Other Fetishes

It used to be a thing https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lobotomy     > Historically, patients of frontal lobotomy were, immediately following surgery, often stuporous and incontinent. Some developed an enormous appetite and gained considerable weight. Seizures were another common complication of surgery. Emphasis was put on the training of patients in the weeks and months following surgery.[14]   > The purpose of the operation was to reduce the symptoms of mental disorders, and it was recognized that this was accomplished at the expense of a person's personality and intellect. British psychiatrist Maurice Partridge, who conducted a follow-up study of 300 patients, said the treatment achieved its effects by "reducing the complexity of psychic life". Following the operation, spontaneity, responsiveness, self-awareness, and self-control were reduced. Activity was replaced by inertia, and people were mostly left emotionally blunted and restricted in their intellectual range

Welcome and happy to chat.

Chapter 143: Gifts Best Left Ungiven I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Diapers literally stink.  They’re toilet-bandaid-garbage bag-underwear hybrids designed for people who are unable or not allowed to control their innards. Why wouldn’t they smell bad?  But also as I’ve said before, it’s a subtle stink. One that under most circumstances can be recognized, acclimated to, and then immediately ignored. Unless the garment is close to leaking or its wearer is seriously dehydrated, you’re unlikely to notice the smell without consciously searching for it. Fecal matter is more of an attention getter, but sometimes even that can require a double take.  I’ve lost count of how many times my waistband has been pulled back and the back of my shorts stared at due to a suspicious nose and a false positive.  Beouf’s classroom is kept very clean, and the majority of lingering unpleasant odors is contained in the bathroom. If memory serves me right, some of the school’s other bathrooms don’t smell any better, including the ones specifically allocated for staff. My nursery wasn’t terribly offensive. Stay away from the diaper pail and you’d be good to go. Most of the time, it was barely noticeable save for when Janet popped open the lid to throw a new balled up Monkeez on top of the pile; with a smell that lingered for mere minutes after the lid had been shut.  The nursery, my status as ‘baby’, my enrollment in Beouf’s class, and so on was repugnant to me for so many reasons, but it had fundamentally little to do with the odor. I write all this to emphasize just how repugnant Little Presents was on a physical level as well as an emotional one. Janet and I pulled into the parking lot early in the afternoon. It was a Friday so she was able to get away with clocking out as soon as the buses had pulled out and the car line had finished.  Alas, that also meant I’d no real time to talk candidly with Melony. Beouf handed me to Janet, and it was off to her room for the twenty minutes or so it took for traffic to clear out.  I’d have to wait till Monday to ask Melony for advice on what I could get Janet as a present.  It definitely wasn’t going to be some goddamn macaroni art.  I hadn’t even gotten to have my afternoon coffee. Combined with the desperation from not finding Cassie and the complete blank spot in my brain for what to do if we found her. If she was still anywhere in Oakshire, we were almost out of places to look… Little Presents looked like one might expect from any small-time run-of-the-mill daycare.  It was a single story brick building with a gated parking lot.  The gates themselves didn’t prevent cars from entering or exiting; a plate made the gates slide slowly open when Janet’s car stopped in front.  The fencing was short enough that most any Amazon could hop it, too.  It was just another barrier to prevent Littles from running out into the street.  There were only four or five cars in the small parking lot, all parked facing the street and furthest away from both the street entrance and the walkway from the lot over to the building itself. That probably meant that there were only four or five employees present.  The spaces nearest the entrance were all empty; quietly reserved for Amazons who were coming and going with their Littles.   The same etiquette tended to apply to schools. Parents got to park closest to the front office. Teachers had to walk. There was no evidence of any kind of playground, but daycares didn’t technically have to have one, I supposed.  