a ragged whisper. "She loves me." John let out a dry, hacking laugh that held no humor. "Love? There is no love for trash. She is going to get tired of you, just like everyone else. And when she throws you out, I’ll come back to and finish what we started because you will be mine to publicly humiliate and tear you apart." John raised the high chair slowly, the red tray casting a dark shadow over Avery’s face. "You can’t run. You can’t hide. You are a child, and children are useless. Now, let’s make sure you stay exactly where you belong." The red high chair tray, still casting its looming, dark shadow, began to descend slowly. Avery squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the crushing blow. But instead of the sound of impact, there was a sudden, jarring change of texture and temperature. He was no longer on the cold concrete floor. He was lying on his back, his body sinking into the soft, comforting mattress of the crib, the elephant-print pajamas clinging to him. He tried to move, to sit up, but a fresh wave of panic hit him. Heavy, wide cloth restraints—the kind used on hospital beds—were securely buckled across his chest and ankles, pinning him to the crib mattress. He thrashed weakly, his arms pushing against the thick webbing that held his upper body immobile. The sound of the thick, wet diaper squelched loudly beneath the restraints, a horrifying accompaniment to his helplessness. John was still there, now standing at the side of the crib. He was no longer holding the high chair. Instead, a razor blade glinted under the dim, sickly yellow light of the apartment, the steel edge catching a malicious reflection. John’s eyes were flat and devoid of recognition, fixed only on the task ahead. "You won’t run now," John said, his voice a low, satisfied hiss as he advanced on the crib. "I’m going to make sure that no one will ever want to put you in a crib again. You won’t be beautiful for her, you won’t be lovable, and you won’t be worth keeping." Avery watched, paralyzed, as John bent over the crib railing, the razor blade poised above his chest. The smell of metal and sweat choked him. He closed his eyes, bracing for the burning, tearing pain, the realization that he was about to be broken again, only this time, permanently. Suddenly, a shift in the light caught his attention. He instinctively turned his head to the side, his neck straining against the chest restraint. The wall of the apartment dissolved, replaced by a large, spotless window, bright with the sun of the schoolyard dream. A crowd of children, their faces distorted with a malicious, hysterical joy, were pressed against the glass, pointing and laughing. "Look at the big baby getting cut up!" "He can’t even run!" "He’s weak! He’s just a toy!" The laughter was an avalanche of sound. Avery squeezed his eyes tighter, begging for the nightmare to stop, when another movement at the edge of the crowd forced his eyes open again. Darlene was standing there, her expression not one of fierce protection, but of profound disappointment and cold pity. She was dressed in her crisp, professional work suit. Beside her, Tilly stood in her cute dress, her smile wide and bright, but directed at the laughing children, not at him. Her eyes were empty of the affection Avery had come to crave. Next to Tilly, Laurisa stood with her arms crossed, her clinical gaze resting on the restraints and the razor blade, nodding as if in agreement with John’s actions. John raised the razor higher, and Avery cried out, a small, choked sound. He looked desperately at Darlene, a silent plea for help. Darlene met his gaze, and then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her back to the window. Tilly followed suit, their figures retreating from the glass, leaving him alone, tethered and exposed to the malice of John and the mocking laughter of the children. The window went black, and the sound of the children’s laughter faded, replaced by the terrifying, solitary silence of the crib and the rasp of the razor blade descending toward his skin. "Welcome to hell, baby," John whispered, and Avery screamed, a sound that tore itself from his throat. Avery shot awake, his scream—a raw, ragged sound of pure terror—ripping through the quiet of the nursery. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, and his body was instantly thrashing against the soft mattress, convinced he was still restrained, still pinned beneath John's descending razor. He clawed at the air, his fists swinging wildly, trying to push away the blade that wasn't there. His stuffed red dog and dragon flew to the corners of the crib as they were tossed.  He could feel the razor coming towards him as he couldn’t distinguish between the dream and reality as he woke. The instant he moved, the heavy, waterlogged diaper beneath the soft light blue pajamas squelched with a loud, sickening sound. The cold, massive weight pressed against his groin and bottom, a horrifying, physical confirmation of the nightmare's humiliation. He was soaking wet, not just from sweat, but from a complete loss of control. The feeling was overwhelming, dragging him instantly from the dream’s horrific scenario to the immediate, crushing reality of his degradation. Downstairs, the quiet click of Darlene’s laptop was the only sound in the living room. She was settled deeply into the sofa, the laptop resting on her knees, reading over a new email from the COO—a follow-up on the client contract discussion. Beside her, a mug of steaming chamomile tea warmed her hands. She was just beginning to draft a concise, professional reply when the high, desperate scream tore through the house. Darlene dropped the mug onto the low coffee table with a clatter, the hot tea sloshing dangerously close to her laptop. The sound was instantly recognizable: not a simple bad dream, but sheer, primal terror. She didn't hesitate. She launched herself off the sofa, racing toward the stairs, her professional focus vanishing in a wave of purely maternal panic. She took the staircase two steps at a time, her feet pounding a rhythm of urgency on the wood. She burst into the dim, quiet nursery, her eyes scanning immediately for the source of the distress. Avery was sitting bolt upright in the center of the giant white crib, a large, light blue figure with little rocks on his shirt, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and unfocused with lingering terror. The front of his pajamas and the massive, sagging diaper were visibly darker, heavily sodden, and the air around him held the unmistakable, heavy odor of concentrated urine. He was still thrashing weakly, his arms moving in panicked, defensive arcs.  