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So here's an early moring chapter drop for you all..... Chapter One Hundred & Twelve: Part Three The door clicked shut behind them with a soft, definitive thud, sealing in the warmth of the Van Buren estate and shutting out the coastal breeze that whispered promises of salt and sand. The entrance way unfolded like a bridge between worlds: white wainscoting climbing halfway up the walls, antique mirrors reflecting fractured glimpses of family life, oil portraits in gilded frames staring down with the quiet dignity of generations past. Beneath it all lay the sleek lines of modern wealth—recessed lighting casting a soft glow, marble inlays veining the floor like rivers of cream, polished hardwood gleaming underfoot, curated art pieces mingling seamlessly with family heirlooms. Old South wrapped in New Money, now dressed for the holidays: a Thanksgiving wreath of dried wheat sheaves and crimson berries hung on the inner door, flanked by lanterns flickering with LED candles scented faintly of pumpkin spice. Garlands of faux autumn leaves—gold, rust, and deep burgundy—draped the banister leading upstairs, and small clusters of decorative gourds sat on a side table, their speckled skins evoking harvest abundance. Kim turned the lock with a gentle twist, her rust-orange sweater catching the light as she smiled at her guests. Before anyone could speak, a joyful shout echoed from deeper in the house—high-pitched, bubbling with toddler excitement. “Paw! Paw! Pway wif Paw! Teena Muta Turtas time fo Wil an Paw!” Around the corner came William—two and a half years old, his pacifier bobbing in his mouth like a punctuation mark on his glee, muffling his words into soft, garbled bursts. He was dressed for fall in northern Florida's mild warmth: a soft long-sleeved onesie in earthy plaid (greens and browns like the marshes outside), paired with cozy fleece pants in deep mustard yellow, no shoes on his tiny feet as he padded across the hardwood with that determined toddler waddle. His curly hair bounced with each step, cheeks flushed from whatever pre-arrival adventure had wound him up. He barreled straight for Paul, throwing himself at his semi-bare leg—exposed below the shortalls—and squeezing tightly, little arms wrapping like vines. Paul, still with his own pacifier in place, felt a rush of warmth amid the awkwardness. This kid—he's pure energy, no filters, no judgments. Paul's voice came out muffled, softened by the silicone guard, mirroring William's enthusiastic slur—words slurred around the nipple, consonants softened, vowels breathy. “Hi Wil-yum.” Both Kim and Lilly cooed in unison, their voices overlapping like a harmonious chorus.   "Oh, how cute!" Lilly said, hand over her heart, eyes sparkling with that blend of step-mom pride and genuine delight. "Ain't that just the sweetest thing?" Kim added, her Southern drawl wrapping the words in honey.   Paul blushed, heat creeping up his neck like a slow tide. He wasn't fully "little" yet—not sunk into that space where worries dissolved—but moments like this tugged him closer. I'm eighteen, not two... but it's nice, isn't it? Being wanted like this. He pulled out his pacifier with a soft pop, repeating his welcome clearer now, voice steady but shy.   "Hi, William." William beamed up at him, unfazed, and thrust forward his stuffed Leonardo ninja turtle—blue-masked, swords at the ready, plush fabric worn from endless hugs. "Weo! Weo pway!"   He grabbed two of Paul’s fingers in his chubby hand, tugging insistently—his grip surprisingly strong for such tiny digits—wanting to lead him off to whatever imaginary battlefield awaited. But that’s when Kim reached down, scooping William up with effortless strength and settling him on her hip.   "No, no, no—not yet, sweet boy. Before Pauly can pway, his mama needs to get him into a dwy diapee, just like how Mama just changed you, my wittle stink bug."   She planted a smacking kiss on William's cheek, eliciting a cascade of giggles from him—bubbly, unrestrained. Still with the pacifier in his mouth, William tilted his head, eyes wide, words tumbling out muffled and toddler-simple.   “Paw change?”   Lilly nodded, her voice soft and affirming, fully immersed now—baby talk flowing like a gentle stream, washing away any adult edges. “Dat’s wight, hunny-bunny. Aunty Wiwwy is gonna change Paw before pwaytime. Gotta get dat soggy bottom all dry and cozy-wosy!”   Kim started leading them both into the living room, her boots clicking softly on the hardwood as she balanced William's wriggling form.   "Just leave him in his plastic pants and diaper, sugar—she’s got a comfy surprise for both these boys."   She glanced back at Paul with a wink, her matronly presence radiating that unshakeable Southern confidence. As she looked to Paul, she said, "Show your mommy where we changed you last time, honey, and me and William will get the surprise and snackies ready."   William bounced in his mother's arms, pacifier bobbing wildly, his toddler energy uncontainable. "Nackies! Supwises!"   Lilly reached into the diaper bag slung over her shoulder, pulling out the plastic bottle Paul had drunk from earlier in the car—the one with the grips, now empty but still carrying the faint scent of fruit and yogurt. She handed it to Kim. "For his drink, if he gets thirsty."   Paul shook his head a bit, trying to sound grown up—voice pitching higher than he intended, edged with that inner tug-of-war. The bottle? Again? I appreciate the safety, but it feels like... backsliding.   “Hey, I, I umm... I don’t really want the bottle. Did you bring my sippy cup?”   He could feel the heat creeping up his neck with that request—admitting he wanted the sippy over the bottle. Lilly looked at him apologetically, brows furrowing in that sincere way she did when she slipped up, her mommy mode softening the edges but not fully retreating.   "Oh, honey-bunny, Mommy forgot your sippies at home. She turned to Kim. "Do you have any?"   Kim chuckled warmly, shifting William higher on her hip.   "Of course I do, sugar—but Paul, sweetie, I only have three, and they're toddler-sized. I don’t think it'll quench your thirst, honey. It’s only for today."   Paul didn’t want to look anymore like an infant and throw a fit—Don't make a scene; that's not growth. Accept the help, push through the embarrassment. So he just shook his head, watching Kim head into the kitchen, William still chattering about "snackies" in her arms. Paul didn’t want to look anymore like an infant and throw a fit—Don't make a scene; that's not growth. Accept the help, push through the embarrassment. So he just shook his head, watching Kim head into the kitchen, William still chattering about "nackies" in her arms—garbled toddler words spilling out like bubbles. With Lilly asking, voice gentle but expectant, fully in her element now—baby talk a complete wave over her, high and sing-songy,   “So honey, show Mommy where we can change that wet tushy-wushy of yours?"   Paul walked just a few feet into the living room and pointed to the side of the couch. "There—where nobody can see you."     The living room was the heart of the home: a sprawling living room–gourmet kitchen combo that wrapped around itself like a warm embrace. Soft morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows. The space was decorated for Thanksgiving: a mantel draped in garlands of faux leaves and berries, flickering battery-operated candles in hurricane vases, a centerpiece on the coffee table of pinecones, acorns, and small pumpkins. But already, holiday cheer overlapped—a large artificial Christmas tree had found a home in the living room, standing tall against the 12-foot ceilings. Pre-lit with soft white lights that twinkled gently, it embodied Southern elegance charm: adorned with ribbons in ivory and gold, heirloom ornaments of crystal and porcelain, magnolia blossoms woven into the branches, and a velvet tree skirt at the base embroidered with subtle holly motifs. A baby gate erected around it—white picket-style, low but sturdy—kept out big and little boys and girls of all ages, protecting the fragile decorations from curious hands.   Lilly nodded at Paul's choice, appreciating the privacy it offered. She began laying out Paul’s large safari-themed changing pad—soft vinyl with cartoon animals frolicking across it—and then the supplies: wipes in a fresh pack, cream for soothing, powder with its light, clean scent, a new safari-themed diaper and a trash bag for discreet disposal. She motioned for Paul to lay down, her movements calm and efficient, baby talk fully enveloping her like a cozy blanket.   “Down we go, let’s get that soggy diapee off and make it all gone!"   Paul complied, the chenille couch arm brushing his shoulder as he settled onto the pad. The change began sensory-first: the faint rustle of the shortalls' hook-and-loop enclosure popping open, the cool air hitting his skin as Lilly narrated softly, her voice a melodic stream of encouragement.   "Okay, sweet boy-bunny, let's get this soaked diapee off—feel that weight wifting? Dere we go, all fwee now! Bye-bye wettiess!"   