Beouf had gotten by for years with a makeshift one consisting mostly of moveable plastic play place hand me downs.   As often happened in Oakshire, the weather was having a hard time making up its mind, and the chilly winds of morning had been withered away by an oppressively humid heat. The romper my new Pop Pop had gifted me had been working overtime that day to keep me from shivering at the wind and then wick away sweat once the sun was out and in full effect.   Not caring about the weather’s indecision, the daycare had opted to decorate for the season if not the climate.  Paper snowflakes were pasted on the windows in the fakest of artificial blizzards, with reams of tinsel lining the edges.  The residents of this padded prison probably saw the decorations less than their jailors.  In true typical fashion, the windows were big and inviting so as to let in sunlight and imply transparency, but rows of blinds obscured anyone from seeing inside as well as anyone inside from seeing the festive winter decorations. The simple walkway was decorated with painted plywood cutouts so that visitors and patrons were greeted with a welcoming party of happy smiling babies. Or were they supposed to be Littles? It was so hard to tell at a glance.  Some had the more slender face and longer limbs of adults while others were stout and chubby toddlers. Differing color palettes, art styles, and wood textures, suggested that they hadn’t all been created at the same time by the same artist. This place distinctly advertised itself as catering only to Littles with expressed Maturosis. Typical. Janet paused before we’d gotten to the door and turned her head to look at me on her hip. “Did you say something?” Holy shit, did I? My fingers tensed inside their mittened prisons.  “No…?” “You tensed and grunted or something,” Janet frowned. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I lied. “It’s not important.” Her hand did not try to cup my bottom or squeeze the front of my diaper. She didn’t ask if I needed changing or had an upset stomach or anything else that might attribute what I was feeling to some minor physical discomfort a fussy baby might experience. Janet stopped, looked closely at the whimsical display and said, “Some of these look like babies and some of them look like Littles to you.” “Yeah,” I nodded meekly. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” I admitted.  “Do they look different to you?” I saw her squint her eyes and she slowly turned in a circle, examining each one. “I think so,” she said with a hint of uncertainty. “It’s easier to tell when they’re side by side like this.  I just thought they were different art styles, but I can see how some of them look more Littleish and some look more babyish than others.” She was making an effort to differentiate Littles from actual children. I could have kissed her right there. “Yeah.” “That bothers you,” she said, “being compared to a baby.”  It was a statement. A true one. “Yeah,” I admitted. “Wanna know why?” “Not unless telling me would make you feel better.” The thing is, it probably wouldn’t. “Maybe later,” I sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.” “Deal.” She strode forward and opened the front door. Together we stepped into yet another unknown. As soon as we had crossed the threshold and the door had closed behind us, I felt like my nostrils were being assaulted.  It was like we had walked into a thick but invisible fog of the worst scents a non-Animal body could naturally produce. The whole experience burned the way some of the worst peppers did; subtle at first but it burned the back of your throat all the way down. On top of everything was an artificial sweetness of baby powder, scented candles, and air freshener. A millisecond later my nostrils registered the all too natural smell of stale urine. At the back end of the inhale I caught a whiff of poorly digested shit tinged with the acidity of diarrhea.   And sex? Why did it smell like sex? There were undertones of sweat and bodily fluids that normally went into a dried up sock instead of a toilet. The whole building had the intangible funk of a middle school locker room with broken plumbing. I took one breath. Two breaths.  My nose was supposed to go smell blind, right?  Three breaths. Four breaths.  It was gross, but it wasn’t poisonous, right? Why wasn’t my nose adjusting?    Five…did I dare try for six?  Janet looked incredibly uncomfortable, too.  Her nose kept wrinkling. Her eyes were squinting and looked like they might be tearing up a tad. Her head pivoted jerkily like a sprinkler, with her unconsciously trying to find the source of the stench.  