Screaming John's name in fear out loud. Darlene rushed to the side of the crib, her hands reaching out instinctively through the tall wooden bars. "Avery! Honey, it’s okay! It’s Mama, you’re safe! It was just a dream!" Her touch was meant to be comforting, but to Avery’s still-dreaming mind, it was the final violation. His eyes, fixed on a point far beyond her, snapped back to her face. He didn't see Darlene; he saw John, leaning over the railings of the crib, the razor about to descend. He recoiled violently, his face contorted with a frantic, desperate rage. "Get away from me! Don’t touch me! You can’t control me!" he screamed, his voice raw. He swung his fist, striking one of the wooden rails, the force making the crib rattle. Darlene pulled her hands back instantly, shocked by the force of his terror and the pure hatred in his voice. She tried again, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Avery, look at me. It’s Darlene. You’re in your room. You’re safe." But he was lost in the acid logic of the nightmare. He pointed a trembling, accusing finger at her. "You left me! You turned your back! You let them cut me! You wanted me to be broken!" He was yelling incoherently, his words a desperate, panicked torrent. "You lie! There is no love! Get out! Get out!" He then began to shriek, a sound of profound emotional breakdown, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over his head, curling into a terrified, heavy, wet ball in the corner of the crib. The movement produced a loud, sickening squelch from the fully saturated diaper, a sound of absolute, humiliating submission to the consequence of his regression. Darlene stood frozen, her hand still hovering over the crib rail, her face etched with confusion, pain, and a fresh wave of maternal heartbreak. He was not rejecting the care; he was battling the demons of his past, and in his terror, he had mistaken her protective presence for the ultimate betrayer. Her name was not Darlene in that moment; it was John. Darlene’s maternal heart shattered, but her protective instinct instantly overrode the pain. He was breaking, and she was the only one there to hold the pieces. She moved with sudden, decisive action. The crib bars were high, but she found the latch with practiced hands and dropped the side rail with a heavy thunk. She didn't wait for him to calm down; she climbed over the lowered rail and into the crib, her large body crowding the small space. She reached for the terrified, squirming weight of him, ignoring the frantic, wet squelch of the saturated diaper. She pulled his struggling body against her chest, wrapping him in a powerful, non-negotiable embrace. Avery felt the sudden, warm pressure of her body, and his terror spiked. He let out a wordless scream of pure, panicked rage, convinced John was about to break him again. He pushed at her shoulders with his fists, kicking his legs wildly, the weight of the soaked diaper amplifying the frantic, wet noise of his struggle. "No! Let me go! Get off! Get off me!" he screamed, muffled against her shoulder, his voice a desperate, tear-choked cry. He pummeled her back with his good arm, thrashing with all the strength his exhaustion allowed. Darlene absorbed the blows, her arms cinching tighter, locking him in place. She didn't speak a word of rebuke, only a constant, soft stream of soothing sound—a deep, resonant "Shhh, shhh, shhh" that vibrated through his core. She rubbed his back firmly and rhythmically, her hand patting the heavy, wet padding of the diaper, communicating only safety and absolute presence. His frenzied energy was a desperate, final defense, but Darlene’s embrace was an unyielding wall of love. Slowly, the fight began to bleed out of him. The adrenaline that had fueled his nightmare and his resistance faded, replaced by the profound, exhausted misery of his situation. The screams dissolved into racking sobs, and the frantic blows weakened into the mere pressure of his trembling hands gripping her shirt. He buried his face into the soft curve of her neck, the wet, cold feeling of the soaked diaper a profound, shameful reminder of his helplessness, but the warmth of Darlene’s body was an immediate, primal comfort. His weeping was no longer rage, but pure, heartbroken grief—for his past, for his stolen future, for the fear he still had and for the humiliating reality he now inhabited. He clung to her, a large, soaking wet, shuddering weight, completely surrendered to the shame and the shelter of her maternal embrace. Darlene held him for a long time, rocking him gently in the cramped confines of the crib, letting him cry until only quiet, hitching breaths remained. When the silence had completely settled, she loosened her hold, pulling back just enough to look at his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, his cheeks stained with tears, but the terror was gone, replaced by a devastating vulnerability. "It’s okay, sweetie," she murmured, kissing the top of his head. "You’re safe now. Mama’s got you." She climbed carefully out of the crib, retrieving the pacifier from the mattress and tucking the sodden blanket and Red Dog out of the way. She then guided his heavy, shaking body out of the crib and