The wet padding peeled away with a soft, sticky release, the air carrying a faint, neutral dampness quickly whisked into the trash bag.   "Time for some wipies—cool and gentle-wentle, wiping away every bit of dat messie-wessie. Doesn't dat feel fresh?"   The cloth glided smooth, methodical, leaving behind a tingling cleanliness.   "Alright lets get the cream rubbed in, nice and easy-peasy to keep dat skin happy-wappy and wash-fwee!"   Her fingers worked in light circles, the lotion's subtle chamomile scent rising, absorbing quickly.   "And powder—shake, shake—feel that so dry, just right."   The talc dusted like fresh snow, its baby-fresh aroma wrapping him in comfort.   "Legs up, baby—new diaper sliding under, fluffy and ready. Front up, tapes snuggy-wuggy—one, two, thwee, fouw! All taped up, secure and cozy-wozy!"   The fresh padding hugged him with a cushioned embrace, the plastic backing whispering as she adjusted the fit. When she finished, Kim came back into the living room, William giggling in her arms like a bundle of pure joy—his toddler laughs muffled around his paci, high and infectious. The toddler pointed excitedly, words tumbling out garbled and eager.   “Paw dwy? Weady fo supwise?”   Lilly laughed softly, helping Paul back to his feet—shortalls still open, leaving him in just the translucent green plastic pants over the fresh diaper, crinkling faintly with the movement. Her baby talk lingered, warm and immersive.   "Yes, he is—all dry and weady!" They both turned around and saw the surprise—Kim holding out Paul's outfit while William, now freshly changed into his own matching costume, bounced in her arms like a little green whirlwind. William's toddler-sized Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles onesie transformed him into Leonardo: a vibrant green fleece body mimicking the turtle's skin, with a bright orange shell printed boldly on the front and back, and a brown belt cinched at the waist bearing a shiny "L" buckle. The hood was the crowning touch: a blue bandana mask framing wide, cartoonish eyes stitched with playful determination, Leonardo's signature blue headband flapping slightly with his bounces. Footed bottoms kept his tiny toes cozy, the whole suit zipping up the front for easy access, soft and snug against his fleece pants from earlier—now a full hero ensemble that made him look like a mini leader of the pack, ready for adventure. Kim beamed, holding out Paul's adult version—the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hooded union suit for Raphael, embodying the turtles' playful spirit in larger scale. It featured a bold, sublimated design on soft, fuzzy fleece: the vibrant green body suit like Raphael's tough shell, accented by bright red bands on the arms, legs, and hood for his signature mask. The front showcased a large, cartoonish orange turtle shell , a brown belt wrapping around the waist with the prominent "R" buckle standing proud and metallic-shiny. The back mirrored it with a full shell print, complete with strap details for that authentic ninja vibe. The hood captured Raphael's fierce but fun essence: expressive cartoon eyes stitched wide and sassy, framed by a red bandana mask that tied the look together, ready to pull up for full transformation. A full zip-front for easy changes, footed bottoms with grippy soles for safe movement, and side pockets for small treasures. His stomach twisted. The embarrassment hit like a wave—hot, prickling, crawling up his neck and burning behind his ears. Part of him wanted to laugh it off, crack a sarcastic Raphael-style joke, or just politely decline and ask for his shortalls back. This wasn't him. This was dress-up. Infantile. The kind of thing that would make anyone at school—or worse, online—rip him apart if they ever saw it. He could already hear the inner voice that sounded suspiciously like his old bullies: Look at the diaper boy playing pretend. Pathetic. But then there was the other part. The quieter, warmer part that had been growing lately—the one that relaxed when Lilly cooed, that melted into the pacifier rhythm, that felt safe when the thick padding hugged him just right. That part looked at the suit and lit up—pure, uncomplicated joy bubbling up like soda fizz. We get to be ninjas. With William. Team. Play. No worries, no stress, just... fun. His fingers twitched toward the fabric, itching to feel how soft it was, how cozy it would be to zip up and disappear into the character for a while. The two sides warred in his chest: adult Paul cringing, cheeks flaming, wanting to bolt; little Paul bouncing on tiptoes, heart racing with giddy anticipation. He swallowed hard, throat tight around the conflict. Kim was still holding it out, patient, smiling that knowing Southern-mama smile that saw right through him. William was squealing "Wapha! Wapha pway!" around his pacifier, tiny Leo shell bouncing with every excited hop. Paul's hand lifted—slow, hesitant—then closed around the fleece sleeve. The fabric was impossibly soft, like a hug waiting to happen. He met Lilly's eyes, then Kim's, searching for judgment and finding only warmth.   "I... um..." His voice cracked, caught between the two versions of himself. "It looks... kinda cool. For William, I mean. He really wants to play ninjas."   Lilly's expression softened, understanding flickering there. She didn't push, didn't baby-talk him into it—just waited, letting him feel the choice. He nodded once, small but decisive.   "Okay. Let's... let's do it."   The words came out shaky, but the relief underneath was real. Adult Paul still cringed in the background, whispering this is ridiculous, but little Paul was already grinning inside—ready to be Raphael, shell and all, for as long as the game lasted.   Kim's smile widened. "That's my brave boy. Come here, sugar—let's get you suited up." William squealed louder, clapping his tiny hands. William squealed around his paci, bouncing harder. "Weo an Wapha! Pway!"   Paul let out a small, nervous laugh—the sound half-embarrassed, half-relieved—and stepped forward. The inner tug-of-war wasn't over. It never really was. But right now, just for this moment, the joy outweighed the cringe. Paul let out a small, nervous laugh—the sound half-embarrassed, half-relieved—and stepped forward. Kim’s hands were gentle but efficient, the same capable Southern-mama hands that had changed a thousand diapers and rocked a thousand tantrums. She held the Raphael suit open like a green invitation.   “Arms up, sugar. Let’s get this brave boy suited up before he changes his mind.”   Paul raised his arms on autopilot as the fleece slid down over his head first—soft as a cloud, smelling faintly of fabric softener and something warmer, like the inside of a blanket fort. It whispered against his ears, then his cheeks, before the hood settled. Kim tugged it into place, the red bandana mask framing his face perfectly. For one dizzy second, he was looking out through cartoon ninja eyes, and the world felt… smaller. Safer. Lilly knelt to help with the legs, her manicured nails brushing the translucent green plastic pants that still cradled his fresh diaper. The fleece legs slipped on easily, footed bottoms with their grippy soles hugging his toes. Kim zipped from the bottom up—zzzip—each inch sealing him tighter into the suit. The large orange shell on his chest rose and fell with his quick breaths. The brown belt with its shiny “R” buckle cinched at his waist, completing the look.   “Perfect,” Kim breathed, stepping back.   William bounced in place, pacifier bobbing, tiny green shell gleaming. “Wapha! Big stwong Wapha!”     Paul turned toward the antique mirror in the hallway. The reflection hit him like a slow-motion punch. There he was—just a week and a day away from 18 years old, his body now wrapped in bright green fleece, red mask hood framing a face that still carried the shadow of teenage acne and late-night study sessions. The cartoon shell on his chest looked absurd. The footed bottoms made his stance slightly pigeon-toed. And beneath it all, the unmistakable bulk of the safari diaper pushed the fleece out in a gentle, padded dome.   God, I look like a giant toddler who lost a bet.   Heat flooded his face. He could already imagine the memes if anyone ever saw this. Diaper boy plays dress-up. His stomach twisted so hard he almost reached for the zipper. But then William launched himself at Paul’s leg again, hugging tight, looking up with pure hero worship. “Wapha save Weo fwom Foot Cwan!”   Something in Paul’s chest cracked open—just a hairline fracture, but the light that spilled through it was warm and golden. This time, the little side of him—the one he’d been shoving down deeper and deeper, layer by layer, like burying a secret in wet sand—didn’t whine or beg or claw its way out. It sang.   