She hadn’t yet accepted that it was all around us and seeped into the very boards and bricks of the building itself. “Well, hello there!” A charming voice called out, grabbing our attention. “Are you the Mommy who called last night and left a message asking for a tour?”  The voice belonged to an Amazon woman who looked to be in her mid forties to early fifties with brown hair that covered her ears and bangs.  A pink headband matched her pink shirt with the ‘Little Presents’ name and logo on it.   Janet put on her best pleasant face. “Yes, I am!” she chirped. “Hi there!” she stepped forward, “I’m Mrs. Cuchon. But most of the kids call me Mrs. C.”  Behind her was a small throng of Littles crawling and toddling around. I wasn’t close enough yet to hear if they were saying real words, babbling like idiots, or anything in between, but even from this distance I could tell that their diapers were enormous.  I caught sight of one or two Tweeners that appeared to be working, too. Following in a Little’s wake, or carrying them from point A to point B. The Amazon stepped forward with her hand outstretched.  “Pleasure to meet you!” Janet held up her index finger. “Just a second.” She rifled through her purse like a squirrel searching for buried nuts. From the depths of her bag, she pulled out two disposable face masks. They were both ugly and crumpled like they’d been down at the bottom for years. She smoothed one out with her fingers like an old dollar and put it on herself one-handed.  Then she did the same for me. The elastic was worn and lost most of its stretchiness but that allowed her to more easily tie the two ends of the mask together around the back of my head so that it would actually fit. Sosa would have been impressed with her dexterity with how she shifted and juggled me around without dropping me. The barrier went up to just below my eyeballs and down past my chin to near my collar bone. I looked like I was playing a bandit in an old cowboy movie, and it was like breathing into a paper bag.  It was still so much better than it had been before.  I’d rather feel my own hot breath blasted back at me and have to deal with the smell the cafeteria’s spaghetti with extra cheese, onion sauce, and garlic bread on my breath than what smelled like the inside of an old diaper pail. “Sorry,” Janet fibbed. “We’ve had a cold at home. The worst parts are over but we’re trying not to spread it.”    To help sell it, I coughed and hacked from behind the mask.  “Sorry, Mommy.” “It’s okay, baby,” Janet stroked my hair. “We’ll work on covering your mouth later.” Our host seemed to believe the lie. “Ooop!” she said. “Good call!” She dug into her jeans pocket and took out a travel size vial of clear liquid. She squirted some into one palm, rubbed into the palm and the back of the opposite hand, then switched and did the same again.  “Hand sanitizer?”  she offered. Janet offered her free hand. “Please and thank you.”  The stranger squirted some into her palm. Janet balanced me and cleansed her hands as best as she could. Mrs. C. regarded me.  “Do you want some, Little guy?” she asked.  I blinked and accepted, offering out my open palms without comment.  It had felt like ages since I had been allowed to clean any part of myself on my own.  “Oops!” she laughed to herself. “I don’t think you need it, Little guy.” Stupidly I looked down at my mittened fingers. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” At least she was talking directly to me. This might be the first Amazon on one of these tours that had. “Thank you,” Janet said.  “So what can you tell us about your place?” The Amazon waved us in and guided us in.  “Come and see for yourself,” she said. We did and I hated it almost immediately. Aesthetically, it actually reminded me a lot of Beouf’s room, except bigger. A bigger classroom, with more Littles, and extra doors leading to side rooms.  More paper snowflakes hung from the ceilings. There were decorative posters of cartoon animals on the walls.  There were clearly designated play areas with intent and purpose in mind. Besides the rank odor, this should have been only marginally worse than a lifetime at Oakshire. “This is our main play area,” she gestured around her and started pointing to doors. “Our kitchen is over there. We serve breakfast and lunch.  There’s our nap room where we put them to bed.  We also have a sensory room where they can chill out and look at some pretty lights or listen to some pretty sounds.” She leaned in conspiratorially to Janet and said “Some of them like that better than the nap room,” and chuckled at her own joke.  