towards the massive, upholstered rocking chair. The chair, a beautiful, sprawling piece designed with a deep, wide seat and a generous back, was easily large enough for two people to sit comfortably side-by-side, or, in this case, for Darlene to hold her full-grown little boy on her lap. She sat down, the chair creaking softly as she settled its weight. She then lifted Avery and gently placed him back onto her lap, positioning him so his head rested just above her breast, his body curled securely against hers. The thick, cold, wet diaper pressed against her thigh, a stark physical testament to his needs. Darlene didn't flinch. She simply wrapped both arms around his trembling body and began to rock, the soft, rhythmic motion of the chair a familiar, ancient comfort. Avery didn't fight this time. Utterly spent, he simply let his body sag into her warmth, the gentle rocking finally stilling the last frantic tremors of his terror. Darlene held Avery securely in the large rocking chair, the rhythm of the wood against the carpet a soft, steady pulse. His face was buried deep in the soft curve of her breast and shoulder, his cheek pressed firmly against the cotton of her shirt. His sobs had subsided into deep, hitching breaths and quiet, rattling gasps—the sound of an exhausted body struggling desperately not to fully collapse. He clung to her, his good arm wrapping tightly around her waist, and she felt the small, familiar weight of his cherished Red Dog pressed between their bodies, a fragile anchor in his terror, which was crushed against her chest, a silent witness to his breakdown. The thick, cold mass of the fully saturated diaper pressed into Darlene’s thigh, its overwhelming wetness soaking through the thin cotton of her skirt. The chill of it was undeniable, but she didn’t flinch. Her maternal instinct had kicked in, a fierce, primal protection that dismissed the mess as irrelevant. All that mattered was the trembling, exhausted weight of the boy in her arms. She focused instead on the soft, heavy squish of the padding, a physical testament to his immediate need for her care, and her heart swelled. She reached a hand down, finding the wet plastic backing, and began to pat the heavy, sodden bulk with a slow, rhythmic motion—a purely calming, non-verbal reassurance. As she held him, she felt a familiar, sharp ache bloom in her chest. Her breasts, the physical anchors of her lost motherhood, felt heavy and full, a feeling of milk rushing in response to the deep, absolute need of the child in her arms. Her body wanted to provide him comfort. "Shhh, sweetie, shhh," she murmured, her voice a low, steady thrum against his ear, vibrating gently through his skull. "It’s okay, little one. The bad man is gone. He can’t hurt you here. You’re safe. Mama’s got you, and I won’t ever let you go." He continued to tremble and emit those quiet, heartbroken whimpers against her skin, the sound muffled by the press of his face against her. He felt the soft, rhythmic rocking—a motion he realized he hadn’t felt since he was an actual infant—and the warmth of her body seemed to seep into his rigid muscles. He was overwhelmed by the profound, confusing feeling of love and safety that this woman, his Darlene, was offering. It felt like being wrapped in the kind of peace he hadn't known existed. Darlene lifted her hand from his back, reaching to the crib rail where she had left the pacifier. She brought the large, light-green object toward his face, the thick silicone nipple thick and prominent. "You’re so tired, honey," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Let this help Mama keep you quiet and resting. Just a little suckie, sweetie. Just for a moment." He didn't fight. His lips, wet with tears and saliva, parted almost automatically, a final act of utter surrender. Darlene gently nudged the thick teat past his lips, and he closed his mouth around the rubber. At first, the action was hesitant, but the simple, mechanical sensation of the large nipple against his tongue and palate instantly calmed the frantic rhythm of his breathing. The residual terror melted away, replaced by the soothing, repetitive act. He began to draw on it, the soft suck-suck-suck sound a quiet counterpoint to the creaking chair. Darlene was shocked; it worked, but she smiled, a warm, relieved expression of triumph. "That’s it, my good boy," she praised softly, her fingers gently smoothing the damp hair back from his forehead. He needed this right now.  Need her.  Needed to be held. Needed his stuffed animal, and even though he may not understand, he needed the soft soothing sucking of the pacifier.  He needed to be little. As he continued to draw on the pacifier, Darlene stopped talking. Instead, she began to hum, a deep, gentle melody without words—a simple, resonant sound that she felt more than heard.  The vibration of the tune was transmitted through her chest, a soft, buzzing sensation against his cheek and the top of his head. He felt the warmth, the rhythm, and the profound, physical connection of her body surrounding him, filling his ears with the comforting sound of her love.  