A pure, bubbling joy erupted from that fracture, fizzy and uncontainable, like the first sip of soda on a hot day. The memory flooded in—sharp, vivid, pulling him back across the years with the force of a riptide. He was six again,small and skinny, his legs dangling off the edge of the worn leather couch in their old family room—the one before the big house. The TV glowed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song, that brassy trumpet blasting through the speakers, filling the room with adventure. Dad’s strong arms scooping him up mid-jump, lifting him high like he weighed nothing. The world spun, the ceiling fan blurring into a whirlwind, and Paul’s giggles erupted—uncontrolled, belly-deep, the kind that left him breathless and begging for more.   “Cowabunga, dude!” Bryan had roared, his voice gravelly with play-pretend ninja grit. He twisted Paul in the air, making him “fly” like a turtle leaping from a rooftop, before tossing him gently—whoosh—onto the massive pile of couch pillows they’d built into a makeshift lair. Feathers from an old throw pillow puffed up around them like smoke from a comic-book explosion. Paul landed in a heap of limbs and laughter, rolling onto his back, swords clutched tight, his chest heaving with joy.   “God, I love being a Turtle!” Bryan had shouted, collapsing beside him in exaggerated defeat, one arm draped over Paul’s small shoulders.   He dropped into a crouch, the diaper crinkling loudly inside the fleece, and ruffled William’s hooded head.   “Yeah, little dude. Foot Clan doesn’t stand a chance.”   Lilly’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing once—proud, tender, a little possessive. Her eyes in the mirror were shining. My big boy, they seemed to say. My brave, beautiful Raphael.   Before both boys could bolt away into their own bursts of pent-up energy, Kim gently but firmly guided William with one practiced hand resting between his small shoulder blades, while Lilly guided Paul with a soft, encouraging touch between his own broader ones.   “Easy now, my little ninjas,”   Lilly murmured, her voice a velvet ribbon of warmth that wrapped around Paul like the fleece he now wore. They steered the pair back toward the center of the living room, carefully seating them onto the floor right in front of the couch—which had become a nest of sorts, with stacks of pillows placed around like protective walls and soft, fuzzy blankets spread out in thick, inviting layers. It was the kind of thoughtful, lived-in setup that screamed safety: no hard edges, no judgment, just a space engineered for little bodies (and bigger ones who needed the same tenderness) to simply exist without the weight of the outside world.   In front of them, the large flat-screen TV glowed to life, playing the 1980’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon. The iconic theme song blasted through the speakers—brassy trumpets and driving drums filling the sunlit room with pure nostalgic adrenaline—as Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo, and Donatello leapt across cartoon rooftops, their colorful masks flapping in the animated wind. The volume was set low enough to be comforting rather than overwhelming, the colors popping bright against the soft white lights of the pre-lit Christmas tree standing guard behind the baby gate.   A mountain of toddler toys awaited them, carefully arranged in an inviting, colorful spread that invited tiny hands (and not-so-tiny ones) to dive right in: soft building bricks in vibrant primary colors stacked in neat towers ready to tumble, a few colorful rattles that chimed with the gentlest shake, stacking rings in graduated rainbow sizes waiting to be balanced or knocked over, and the main course—TMNT action figures specifically designed for toddlers. The turtles had their signature weapons—swords, nunchucks, bo staff, sai—but every single one was safely glued to the back of the shells or firmly glued into their hands, turning potential hazards into harmless play companions. Along with the core turtles, Kim must have bought more because the collection was impressively complete: there was the Turtle Van with its bright green body and rolling wheels that actually spun, a handful of Foot Soldier figures in their purple and gray armor standing at rigid attention, April O’Neil in her bright yellow jumpsuit with camera in hand, Casey Jones with his hockey stick and goalie mask, Master Splinter in his flowing brown robe and wise whiskers, Bebop and Rocksteady in their wild mutant forms with their punk-rock spikes and mohawks, and the formidable Shredder himself with his spiked shoulder pads and menacing helmet glinting under the TV light.   