Janet nodded thoughtfully as if she were actually listening. What we were both doing is eyeballing the other Littles, looking for anything or anyone that might be a familiar face. “Over there’s the stuffie room,” Mrs. C. continued, “We used to give everyone their own personal stuffie, but they kept leaving them on the floor everywhere, so we just have a room where they can go play with the stuffies.  Over this way is our indoor jungle gym.” Scanning the room for Cassie or signs of her, my mind began to wander and take everything in. It wasn’t the list of rooms that bothered me about this place. It wasn’t just the smell, either.  It wasn’t even how similar the decor was to Beouf’s room.  It was everything that was missing. None of the Littles wore pants. Their big diapers, bulkier looking than even my nighttime ones, wouldn’t fit in anything resembling pants.  Most wore tight t-shirts or loose dresses. I spotted a few in onesies that were straining to hold their contents in, with bits of white plastic forcing seams apart. The way every one of them bulged and sagged and swayed between their collective thighs gave away that not one of them was remotely dry. Most were probably worse than just wet. This is where the smell came from. I caught a Tweener handing one of them a bottle filled with something so blue that it almost glowed.  Was that LittleLyte? Why give something like that to a person who was clearly having no trouble staying hydrated? None of the posters had any words on them.  There was no visible clock or time keeping device.There were no activity tables. All the books in what looked like the reading area appeared to be board books riddled with teeth marks.  There were tons of pop-up toys like jack in the boxes, and rattles and balls. Lots of sensory oriented and pretend play.   However there were no puzzles or alphabet blocks in sight.  Ambrose had taken my old classroom and made a mockery of it by draining all of the joy from a preschool curriculum.  This daycare was a cruel satire in the exact opposite direction. All whimsy and absolutely zero expectations of competence. An area containing crayons and markers had only blank stacks of paper to scribble on. The Littles here weren’t even expected to be able to color inside some lines! Maybe it was just me, but I think Janet felt ill at ease for similar reasons. “Before we go any farther,” the pale imitation of my best friend said, “does your Little boy have a diagnosis of Maturosis? We won’t accept their enrollment without one.” Behind her mask, Janet’s brow furrowed in surprise.  “Um…yes. Actually, he does.” “Glad to hear it!” Mrs. C. smiled. “We’re all about helping Littles experiencing Maturosis here. You’d be surprised how many perfectly mature and capable Littles get snatched up and have opportunities taken away from them because someone’s cosseting went overboard. “Yeah…” Janet agreed, sounding guarded. “Absolutely.”  I could almost feel her skin start to perspire. “Is his developmental plateau such that potty training is still an option for him? Because if it is, we might not be the best placement for him. We’re not exactly equipped for that.” “I don’t think so…” Janet said. Damn this was all suddenly unnerving.  Either Janet was making me more uncomfortable or I was making her.  No matter the origin, our discomfort was becoming shared.  I clung to her more tightly. “And I should warn you,” the woman continued, “We don’t do hypnosis, and we don’t do spanking.  If that’s something you’re expecting from us, I wouldn’t recommend it. We like to help our children be their truest selves through positive reinforcement, patience and self exploration.” “Of course not,” Janet said. “Hypnosis isn’t even legal anymore.” “It’s not technically legal, but there are plenty of people who take shortcuts and plenty more who look the other way.  We don’t do that here.”  My muscles tensed. This was a new kind of bizarre. This Amazon could have been a kind of understudy for Beouf based on what she was saying, but absolutely none of it gave me any comfort. “That’s good,” Janet lied. “Any questions?” “Why are their diapers so…big?” I blurted out. Seriously, I couldn’t tell if they were twice the size of mine, or three times, but it was still too big. Just like Beouf had when I was first enrolled, the woman’s voice shot up into a more cutesy squeak. “That’s a very good question!” she said. “It’s because we are all about acceptance, here!  Little ones don’t have to hide their diapers or be ashamed. Needing them is just part of who they are!”  Her speech took on a kind of melodic sing-song cadence to it, too.  