The weight of his eyes became too heavy to hold open, and the deep, restorative sleep he had been fighting finally claimed him. The nursery was finally peaceful, filled only with the soft, repetitive creak of the rocking chair and the faint, wet suck-suck-suck of the pacifier. Darlene looked down at the massive, heavy form nestled in her lap. Avery's exhaustion had finally conquered his terror, leaving him a perfect, pliable weight against her chest. The large, light-green pacifier was settled firmly between his lips, a rubber plug of silence and submission. His beloved, threadbare Red Dog was clutched tightly in his good hand, the stuffed animal pressed firmly against her maternal bra. The faint, sweet smell of baby powder mingled with the heavy, cold scent of the saturated diaper, an aroma that, to Darlene, now smelled like necessity and care. She continued her deep, gentle humming, the melody an ancient, wordless stream of maternal sound vibrating into his skull. Her gaze lingered on his face—the soft curve of his cheek, the long lashes resting on his wet skin. He was so big, yet in this state, cradled against her breast with the pacifier in his mouth and his dog in his arms, the man vanished, leaving only a large, vulnerable baby. My little boy, she thought, the phrase settling into her heart with a fierce, quiet certainty. This was the healing she would provide, the absolute safety of unconditional infancy. The fear and defiance of the nightmare had been a test, and her unwavering presence had been the answer. He needed this boundary, this regression, and she would be the rock against which his trauma would finally break and heal. She was convinced that the path ahead, though difficult, was the correct one, and she would not waver in providing this safe, loving, disciplined environment. As she looked down, her hand stroking the hair from his forehead, the phantom ache in her chest intensified. The physical need to nurture, so long repressed, was now fully awakened by his absolute dependence. The sight of his lips around the pacifier triggered a deeper, more primal desire. She felt the heavy, full weight of her breasts beneath her shirt, a deep, pulling pressure of milk as she leaked a little into her maternity bra.. She yearned for him to not just suck on a rubber teat, but to turn his head, to find the source of warmth and life, to latch onto her nipple and draw in the comfort only she could provide. She wanted the total, biological bond of breastfeeding, the physical confirmation of the maternal role she was now wholly inhabiting. The thought was potent, momentarily overwhelming, a sudden, hot flash of need for that exquisite, ultimate act of surrender and connection. Not yet, she told herself, tightening her grip slightly and forcing the maternal longing back down. First, he heals. First, he accepts the love. But the desire remained, a silent, powerful promise of the complete, total bond that she now knew was possible between them. The world outside the dark sanctuary of the rocking chair had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, absolute internal landscape of sensation. With his eyes clamped shut, Avery was suspended in a profound, deep warmth. The soft, rhythmic creak-creak-creak of the chair was a gentle metronome, measuring out safety, and the powerful, steady thrum of Darlene’s humming resonated directly against his ear. The sound was not a melody he recognized, but a deep, comforting vibration that seemed to bypass his intellect and settle directly into the core of his exhaustion. He was pressed firmly against the curve of her chest, his cheek resting on the soft cotton that barely concealed the yielding, warm, maternal shape beneath. The sensation was potent: the constant, steady beat of her heart, the soft, clean scent of her skin and clothing, and the surrounding, absolute containment of her arms. It was the physical intimacy of unconditional refuge, a feeling he realized he had been desperately starving for. Avery didn’t understand and didn’t want to fight it right now, but the large, light-green pacifier was an unexpected, potent source of comfort. His mouth worked around the thick silicone nipple, and the soft, repetitive suck-suck-suck became a soothing mental blankness. He didn't think about the pacifier's ridiculous size or what it looked like; he only felt the physical release of the action, a simple, primal comfort that drained the last traces of terror from his mind. Clutched tightly between their bodies, pressed against the soft material over Darlene’s breast, was his oldest friend: Red Dog. The threadbare, floppy-eared terrier was a tangible link to a less complicated past, and the feel of its familiar, worn stuffing under his hand was an anchor. Surrounded by Darlene's warmth, holding his dog, and with the pacifier ensuring silence, a profound peace settled over him. The heavy, cold mass of the fully saturated diaper was pressed into Darlene’s thigh, the chill and wetness inescapable. Yet, he found he did not care. The initial shock and shame had dissolved, replaced by a deep, weary acceptance. Her hand, large and warm, found the plastic backing of the wet diaper and began a slow, rhythmic patting. The movement was not a reprimand, but a simple, continuous act of acknowledgment and care. He was wet, and she was tending to him. There was no judgment, only presence. He felt the soft squish of the padding with each pat, and the sound, far from being humiliating, was a soft confirmation that, in this moment, nothing was being asked of him but to be held, loved, and safe. He sagged completely into her, letting the absolute security of her embrace claim him entirely. The heavy, cold mass of the fully saturated diaper was pressed into Darlene’s thigh, the chill and wetness inescapable. Yet, he found he did not care. The initial shock and shame had dissolved, replaced by a deep, weary acceptance. Her hand, large and warm, found the plastic backing of the wet diaper and began a slow, rhythmic patting. The movement was not a reprimand, but a simple, continuous act of acknowledgment and care. He was wet, and she was tending to him. There was no judgment, only presence. He felt the soft squish of the padding with each pat, and the sound, far from being humiliating, was a soft confirmation that, in this moment, nothing was being asked of him but to be held, loved, and safe. He sagged completely into her, letting the absolute security of her embrace claim him entirely. Darlene tried to talk to him about the nightmare, her voice a low, vibrating hum against his temple, but he remained silent. When she pressed for details, he only managed to whisper that it was about John, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. Sensing