William’s eyes darted between the TV and the toys with pure, unfiltered toddler wonder, his pacifier bobbing rapidly as high-pitched sounds of delight escaped around the silicone nipple—little “ooh!” and “ahh!” noises that made his whole body wiggle inside the green Leonardo onesie. His chubby fingers reached out immediately, grabbing for the nearest figures with uncoordinated but enthusiastic determination, slapping the Turtle Van sideways so its wheels spun wildly. Paul, while fully immersed in his “little” state, still possessed more awareness and focus than William.  His larger fingers moved with surprising gentleness and purpose among the soft plastic, separating the villains from the heroes with focused care—placing the Foot Soldiers, Shredder, Bebop, and Rocksteady on one side of the fuzzy blanket in a neat villain lineup, while lining up the heroic turtles, April O’Neil, Casey Jones, and Master Splinter on the other, creating clear battle lines for the epic play that was about to unfold. The plastic felt cool and smooth under his fingertips; the faint crinkle of his fresh safari diaper beneath the Raphael fleece suit reminded him he was protected, held, supported. This isn’t losing control, adult Paul thought, the inner conflict still humming but softer now, like a distant storm. The accidents, the stress that made everything leak and unravel… they don’t own me here.   Kim and Lilly stood just a few steps back, watching with open, unbridled glee for a few moments, their faces lit with matching smiles of pure delight that reached their eyes and softened every line of worry.Lilly felt her heart expand until it pressed against her ribs, a complex wave of emotions rising like the tide. Pride—yes, the kind every mother (step or otherwise) craved—mixed with deep, genuine maternal fulfillment. He’s thriving, she thought, manicured fingers twisting together in quiet joy. Not because I took his adulthood, but because I gave him permission to let the tired parts rest.  Her own inner conflict softened further: the ambitious woman who still craved follower counts and sponsorships now shared space with the woman who would move mountains to keep that peaceful look on Paul’s face. Growth, pure and simple.    Kim turned to Lilly with a soft, knowing nod toward the kitchen just steps away.  “Let’s let them play, sugar,” she whispered, her drawl wrapping the words in honeyed warmth.  “I’ll get those snackies and drinks ready for our little ninjas while they settle in.”   Lilly smiled, giving Paul one last loving glance—her eyes glistening with the kind of pride that came from watching someone you love find peace—before following her friend. The soft click of their boots on the hardwood faded gently, leaving the boys in their cozy pillow nest, Paul glanced up briefly as the moms disappeared into the kitchen, then back down at his carefully sorted armies. A small, contented sigh escaped around his pacifier.   The kitchen unfolded like a sun-drenched sanctuary just beyond the living room’s cozy chaos—a gourmet expanse where polished marble countertops gleamed under pendant lights shaped like antique lanterns, their soft glow casting warm halos over the space. Kim moved with the effortless grace of a woman who had turned motherhood into her empire, her rust-orange sweater sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she reached for a chilled bottle of prosecco from the wine fridge. “Mimosas, sugar?” she asked Lilly with a conspiratorial wink, her drawl wrapping the invitation in warmth. “We’ve earned ‘em after wranglin’ those two little heroes into their shells.”   Lilly slid onto one of the leather barstools at the expansive island, her posture relaxing for the first time that morning, though her eyes flicked back toward the living room where Paul and William’s giggles rose in harmonious bursts over the cartoon’s upbeat soundtrack. “Absolutely,” she replied, her voice carrying that polished influencer lilt softened by genuine affection. As Kim popped the cork with a soft fizz—the sound echoing like a gentle celebration—she poured generous splashes of prosecco into the flutes, topping them with fresh-squeezed orange juice that swirled in golden eddies. Bubbles rose lazily to the surface, catching the light like tiny jewels. She slid one across the island to Lilly, clinking her glass against it with a satisfied clink.   “To our brave boys,” Kim toasted, her eyes crinkling with the kind of joy that came from deep-rooted fulfillment. “And to us mamas, keepin’ it all together one playdate at a time.”   