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Cloth Diapers & Panties
For the Cloth Diaper Lovers and their Panties of choice.
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Current Donation Goals
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November BillsRaised $400 of $400 target
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Some good programs there! Some I don't know about. Now, I just need an ounce of artistic talent lol -
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It's times like these my spiteful personality comes out in full force -
I've got a few wrong size bags I need to list. Figure I'll give em to someone in need rather than try and sell them.
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By Wittlebabiboi · Posted
Can't wait for the next section! -
Wednesday morning arrived with a quiet buzz of anticipation, the kind that settled low in your stomach and made everything feel just a little more electric. It was the kind of morning where even the air seemed to be holding its breath, suspended in the hush before something big. By eight-thirty, the girls—and Dylan—were filing into the auditorium, still clutching coffee mugs, protein bars, and the sleepy remnants of a summer night spent mostly barefoot and tangled in late-night whispers. Their usual classrooms were dark. Today, everything was about the stage, and there was a strange magic in that. Like the rules of the school had shifted just a little, suspended in a new gravity where everything felt more possible and more terrifying. Miss Dubois stood at center stage like a general surveying her battlefield. She was in full rehearsal mode: black leotard, silk wrap skirt, hair pinned with surgical precision—but today, there was a headset mic on her ear and a clipboard in her hand. Rachel, clipboard in tow, stood just behind her, ready to wrangle anyone who drifted too far from the plan, already waving someone into place before they’d even realized they were missing their mark. Dylan rubbed his eyes and blinked up at the stage lights, which had already warmed the whole room. The glow was golden, theatrical, and slightly surreal, casting long shadows that danced against the curtains like ghosts of performances past. He was in his rehearsal uniform—leotard, tights, and the skirt Libby had insisted he wear. His diaper crinkled softly beneath it, a reminder that never quite left him, no matter how familiar it had become. After yesterday’s… incident, he was hyper-aware of every shift and press of it. Like it was part of him now, woven into the fabric of the performance. It no longer shocked him, but it still hummed beneath his awareness, a private current that never let him forget where he was—and who he was trying to become. Miss Dubois clapped once. Sharp. Precise. "Let us begin." The day moved fast. This wasn’t a class. It was execution. Blocking. Pacing. Timing. Stage marks were taped down in bright neon colors. Music cues were run again and again until they felt like background noise, until the notes lived in Dylan’s spine more than his memory. He had danced these pieces before—but never in full costume, never while dodging a dozen other girls moving like clockwork, and certainly never while trying to remember when to leap, when to turn, when to pause, and not crash into anyone mid-spin. Each movement came with a decision. Each pause begged to be filled with presence. Dylan felt the pressure in his ribcage, like someone was pressing an invisible hand against his chest, waiting to see if he’d rise to meet it. By the third full run-through, his head was spinning. He missed a mark in the second ensemble number and nearly collided with Nora. She gave him a look—not angry, just tired. That made it worse. He mouthed sorry and tried to focus, but the soundtrack seemed faster today. Louder. Less forgiving. Even the familiar stretches of choreography felt slippery, like he was chasing something always just out of reach. Miss Dubois never raised her voice. She didn’t need to. When Dylan flubbed a transition again, she simply gave a quiet, devastating note: "If you move like you are still thinking, you will never convince anyone else to feel." He nodded, cheeks red, throat tight, and stepped offstage for water. He hated disappointing her. Hated that her words stuck to his ribs like burrs. He could feel them there, snagged deep. Rachel found him near the wings. She didn’t say anything at first—just passed him a bottle and sat beside him for a beat. "You're not doing badly," she said gently, finally. "You just need to trust that you know it." He looked down at the bottle, twisting the cap too hard. "I keep getting in my head." "Yeah. You do that." She smiled, warm but knowing, and squeezed his hand. "But you’re still the center of the piece. Dubois chose that. For a reason. You’ve earned your spot. Now let yourself feel what you already know." He didn’t respond, not really. But her words tucked themselves into a quiet corner of his chest, and when the next run-through began, he found them there—steadying him. Like a whispered secret only he could hear. By midday, the cast was flushed and sweaty. Hair clung to necks. Leotards stuck to backs. There was a collective ache in their muscles, the kind that built slowly but settled deeply, coiling in shoulders and calves. But the music cues were syncing more smoothly. Girls were catching each other’s rhythms in small, invisible ways—shifting to make space, moving like a single breath. There was laughter now, too, low and breathless between cues, like the release valve had finally cracked open. Dylan didn’t stumble. Once, he even caught Dana’s eye across the stage and saw her give him a goofy little thumbs-up, which made his next turn feel a little lighter. Even Nora gave him a subtle nod during the final pose, her earlier weariness replaced by something quieter. Approval, maybe. Or just relief. It wasn’t perfect. But it was starting to work. Miss Dubois dismissed them just after one for lunch. "Eat well. Hydrate. We begin again at two." Dylan exhaled hard as he stepped off the stage, suddenly aware of how damp he felt beneath his costume. But he was smiling. Not a big, showy grin. Just a quiet, content curl at the edge of his mouth. A smile that came from somewhere deeper than pride. He had made it this far. And that meant something. Maybe everything.
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