the depth of his lingering terror, she didn't push further. Instead, she slowly lifted his head from her chest, her movements guided by a newfound maternal intuition. With a gentle, knowing smile, she told him he needed to get changed; he hadn't realized he had been sitting on her lap in such a soggy, heavy diaper for so long. The embarrassment flared briefly in his chest, but he said nothing, his mouth still occupied by the rhythmic comfort of the pacifier. He allowed her to lead him toward the changing table, his legs feeling heavy and clumsy. Darlene worked with a calm, practiced efficiency, unfastening the snaps of his onesie and unpeeling the adhesive tabs of the sodden diaper with a series of soft, rhythmic crinkles. She slid the heavy, chilled padding away, and Avery felt a fleeting spike of vulnerability that was quickly smoothed over by the warmth of her touch. Throughout the process, she talked to him softly, her words a stream of gentle reassurances that helped still the remnants of his shaking. She cleaned him with slow, deliberate wipes, her movements firm yet incredibly tender, ensuring he was perfectly clean and dry. He watched her as she reached for the tube of cream, gently massaging it into his skin to soothe the irritation from the long morning. “Your rash is getting better,” she cooed at him. Then came the baby powder; the fine, white mist settled over him with that familiar, comforting scent of lavender and starch that seemed to signal the end of the storm. She took her time, expertly centering him over a fresh, exceptionally thick diaper. As she pulled the front panel up and secured the tapes with four definitive snaps of plastic on plastic, Avery felt the smoothing sensation of the snug fit. The massive padding crinkled loudly in the quiet room, but the sound no longer felt like a taunt. Instead, her calm competence had replaced his sharp mortification with a profound feeling of being protected and swaddled. The diaper was no longer a symbol of shame, but a warm, heavy cocoon that made the unspeakable reality of his day finally bearable. Once the new diaper was secure, Darlene reached into the dresser drawer and produced a royal blue adult onesie with fish, whales, and dolphins playing. The fabric was a heavy, brushed cotton, thick enough to provide a sense of structure and weight that Avery hadn't expected. She guided his left arm through the sleeve first, then moved with practiced care to accommodate his right hand’s bulky mechanical brace, the wide sleeve opening easily sliding over the titanium exoskeleton without catching. As she pulled the garment up and over his shoulders, Avery felt the immediate sensation of compression. The heavy fabric hugged his torso, providing a firm, steady containment that seemed to hold his trembling body together. It was a physical pressure that functioned like an emotional anchor, smoothing over the sharp edges of his shame. For the first time, the dependency didn't feel like a hollow defeat; instead, the onesie’s snug fit made him feel encased in a layer of absolute protection, a soft armor that shielded him from the jagged world outside. Avery felt her pull the oneise down between his inner thighs as she pushed four buttons to secure the diaper on.  The edges of the diaper were exposed outside of the onesie. Darlene led Avery downstairs, and he didn’t even realize the pacifier was in his mouth, his lips performing soft, slow suckling motions. The rhythmic sensation provided a calming anchor to his drifting thoughts. She led him over to the playpen again. He didn’t really want to go there, the wooden slats feeling like a physical manifestation of his lost autonomy, but he didn’t resist. His body felt heavy, his mind clouded by the lingering effects of a nightmare. “Here we go, honey,” Darlene murmured, unlatching the gate and helping him step onto the padded, colorful mat. She gathered a few items—a fresh box of chunky crayons, a large sketchpad, and a set of smooth wooden blocks—and placed them within his reach. She then reached for the remote, clicking on the television to a low volume. The cheerful theme song of Bob the Builder began to play, the bright colors flickering against Avery’s hollow-eyed expression. “I’m just going to be right in the kitchen, okay? You’re safe. I’m right here if you need anything.” Avery didn’t respond; he simply sank onto his knees and sat down, his good hand resting limply on a wooden block as he stared at the screen. The rest of the day proceeded in a muted, strangely normal rhythm. Avery remained passive, never quite engaging in the toys Tilly had left or attempting any "little talk," but he also stopped resisting the boundaries Darlene set. He moved through the house like a ghost of his former self, a silent passenger in his own regression. Every request Darlene made was met with a slow, mechanical compliance, as if the adult Avery was watching from a great distance, unable or unwilling to intervene.  The nightmare played over in his head.  Why was Darlene and Tilly in, they both turned away.  Would Darlene really do this?  The fear of not just John but now of losing Darlene deepened his heart. Later that afternoon, while Avery was settled back in the playpen, Darlene sat beside him on the floor rather than the sofa. "You've been very quiet, sweetie," she said, reaching out to adjust the collar of his onesie. Avery looked at her, then down at the blue dragon in his lap. "I don't know how to do this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I feel like I'm breaking." Darlene moved closer, pulling him into her lap despite the awkwardness of his size. "You aren't breaking, Avery. You're just letting me hold the pieces for a while. It's okay to need me." Avery leaned his forehead against her shoulder, the plastic of his diaper crinkling loudly as he finally relaxed his weight into her. "I... I used it again," he admitted, his face burning as he referred to the diaper. "I didn't even try to get up." Darlene kissed his temple. "That's what it's there for, my little one. You don't have to worry about that anymore. Mama will take care of everything." He couldn’t believe he had wet himself without even asking to use the bathroom.  