Baby Talk

Hugs are always a win ❤️

I've been itching to write something here where the MC is in the diaper dimension mostly by choice and will have a happy ending, but that will also have a lot of internal discussion on how Amazons seem to care more about being parents than being /good/ parents.    There's definitely a lot I want to explore in the universe that I think can be, while still allowing for the ABDL themes to play out. 

Yes I understand questioning these things, I’ve gone through this for a long time. I was married for 35 years and while it was good at times I didn’t do her right a lot because I knew I was different and it’s taken a long time for me to accept myself as mostly asexual but also bi  I hope this helps but honestly no easy answers 

@tommyneedsdiapers90 We actually had them, but only briefly (returned), because we probably just ordered them from people who made unbranded ones and they weren’t very well made. Even with good sizing, they tended to shift a lot and kind of roll on the foot. @ValentinesStuff Honestly, a drivable cart sounds even better hahah    Will we get any more entries? 

PART 24: BEDTIME   “Bedtime” was a term from my childhood.  By the time I was 10 or 11, I usually wasn’t sent to bed anymore. I knew on my own when I was expected to go to sleep. I rarely had to be reminded. But „Bedtime” was the term always used during those phases of my bedwetting. When I was put back in diapers for nighttime.  Bedtime wasn’t a specific time but a period of time—usually half an hour. It applied only to the little kids who were now “being prepared for bed.” In my family the older kids could just stay seated when “bedtime” was called in the evening and they were changed.  For the little children, bedtime meant: using the potty as a two-year-old, going to the bathroom for the slightly older ones, and having a nighttime diaper put on.      Did you have a “code word” too?         My mother had set the table for our  dinner together. Here I could slowly relax again. The dream I’d had this afternoon at my desk faded away. The conversation revolved around everyday things, experiences from our last vacation, Laura’s latest clothes shopping, and what a grown-up girl she already is. It was all so relaxed. But once the meal was over and the table had been cleared amid lots of laughter and conversation, someone suddenly said,  “BEDTIME, Tom. It’s time for you now….” “Bedtime”…. after the lively atmosphere, the phrase hit me like a bolt of lightning. “Bedtime”—a phrase I hadn’t heard in a long time. I literally froze. When the adults in our family said that word, everyone knew what it meant. The call was directed at the little kids. They had to stop playing with the older kids right then.   School-age kids weren’t included; they could keep playing undisturbed. Sometimes a few 5-year-olds were exempt too—everyone knew who they were.   Laura looked up briefly, surprised. “Bedtime for Tom?” she probably thought. It wasn’t a call to go to bed RIGHT NOW, but rather an announcement of a process supervised and assisted by the parents and some times by the older children. Bedtime meant “the little ones” would now have their teeth brushed, then be taken to the bathroom or sat on the potty with a picture book in hand, depending on their age. Then most of them would also have their diapers put on. Those who didn’t get diapers were at least warned in this group not to wet the bed under any circumstances. Most children wanted to be among those who “weren’t meant to go,” who were allowed to stay with the older children and the adults. This always led to arguments and whining children who didn’t want to accept “bedtime.” Older girls often helped out. This led to questions like, “Does Marie really sleep without a diaper already?” or, “Paul says he doesn’t need to use the potty—is that true?”   Finally, these children came back in their pajamas to say “good night” one more time. Many of them were wearing their diapers hidden under wide trousers.   The mothers would then glance at the other children—if they didn’t already know—to see if a diaper might be visible under their pants after all. Sometimes it was a quick, probing touch meant to confirm the answer. This served to clarify just how successful potty training had been among different members of the family or among friends. “Bedtime” was for toddlers. How embarrassing it was when you thought you already belonged to the “big kids”—maybe you were already in school, hadn’t been part of the “bedtime” crowd for a while—and when the word was mentioned, you didn’t react at first, only to have your own name called out as a reminder. “...you too.” You’d quickly dash out of the room before anyone could explain why you didn’t actually belong to the “big kids” anymore. There was, of course, a reason. The last thing you needed was for that to be explained in front of everyone. Although the questioning looks from the other mothers—if they hadn’t already guessed—often led to explanations that you overheard involuntarily as you hurried away.  For a moment, I wanted to fight back. Just like little kids usually do.  “Hey! I think, the way things look, you’d better be quiet and go along nicely.” Her gaze lingered briefly on the „special night pants“ as my mother would call it in a few months, hanging on the terrace to dry. Everyone knew what she meant. What episode I should be thinking of. “Go to the bathroom, brush your teeth, then call me and I’ll help you with the rest……” Laura and my aunt were there to witness these instructions, which I had to accept like a toddler. I obediently turned around and went into the bathroom. Shortly after, my mother was there. In her hand she held my blue potty. It had been sitting in the living room today to “remind me in time,” as she had put it. In her other hand were my white plastic pants that I had worn last night and wet. That immediately brought back the dream from this afternoon, where they had also been the focus. “Time to go. Come here. Down with the pants and up on the potty.” She set the potty on the floor, and when she saw my shy glance at the diaper pants, she said, “We can only use those if you really try your best on your potty now. Otherwise, we’d better try your new, bigger baby pants today. So your little bed stays dry. So please try your best.” She laid the diaper pants, unbuttoned, on my bed and waited until I was finally sitting on “my potty” again with my legs tucked in. “I’ll be back in 15 minutes, then we’ll see if we can manage with the smaller diaper pants.”  With those words, she left me. Snippets of conversation drifted through the open door, and as I waited there, I imagined Laura’s and my aunt’s reactions when my mother had gotten up from the table a few minutes earlier, taken the diaper off the clothesline, and picked up the blue potty in the living room. The potty that my aunt had given me.  I imagined the looks on their faces. Everyone knew why my mom was collecting these things. It was clear what was about to happen in my room… “Bedtime,” that’s what. Was it pity for my mom that I saw in their eyes? Maybe a little gloating from Laura? My aunt might have also found it “cute” that my mother still had a “toddler” in the house. I was embarrassed that others knew I was now “sitting nicely on the potty” and waiting for my “nighttime diaper,” just like “every evening.” There I sat, for far longer than fifteen minutes. When the door opened, I was allowed to get up. The contents—or rather, the amount—in the potty were assessed, and I was led to my bed where the white diaper pants were waiting.   “Tom, unfortunately there isn’t much in the potty,” my mother said disappointedly. “We saw last night how that ends. You’re really doing a lot in the diaper right now. Yesterday, even twice. I’d love to let you sit there a little longer, but you need to go to bed. We’ll try your new baby pants; they’re bigger and safer with the wide waistbands. Plus, we can put an extra diaper inside them.” As she spoke, she put the prepared diaper pants in the closet and took out the box with the new, yellow diaper pants, which I was supposed to put there just yesterday. Almost tenderly, she unwrapped the new plastic pants, or „baby pants“ as she now calls them and laid them open on my bed. On top of, she placed the cloth diapers, one after the other. “Okay, you know the drill. Lie down on and spread your legs nice and wide so I can get the powder everywhere,” she said, patting the diaper she’d just laid down in an encouraging gesture. I obeyed, what else could I have done. My face flushed bright red. Soon I was lying there in front of her like a baby, in my white cloth diapers with my legs spread apart, waiting for the final step. This time, she had securely fastened the ends of the diaper together with a safety pin. Everything stayed in place on its own. She now pulled the front part of the plastic pants over the front diaper pad, reaching for the side of the open panties.  Click, click, click—I heard her fasten the snaps. Then the other side. A quick tug and pull to stretch the panties. Click, click, click—the plastic pants were closed. My mother reached into the leg openings again and ran her fingers along them to check. As she did, she pushed the diaper back into the panties in two places. I was allowed to stand up now. My mother also checked the top edge of the diaper pants. She also had to tuck the diapers in at my back. Then she pulled the plastic pants up with two quick movements. “There, all done! That wasn’t so bad, was it?” There I stood. Thick diapers between my legs, pressed tightly against my body. A chubby bottom, and loosely draped over it, the yellow plastic pants; there was still enough room around my legs, and they formed a few folds. “You wet your pajamas last night. But I’ll go check if they’re dry yet.” Over at Laura and Aunt Lisa’s, I heard my mother say, “We’ll be done in a minute.” Again, I imagined the looks that probably said, “It’s a lot of work with a bed-wetting child like this.” She came back with my pajamas in her hand. The pants were loose-fitting and fit well over the new diaper pants. Yes, they even fit loosely over my thick “nighttime package.” “Hurry up! Go quickly to the living room and say good night.” As she said this, I got a  motherly pat on my bottom. “Please, Mommy, can’t I just go to bed like this?” “No, Tom! Go on! Hurry up! Go say good night.” This now was the final act of “bedtime.”Resigned, I pulled the waistband up so high that the pants covered everything at the top and you couldn’t see the plastic panties.   “There you go, you can hardly see anything,” my mother encouraged me again. The diapers I’d been given for the night were much thicker than the ones I’d had to wear just two days ago, thanks to the extra liners. Pulling them up over my hips covered everything at the top, but the diapered crotch stood out all the more clearly. My bottom was as round as a baby’s under the pants. The pajama top was short and rather tight-fitting. That emphasized even more that someone here was well-diapered, ready for the night.   I saw all of this in the mirror on my closet door. “Don’t look at me like that. If you’d tried harder with the potty, we might have gotten by with a smaller diaper. Last night also showed that it’s better to diaper you well. I don’t want to have to wash everything again tomorrow.” With those words, my mother pushed me into the living room with her hand on my back. With every step, you could hear the folds of the plastic pants rubbing against each other.  “Tom wanted to say good night to the adults before he goes to bed.” With a red face, I took the last few steps. The expected, scrutinizing glances followed, marking the end of “bedtime.” Even Laura, who is usually very understanding—since she’d just gone through the same thing herself—couldn’t help but grin a little when she saw me like that. “Good night, Tom!” my aunt said as I stood in front of her. “Good night,” I mumbled. “You and your mom are quite the well-oiled team, as we can see.” As she said this, she fiddled with my pants. “Look, Laura, Tom’s wearing those old diaper pants you used to wear!” She pulled the waistband of my pajama pants down a bit, and the yellow plastic diaper came into view.   Then she pulled the pants back up so everything was covered, but that just made my crotch—with the thick diaper bulge—stand out even more.   “No,” my mom interrupted. “That’s brand new. We were actually planning to get new Pull-Ups yesterday. But they had to be ordered first, so that’s taken care of for the time being. But luckily, we  bought these little pants. They were actually just meant as a backup. Look, they have much wider waistbands,” she said, pulling the hem of my loose pajama pants down a bit again. “Look how well they fit.” She pointed to the wide waistbands. “They’re also cut a bit wider.” With that, she let go of the pants and turned back to me. “Okay, Tom, say good night to Laura too, and then make sure you get into your bed.” Without moving much, I turned toward Laura, who was sitting a few steps away on the sofa, with a drink in front of her on the table, just like the other “adults.” In her white summer dress with her legs crossed, she really looked like an adult. While I looked like the little bed-wetter that I was. The boy in diapers.“Good night, Laura.” “Good night, Tom, sleep well.” Her gaze flitted over my pants one last time, taking in the bulge that was visible beneath them. I thought I saw another little “motherly” smile.   My mother seemed to have noticed it, too.   “Okay, Tom, but now off to bed. We still need to discuss the summer camp and how we’ll manage now that I’m working more again. Maybe we can find a babysitter for you when I’m on night shift.” I quickly turned around, my face flushed with embarrassment, and ran into my room, calling out a quick “Good night” to my mother. But that couldn’t drown out the “pfft, pfft, pfft” of the diaper. My aunt gave my mother a quick smile that probably meant, “So cute.” Behind me, I heard her say, “If it weren’t so much work, you could almost get used to having a diaper-wearing child in the house again.” My mother let out a good-natured sigh. “It’s so sweet how he tries anyway. So, Laura, tell us how they handle bed-wetters at summer camp…?” I was in my room. At first, as I crawled into bed, the mattress protector muffled all the words coming from the living room.   It was 5:30 p.m., it was still light outside, and I lay restlessly in my bed. With every movement, the rustling. Partly from the mattress protector, but also from the plastic pants. I heard the conversation muffled from across the room. Individual words, laughter.“Really?…..and then? ….twice? .. so ashamed…!”Bedtime had come and gone.   I didn’t know if they were talking about me, but I was lying there with the thick diapers between my legs and just couldn’t fall asleep. I heard muffled voices coming from the living room. They were talking about “my” summer camp and how they would handle “the bedwetting” there. But I couldn’t make out anything; I just kept hearing Laura’s voice over and over. I thought about how I was suddenly “the little one” in the immediate family. The last one who “still needs diapers.”Like the other little ones, I was sent to bed early, and my “potty training” is now a recurring topic of conversation. The whole extended family—all the aunts, uncles, and probably soon all the kids—might already know: “Tom’s wetting the bed again.” I tossed and turned from one side to the other; the rustling of the mattress protector was just a small reminder that my bed is wet again and again. The thick diaper between my legs reminded me much more clearly that I am now “little Tom.” The psychologist also said a few days ago that it would be good for me to wear a diaper again for sleeping for the time being. So here I lie, swaddled like a toddler, and I’m ashamed of it. So I fell asleep, my hands clenched tightly on my diaper, and with every movement, the soft rustling of my bedding. Ssssh, ssssh, sssh, vacation, I’m at the beach, walking through the sand. I want to get an ice cream. The little kiosk looks just like my school nurse’s office. No one’s there. I flip through the files. Now I feel like I need to use the restroom. Where’s the bathroom? At the school nurse’s office, there’s a door in the room that leads to a small bathroom. That door isn’t there anymore. I was wrong. I’m at the psychologist’s office. She doesn’t have a bathroom. There are the bunny books; mine is there too. I want to look at it. But only after I’ve been to the bathroom. It’s too exciting to look for another bathroom right now. I only have to go a little bit. I pull down my pants and sit down. The padded swivel chair is the same color as my potty. I let it run a little. Just a tiny bit. You can’t even tell.  It’s more now, though. Now someone’s calling for me.  I have to hurry—it’s Laura. She’s calling. Oh, now I’ve forgotten to read the entry in my bunny book on the table.    „Tom! Bedtime. Tom!“