Not like Zoge’s.  Zoge’s always sounded like she was singing more to herself than anything. This lady was just condescending. “Speaking of needs,” I heard Janet click her tongue behind her mask,.“Do you think anyone here um…needs a change?” The Amazon reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Hmmm…let me see.”  She swiped and poked at her screen.  “It’ll be two minutes early, but why not?”  She cupped her hands to her mouth and called. “Vee-Vee? Are you ready to give me your present, hon?” A young woman in a robins egg blue smock of a dress waddled forward. Her diaper looked like a deployed airbag and it was a miracle of Amazonian science that it was staying on her hips.   “Yes, ma’am!” she said excitedly, her arms flapping like a baby bird’s. Mrs. C. scooped the girl up and started walking to a changing table. That was another difference from Beouf’s room. No privacy during changes.  “I like to call diaper changes ‘getting gifts’,” she said over her shoulder to Janet. “It makes it fun for them!” “You have them on a timer on your phone?” Janet noted. “Yes ma’am,” the Amazon said, laying the Little down and getting changing supplies ready. “I change everybody here at least once a day.” I felt Janet’s spine stiffen. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up and I swear I could feel it through my padded gauntlets. “Once…?” “I’ve got them all on a random diaper change schedule,” Mrs. C said, putting on rubber gloves and unfolding the fresh diaper.  Even dry and unfolded the thing looked huge.  “Every day, they get a random amount of changes at random times.” “But…why…?” “Because I don’t want them to worry about it.  Their diapers are my problem. Not theirs. That’s why convince parents to get ‘em so thick.  Less likely to leak or have a blowout.” Translation: Why hold it in or try to time going to the bathroom if you never knew exactly when you were going to be changed? “What about schedules?” I heard myself saying.  Beouf sometimes let us have free play and gave us wiggle room depending on behavior, but schedules were important to her. “Oh they don’t need those,” Mrs. C. said without looking back.  “We’ve got breakfast, lunch, and naptime, but that’s about it. And those are more about feelings than strict times.” Translation: Littles have no reason to plan anything. They could be interrupted at any time so might as well act on impulse. “But diaper changes only once a day…” Janet was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Wet, I kind of get. But messy?” “There’s no harm,” Mrs. C. said with far too much confidence. “You don’t want them getting used to sitting in a wet or messy diaper if they can be potty trained.  If they can’t, it’s just a matter of containment and making sure the dears don’t get a rash.  And we’ve got ways to prevent that.” She ripped the tapes.  “Oh wow!” she cooed down at the Little girl. “Such a big present you’ve made for me! Thank you!” I caught one glimpse of the travesty trapped between the LIttle’s legs and smeared all over her crotch and backside and I turned my head away to prevent from vomiting.  Not too far away I saw another Amazon woman, younger than Mrs. C, feeding a Little boy a bottle of something carbonated.  She shifted him over to her shoulder and started burping him. “Good boy,” I heard her say. “You’re so good at this! Can you give me a couple more? Yes you can!” A Tweener knelt down and gave a Little girl a chocolate bon bon.  “Can you eat this for me?” The girl opened her mouth and the Tweener popped it in.  “Good girl! You’re such a good eater! Thank you so much.” A gasp escaped me!  Training chocolate!  That girl would be filling her pants while barely realizing it.  I caught another Tweener randomly placing a pacifier in a Little’s mouth and patting him on the head for it. This place had no expectations.  Eating, drinking, peeing, pooping, burping, sleeping, sucking on pacifiers.  That was the only thing Littles were good for as far as this place was concerned. They both thought that Maturosis was real, and that the proper way to treat it was to lean into the disability and encourage it. An audible thunk made its way to my ears, as did the sound of crinkling as a fresh diaper was being taped on.  “You did such a good job layng still for me, Vee-Vee!”   “Thank you, Mrs. C.” The absolutely mindfucked Little giggled. “I’m a good girl!” “Yes you are!  You very much are!”  I turned my head back around just as the tapes were being secured and the LIttle girl was being sat up on the changing table.  