It was easy and hardly with thought. It was too easy; it scared him. Later that afternoon, Darlene had a private conversation with Laurisa. They spoke in hushed tones near the kitchen window, Laurisa providing clinical reinforcement on the necessity of the structure they had established. She gave Darlene specific tips on how to handle Avery's non-verbal cues and reminded her that every act of care—no matter how small or infantile—was a brick in the foundation of his new sense of safety. Laurisa emphasized that consistency was key; Avery needed to know that the rules of his new environment were as unwavering as the protection Darlene offered. As evening shadows deepened across the nursery, Darlene stood and reached for Avery’s hand. “Time for your very first bath at home, sweetie,” she said, her voice a gentle but firm melody. Avery stiffened, his good hand clutching the blue dragon tighter. “I can—I can just take a shower tomorrow, Darlene. I’m okay,” he whispered, the prospect of such intimate vulnerability sending a jolt of panic through his chest. Darlene didn’t argue; she simply guided him toward the Hollywood-style bathroom. “The warm water will help your bruises, Avery. And Mama needs to make sure you’re all clean before bed.” Inside, the air was already thick and humid, smelling of vanilla-scented bubbles. The tub was filled nearly to the brim, a mountain of white foam topped with a yellow rubber duck and a plastic tugboat. Avery stared at the toys, a hot flush creeping from his neck to his forehead. “Darlene, please,” he croaked as she reached for the zipper of his onesie. “I’m nineteen. I can wash myself. Just leave the soap on the edge.” Darlene paused, her hands resting on the plastic pull of the zipper. “Avery, look at me,” she said softly. When he met her steady, loving gaze, she continued, “We talked about this. You’re letting me hold the pieces for a while. That means letting me take care of all of you. You aren’t a project or a burden; you’re my little boy tonight. Just let go.” With a slow, rhythmic unfastening of the crotch buttons, she opened the onesie and pulled it off over his head, then unfastened the tabs of his diaper. Avery squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as he stood naked and exposed in the warm room. The shame was a cold, sharp blade, but when Darlene helped him step into the tub, the transition was transformative. As the hot, bubbly water rose around his hips and chest, the physical relief was so profound it drew a jagged sob from his throat. The water supported his weight, easing the throb in his hand and the ache in his ribs that hadn't stopped since the hospital. “There we go,” Darlene murmured, kneeling on a cushioned mat beside the tub. She took a soft sponge, ladling warm water over his shoulders. Avery leaned his head back against the rim, his breath hitching as she began to wash him. Her touch was methodical and tender, treating his body not as a source of embarrassment, but as something precious and fragile. When she gently scrubbed his hair, massaging his scalp with circular motions, Avery found his resistance finally crumbling. The shame was still there, a distant echo, but it was being drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of being cherished. He felt a tear slip into the bathwater. “It feels… too much,” he whispered. Darlene stopped, her hand resting against his wet cheek. “It’s just love, Avery. You’re allowed to have it.” She continued to wash his most private parts with the same matter-of-fact grace, and Avery realized that for the first time in his life, he didn't have to be strong. He leaned into her hand, a diapered man-child in a world of bubbles, finally surrendering to the relief of being someone's responsibility. Later that afternoon, while Avery was settled back in the playpen, Darlene sat beside him on the floor rather than the sofa. "You've been very quiet, sweetie," she said, reaching out to adjust the collar of his onesie. Avery looked at her, then down at the blue dragon in his lap. "I don't know how to do this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I feel like I'm breaking." Darlene moved closer, pulling him into her lap despite the awkwardness of his size. "You aren't breaking, Avery. You're just letting me hold the pieces for a while. It's okay to need me." Avery leaned his forehead against her shoulder, the plastic of his diaper crinkling loudly as he finally relaxed his weight into her. "I... I used it again," he admitted, his face burning as he referred to the diaper. "I didn't even try to get up." Darlene kissed his temple. "That's what it's there for, my little one. You don't have to worry about that anymore. Mama will take care of everything." Later that afternoon, Darlene had a private conversation with Laurisa. They spoke in hushed tones near the kitchen window, Laurisa providing clinical reinforcement on the necessity of the structure they had established. She gave Darlene specific tips on how to handle Avery's non-verbal cues and reminded her that every act of care—no matter how small or infantile—was a brick in the foundation of his new sense of safety. As evening fell, the reality of the routine deepened. Bedtime brought the challenge of his first full bath in the nursery's connected bathroom. Avery felt a renewed surge of mortification as he saw the tub filled with bubbles and a few floating plastic toys. He begged her to let him wash himself, asserting his adulthood with a shaky voice, but Darlene was immovable. She washed his hair, his bruised body, and his most private parts with a matter-of-fact tenderness that brooked no argument. Once finished, she dried him thoroughly while he stood naked and vulnerable in the warm air of the bathroom. She led him back to the changing table, where she prepared a heavy-duty diaper equipped with an extra absorbent insert. To ensure against any leaks during the night, she pulled a plastic diaper cover over the padding, the extra bulk making his gait wide and his movements noisy with crinkling plastic. Finally, she zipped him into a pair of soft, footed pajamas. The combined weight of the diaper, the stuffer, and the cover made him feel encased in a cocoon of cotton and plastic. She set him down on the playmat in the center of the nursery and handed him a few soft blocks, but he only stared at them, unmoving. He looked around the room, his eyes taking in the adult-sized crib where his blue dragon and Red Dog waited, and the large stuffed bear and raccoon perched on the floor. The unreality of being in a nursery designed for his grown frame made his head swim. While Darlene moved between the nursery and the Hollywood-style bathroom, putting away the bath supplies and tidying the space, Avery sat in the center of his new world, a silent, diapered young man waiting for what came next. The rest of the day unfolded in a muted, strangely surreal rhythm. Avery remained largely passive, a silent observer in his own life. He didn’t engage with the wooden blocks or the colorful ring-stacker Tilly had left for him, and he made no attempt at the "little talk" Laurisa had suggested might help. Yet, he also stopped resisting. He moved through the house like a ghost of his former self, a quiet passenger in his own regression, allowing Darlene to guide him from room to room with a hand on his shoulder. In the late afternoon, Darlene had a private, hushed conversation with Laurisa near the kitchen window. Laurisa provided clinical reinforcement, stressing the absolute necessity of the structure they had established. She gave Darlene specific tips on decoding Avery’s non-verbal cues—the way he clenched his jaw when overwhelmed or the specific way he avoided eye contact when feeling shame. Laurisa reminded her that every act of care, no matter how infantile, was a foundational brick in his new sense of safety. "He needs to know your boundaries are as unbreakable as your love," Laurisa whispered, her gaze fixed on the young man sitting motionless in the playpen. As evening shadows lengthened, the reality of the routine deepened. Bedtime brought a new hurdle: his first full bath in the nursery's connected Hollywood-style bathroom. Avery felt a renewed surge of mortification when he saw the tub filled with a mountain of bubbles and a few floating plastic toys. He begged Darlene to let him wash himself, asserting his adulthood in a voice that shook with effort, but she was immovable. With a matter-of-fact tenderness that brooked no argument, she washed his hair, his bruised body, and his most private parts. She acted with the focused efficiency of a mother, ignoring his blushes and treating his physical vulnerability as a simple matter of hygiene. The bath had been quiet, warm, and loving. Now, as the water swirled down the drain, Darlene reached out and took Avery’s good hand, helping him stand on the non-slip mat. He stood shivering, the cool air of the bathroom hitting his damp skin, making the bruises on his ribs stand out in stark, colorful relief. Darlene draped a massive, fluffy white bath towel over his shoulders, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth that instantly dampened the chill. She worked with a quiet, focused tenderness, patting the moisture from his arms and chest, her movements slow enough to ensure he felt every bit of the care she was providing. With a gentle but firm lift, Darlene hoisted him onto the padded surface of the changing table in the nursery. Avery looked at the ceiling, his face burning with a shame that felt like a physical weight, yet beneath it, a profound comfort was beginning to take root. Darlene reached for a fresh, remarkably thick diaper. It was decorated with a vibrant, playful print of cartoon animals: lions on drums, elephants with trumpets, and giraffes strumming guitars. The childish imagery was a sharp contrast to the gravity of his adult life, but as Darlene applied a soothing layer of cream and a light dusting of scented powder, Avery found himself leaning into the sensation. The coolness of the cream and the soft puff of the powder were sensory anchors, grounding him in a world where his only responsibility was to be cared for. She brought the front of the diaper up between his legs, the thick padding creating a wide, cushioned gap that felt strange yet oddly secure. The loud, rhythmic crinkle of the adhesive tabs being secured punctuated the silence of the room. Finally, she reached for a pair of footed, one-piece pajamas. The fabric was a thick, plush navy blue fleece, patterned with a galaxy of white stars, yellow moons, and glowing orange and red planets. As she zipped him into the soft material, the fleece hugging his frame, Avery felt the warmth and coziness.  “It is almost bedtime”.  Darlene smile grabbing a clean blue pacifier and holding it in one hand.  She helped him down from the changing table, and she set him down on the foam playmat in the center of the nursery while she tidied the bathroom. Avery sat in the center of his new world, surrounded by a large stuffed bear and a plush raccoon.  He stared at the adult-sized crib where his blue dragon and Red Dog waited, the unreality of the scene making his head swim. He felt profoundly silly sitting there, a diapered man in a room designed for a baby, waiting for the next step in his life to be decided for him. When Darlene returned, she was wearing a soft smile and spoke to him in gentle baby talk as she sat on the floor beside him. Avery felt the familiar prickle of embarrassment at the tone, but he said nothing. After a few minutes of quiet interaction, she told him she'd be right back. She returned from the kitchen carrying a large baby bottle, its contents a creamy white. Avery knew, with a jolt of realization, that it was her breast milk that he had before. He would never admit it, but he liked it.  