Sat up, but not set down on the floor. From beneath the changing table, the Amazon took out an entire jug filled with goopy green gel.  A pump and a hose was connected to the top.  I watched her lift up the hem of the Little’s dress and stick down the back of her freshly applied diaper.  One pump. Two pumps. Three pumps. Then an extra pump in the front. The Little didn’t even fidget. Didn’t flinch. Janet’s grip on me tightened and it wasn’t subtle. “That’s how we prevent them from getting a rash,” Mrs. C said to Janet. She picked the girl up and finally set her down on her own two feet.  The girl immediately set off panting towards one of the side rooms; its door wide open. Janet’s mask shifted uncomfortably over her face. She was biting her lip and trying not to grind her teeth. “You know that gel um…makes Littles…um…?” “Friskier than a jackalope?” Mrs. C. finished the thought. “Yup. But that’s how Maturosis works. Baby brains but their bodies are still mature. So it’s natural. Why fight it?” “Why fight what?” Janet asked, naively. Mrs. C. chuckled good naturedly (a little too good naturedly). She jerked her head sideways. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”  We followed the Little whose pants had just been pumped full of rash preventing aphrodisiac. The smell of sex was even worse in the side room. It was damn near overpowering. My mask couldn’t even block it all the way out.  Inside was a teddy bear orgy. Littles were straddling teddy bears and stuffies, grinding and gyrating up a storm. They humped legs and torsos. Some stared at one another and moaned. Slime moved their mouths, whispering dirty things to themselves.  Some laid back in a giant stuffy’s arms and thrust their hips into their palms, desperately and futilely trying to masturbate with their hands. Foreheads were pouring out sweat and faces were scrunched up in pent up frustration.  “Momeeeeeee!” One shouted out of nowhere and collapsed onto the bear, panting. Another one roared and pounded on the bear’s chest. He rose up and stomped out of the room in a huff.  “Gonna go…color or something.” All of his humping, bumping, and grinding. But none of it was with one another.  No one was touching one another. No touching, no hugging, no kissing. Nothing. “They’re…masturbating,” Janet finally said the quiet part out loud. “In front of each other.” “They pee and poop in front of each other,” came the reply. “Why not this? It’s all the same at this point. It’s not like they really know what they’re doing.”  Just hearing those words made me feel incredibly hollow.  “The one rule we have is that if they need to do it, they do it here and they don’t do it to each other.” She patted the Little on the head who was storming out.  “Good choice, baby. Go color.” The one who’d just collapsed picked themselves up and toddled past us.  “Mrs. C. I’m going to the sensory room.” A yawn escaped them.   “That’s a good choice, baby. Go lie down.”  She gave a peck on the cheek and patted them on the butt to send them on their way.  She looked up at Janet. “See? They learn how to moderate themselves after enough time. Eventually a lot of them get bored with it and stop making’ lovies altogether.” Lovies?  That…that felt so disgusting and on an entirely different level.  If Janet ever called it that, I would cuss her out immediately, green goop or not. “You’re doing such a good job!” Mrs. C. called into the room. “I’m so very proud of you!” Based on the resulting gasps, moans, and collapses I think a few of them cummed from the praise.  “Fuck,” I whispered. The funhouse mirror version of Melony Beouf led us away from the orgy. “Any other questions?” Janet’s head twitched as she powered through her own disgust. Our work wasn’t done.  “Yes,” she said. “Do you mind if my Little one explores while we talk? I think he’s getting restless.”  I squirmed in her arms to help sell the lie.  It wasn’t that hard. “Not at all,” our host said. She called out. “Hey Sherry!” she called out. “We’ve got another Little on the floor! Be aware!” A Tweener called back. “Yes, Boss!”   The Amazon grinned. “She calls me ‘Boss’.” I officially hated that random Tweener. I walked away, scanning the daycare from the ground. I heard Janet start to pump the ‘Boss’ for information.  “I heard about this place from one of my online friends. She talks about her Little girl going here. I think her Little’s name is Cassie…?”  Meanwhile I looked at faces, searching for familiarity, or at least friendliness. No. No. No. No. None of them looked like they had been physically altered. Their hair had been cut and dyed to look as infantile as possible, sure. A few had unnatural pumpkin grins that I doubted they had possessed pre-Adoption and there was a smattering of false freckles. But no one looked like they had undergone any kind of cosmetic surgery to make them look genuinely prepubescent.   There were so many Littles here.  More caregivers than I would have expected too. Some of the Tweeners must have carpooled together or taken a bus.  I had hoped that by being in the mix with everything that a certain someone might see me and recognize me. No such luck. I settled for going to what I interpreted as the ‘reading nook’, a wall of Little height shelves piled up with cardboard books.  A mindfucked Little was licking one of the pages.  “Hey,” I said. “Have you seen anybody around here named…?” I stopped myself. The guy was on his back and raising his legs up.  I knew what that meant.   So gross seeing it from the outside.  I flinched when he lowered his legs back down, still licking his book like his top and bottom were disconnected halves.  “Do you know anybody named Cassie around here? Or in your neighborhood or playdates or whatever?” “Huh?” the Little turned his head and looked away from his book.  “What’d you say, man?”  His eyes were glazed over and vacant.  “I wasn’t paying attention.” “Cassie,” I repeated. “Do you know anybody named Cassie? A Little girl? Thirty-two years old?” His hand started kneading between his legs. “Huh? Naw man. I don’t think so.”  He had this dopey grin on his mug. His voice sounded dreamy and far away.  “But I’m reading right now so it’s kind of hard to think straight.  I don’t think anybody here has that name.” I took a closer look at his book. There were no words on any of the pages. Not even a book title. Just pictures of food.  The same for every other ‘book’ on the shelves. They were all just board books with pictures of food in them. “Does..the hamburger taste like a hamburger?”  I asked. He hummed low and his eyes fluttered.  “Try for yourself my dude. You’ll love it.”  His fingers continued to massage his groin. The books were flavored, I gathered. And they had something in them that had more than flavoring. Something that would make the eyes glaze over and inhibitions lower. My lip curled in disgust. Hypocritical as it was, I still had to ask.  “Are you aware you just shit yourself?” “I did?” He didn’t seem disturbed by the revelation. “Cool. That means Mommy will be proud of me for my present.”  His hips bucked. “I looooove giving her presents.” “You’re masturbating.” “Hmmm?” He said. “Oh. My bad.” He rolled from side to side like a turtle on its back and finally righted himself.  “Rules are hard to remember when you have Maturosis.” He wobbled a few steps. “I’m gonna go to the stuffie room and beat off.  You wanna come?” “No thanks…” “Okay.  I love you, bro.” That was only one of my interactions over the next ten minutes, but all the others were just as infuriating.  A strange Tweener even tried to bottle feed and burp me. They didn’t force it, but they did click their tongue and say I was fussy.  The search was a failure. When Janet and I were back in the car and driving to another daycare on our increasingly threadbare list (one that would be just as fruitless as every other one), she said to me, “I can’t believe that place is Maturosis certified.” “New Beginnings is Maturosis certified, too,” I reminded her.  “That’s on the Voices’ no fly list.” She shook her head, but kept her eyes on the road. “I guess some people only get it on paper, and do what they were going to do anyway.  They follow the criteria in name only.” Or the criteria is useless. And the standards are made without consulting the people they are meant to affect. I didn’t say it out loud. But I sure as hell thought it.  

Now that you said that, he's going to expect you to send him some free diapers and training pants!

The Walton's Christmas movie is called, "The Homecoming", made for TV and what ended up becoming the TV series "The Walton's with a couple cast changes.  I love the Christmas movie "The Homecoming" but never cared for the actual TV series.  I did meet Will Geer one on one once and got his autograph and spent a few minutes talking with him. Ironically, I've never seen the movie "Prancer" even though it was filmed about 20 miles away from where I live in a small town Three Oaks Michigan.  I still sometimes drive through there.  They have an old old meat market in the center of the 3 block town that used to make nation wide known smoked hams.  That got so big they couldn't keep up with demand, so now people pay $70+ a pound for smoked hams with their name on the package that are made in Chicago.