She reached over and turned on a projector that cast a rotating galaxy of shimmering stars across the cloud-painted ceiling, signaling the official start of bedtime. Avery tried to protest, pointing out that it was only eight o'clock, but Darlene reminded him gently that he'd had a rough day and the medication was still sapping his energy. She guided him over to the massive, upholstered rocking chair. She retrieved his pacifier and Red Dog, placing the pacifier on the nightstand and tucking the dog into his arm. She began to rock him slowly, the rhythmic motion intended to ward off the terrors of the previous night. Then, she handed him the warm bottle. Avery was shocked when she pulled out a child's bedtime storybook and began to read aloud while he drank. She finished the story, but Avery's drinking had slowed as he drifted. She repositioned him, holding the bottle to ensure he finished every drop. When the bottle was empty, she replaced it with the large blue pacifier. He tried to push it out twice, but she urged him to relax. "Just let the paci do its work, sweetie," she whispered. Slowly, he accepted the silicone nipple for a second time today, falling into a rhythmic sucking motion while clutching Red Dog. Darlene turned out the lamp, leaving only the projected stars swirling overhead. She patted the dry padding of his diapered bottom, rocking him in the darkness and humming the soft, low melody of "True Colors" until his breathing finally evened out into deep, restorative sleep. Darlene gently settled Avery into the plush, oversized rocking chair, the movement causing his new, thick diaper to crinkle loudly in the quiet room. She retrieved his well-loved stuffed dog, Red Dog, and tucked it under his uninjured arm before reaching for the warm bottle of milk she had prepared. Avery watched in stunned silence as she pulled a colorful children's bedtime storybook from the side table, his adult mind struggling to reconcile the sight of his professional colleague preparing to read him a nursery tale. As he drank, the steady rhythm of the rocking chair and the soft, melodic cadence of Darlene's voice reading the simple prose began to work their magic. She noticed his eyes drooping and his pace at the bottle slowing, so she repositioned him slightly, ensuring he finished every drop of the nourishing milk. When the bottle was finally empty, she deftly replaced it with a large blue pacifier. Avery instinctively tried to push the silicone nipple out twice, his remaining adult ego recoiling at the infantilizing object, but Darlene leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear. "Just let the paci do its work, sweetie," she whispered with such maternal certainty that he found his resistance melting away. Slowly, he accepted the pacifier, his lips forming a rhythmic sucking motion that seemed to soothe a deep, ancient part of his psyche. Darlene reached over and extinguished the lamp, leaving only the soft, rotating glow of the projected stars swirling across the cloud-painted ceiling. She hummed a low, soulful rendition of "True Colors," her hand gently patting the thick, dry padding of his diapered bottom in time with the music. Under the canopy of artificial stars, Avery finally surrendered to a deep, restorative sleep. Darlene continued to rock him long after the song ended, lulled by the weight of his body against her chest and the soft, wet sound of him suckling on the pacifier in his sleep. She remained there for hours, the rhythmic creak of the chair the only sound in the nursery. She reflected on the profound shift in their lives—how this brilliant, broken young man had become her absolute responsibility. She felt the heavy fullness in her chest, a physical response to his total dependency, and embraced the role she had committed to with Laurisa. Eventually, her own exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into a light sleep while still cradling him in the oversized chair. She startled awake around 11 PM, her leg completely numb from the hours of supporting his weight. Avery was still profoundly asleep, his breathing even and heavy. With agonizing care, she rose from the chair and carried him the few steps to the massive white crib, managing to lay him down without disturbing his slumber. After tucking the star-patterned blanket securely around his shoulders, she leaned over the rail to press a final, lingering kiss to his forehead before quietly retreating to her own bedroom for the night.  

I added different diapers to it.   Here is one last image.

But twelve you can run off to the park even if your Big doesn't want to go to the park today. And they're all grade school where you still get recess and art class. And maybe someone sneakily snuck in and did something naughty to all the toilets so everyone's going to have to be in diapers all year so no potty stops. But it wasn't me, can't prove it cause no cameras. I was mainly thinking of your stories, but most of the other Dimension stories I've run across have been tourists or accidental travelers. I need to read more stories. Fenny is a very, very good boy who almost never gets any spankings or corner time. It's those naughty teddy bears, always see them getting in trouble. Just look at my picture, is that the picture of a naughty boy? Yay! You can say you babysit the neighbor's kid. They're just a really, really big toddler. Who your parents can't see because they're the Canadian Girlfriendneighbors so that's why no one at schoolin the neighborhood knows them. It's fool proof!

Here is my dream closet. I do not care for the bibs.  Maybe @Babygeebee or @sillybaby123 or some other ABs would love them.   But everything else is so cool looking!