They sipped in unison, the crisp effervescence dancing on their tongues—a perfect balance of tart citrus and sparkling indulgence. As they settled into the rhythm of conversation, both women turned to the Thanksgiving prep spread across the island: bowls of fresh ingredients waiting like actors in the wings. Kim handed Lilly a wooden spoon and a large mixing bowl filled with cubed sourdough bread, toasted to golden perfection.   “Let’s start with your famous stuffing, darlin’,” Kim said, her voice warm with encouragement. “I’ve got the pecans chopped and the pomegranate seeds ready to go—Italian pork sausage is browning in the skillet over there.”   Lilly nodded, diving in with practiced ease, her hands—still bearing the faint shimmer of yesterday’s manicure—folding the ingredients together: the crunchy pecans adding earthy texture, the ruby-red pomegranate seeds bursting with tart sweetness as they mingled with the savory pork, onions sautéed to translucent tenderness, and fresh sage leaves torn by hand for that herbal punch. The aroma rose immediately—rich, comforting, a blend of sweet and salty that promised holiday magic. As she stirred, Kim worked beside her on a few other dishes: peeling sweet potatoes for a candied yam casserole, their orange flesh yielding under the peeler in long, curling strips; whisking eggs for a creamy green bean casserole topped with crispy fried onions; and glazing a ham with a bourbon-molasses reduction that simmered on the stove, filling the air with smoky sweetness. Their movements were synchronized, a dance of friendship and shared purpose, the clink of utensils and soft sizzle of pans underscoring their words like a gentle soundtrack.   “So,” Lilly began, sipping her mimosa and glancing at Kim with genuine interest, “tell me about that parental newsletter of yours. I’ve been seein’ snippets on your feed—looks like you’re buildin’ quite the team.”   Kim’s eyes sparkled with passion as she spoke, her internal world alive with the drive that had turned her from a stay-at-home mom into a quiet powerhouse. This isn’t just content; it’s connection, she thought, motivated by the letters she received from parents navigating similar paths—toddlers with sensory needs, families rebuilding after loss. Growth for her was in the expansion:   “Oh, honey, it’s growin’ faster than William after a nap. I’m orchestratin’ a whole team of contributors now—other mommies sharin’ their triumphs with sleep routines or sensory play, and even daddies jumpin’ in with stories about bondin’ over backyard adventures or navigatin’ those tough toddler tantrums. We’re testin’ products together—everything from eco-friendly diapers to adaptive toys—and sharin’ honest success stories. Last week, one daddy wrote about how a simple weighted blanket changed his son’s bedtime battles. It’s all about showin’ folks that with the right tools, those medical or mental hurdles don’t stop the joy—they just shape it differently.”   Lilly listened, stirring the stuffing with rhythmic care, the pecans crunching softly under the spoon.  “That sounds incredible,” Lilly said, her voice sincere. “You’re creating a space where parents don’t feel alone. Speaking of passions… I have to show you these.”   She pulled out her phone, scrolling to her camera roll with one hand while folding in more pomegranate seeds with the other—their juicy pops adding vibrant color to the stuffing mix. The GAP fashion shoot photos loaded: Lilly in Ft. Lauderdale, sunlight kissing her platinum waves as she posed in casual chic ensembles—flowy blouses paired with high-waisted jeans, autumnal layers that screamed effortless style. The shots captured her mid-laugh, wind-tousled hair framing her face, the beach backdrop blurring into azure waves behind her.   “These are from the GAP shoot last week,” Lilly shared, tilting the screen toward Kim. “It was surreal—back in front of the camera like old times, but now with that mommy glow, you know? And get this—I directed Martina’s cooking show episode right after. Here, watch this clip.”   She hit play on a short video: Martina in a sunlit kitchen, her warm smile beaming as she demonstrated a simple yet elegant birro tacos and baked empanadas— Lilly’s direction shone through in the smooth camera pans, the close-ups on sizzling ingredients, and the heartfelt narration that wove in stories of family and resilience. Kim watched, nodding appreciatively, her own prep pausing as she layered the green bean casserole with creamy mushroom soup and cheese.   “Girl, that’s gorgeous—Martina’s a natural, and your eye? Spot on. You’re jugglin’ it all like a pro.”   The conversation flowed naturally from there, the mimosa bubbles mirroring the lighthearted shift. Kim set down her whisk, her thoughts drifting to her own recent escape—a reminder that even the most devoted mothers needed recharging.   “Speakin’ of jugglin’, Charles and I just got back from that week-long trip to the Florida Keys. Lord, it was heaven—needed after all the newsletter deadlines.”  Kim’s voice painted pictures as she glazed the ham with steady brushstrokes, the bourbon’s smoky notes rising in the air.   “We stayed at this little boutique resort in Key Largo—white clapboard cottages right on the water, with hammocks swayin’ under palm trees. One night, we found this romantic restaurant tucked away on Islamorada—open-air deck overlookin’ the sunset, strings of fairy lights twinklin’ like stars. We shared stone crab claws drippin’ in mustard sauce, fresh mahi-mahi grilled with mango salsa, and key lime pie that melted on your tongue—tart and sweet, just like life. Charles held my hand across the table, and for once, no interruptions, no little voices callin’ ‘Mama.’ Then the beach days—soft white sand under our feet, snorkelin’ in crystal-clear water where schools of colorful fish darted around coral reefs like livin’ rainbows. We’d lounge with piña coladas, watchin’ the waves roll in, talkin’ about everything and nothin’. It recharged us, reminded us why we built this family in the first place.”   Lilly smiled, folding the stuffing into a buttered casserole dish, the pecans and pomegranate seeds glistening like jewels amid the bread. Her own motivations surfaced—a blend of envy and resolve. That sounds like what Bryan and I need, she thought, her inner world stirring with conflict: the pull of her deepening bond with Paul clashing with the necessity of nurturing her marriage. Growth meant prioritizing it all, but hesitation crept in as she glanced back at the living room, where Paul’s giggles rose in a joyful crescendo, his Raphael-suited form tumbling gently with William amid the toys. Kim caught the glance, her empathy sharp as she moved to prep the yam casserole, layering sliced sweet potatoes with brown sugar and marshmallows.   “So, have you booked that 12-month cruise you and Bryan were talkin’ about? Sounds like the ultimate recharge.”   Lilly hesitated, her spoon pausing mid-stir, eyes lingering on Paul’s playful form—his face alight with unfiltered happiness, the kind she’d fought so hard to unlock. How can I leave him, even for us? The conflict tugged: her love for Bryan, the foundation of their life, versus the protective instinct that had grown roots in her soul through Paul’s challenges. She looked back at Kim, voice soft but steady.   “No… not yet. That’ll have to be a conversation with Bryan when he gets back from Tokyo in a few weeks.”   Kim shared a knowing smile with her friend, her hand pausing on the yam dish as she reached out to squeeze Lilly’s arm gently— a gesture of sisterly solidarity.   “Darlin’, you need to keep you and Bryan’s relationship strong. Sometimes that means takin’ time away from even the cutest of little ones. It’s how you come back even better for ‘em.”   Lilly nodded, agreement settling over her like a warm blanket, her growth evident in the way she let the words sink in without resistance. She’s right—balance keeps us all steady. “We’ll work something out,” she said, her voice resolute as she topped the stuffing with a drizzle of olive oil, ready for the oven.   Playtime unfolded in parallel with the parents in the pillow nest like a burst of unscripted magic, sheer play pure and simple between the two boys—William’s boundless toddler energy colliding with Paul’s more structured but increasingly liberated joy. Paul led at times, his teenage awareness guiding the play into loose narratives drawn from the cartoon’s glow. He’d grab Master Splinter and the Turtle Van, positioning them strategically amid the stacking rings turned “sewer tunnels,” his voice muffled around the pacifier but enthusiastic.   “Okay, Wil-yum, Weo an’ Wapha gotta save Apwil fwom da Foot!”   His larger hands moved with careful precision, building a wobbly brick fortress for the heroes, the grippy soles of his footed suit providing traction as he scooted on his knees—the diaper’s cushioned bulk shifting with a faint crinkle that no longer sparked embarrassment but felt like part of the armor. William, the actual toddler, was less worried about story than giggles; his chubby fingers grabbed indiscriminately, smashing Bebop into Rocksteady with wild swings that sent figures flying, his high-pitched laughs bubbling up like fizzy soda each time something toppled.  “Boom! Turtas go boom!” he squealed around his paci, his Leonardo onesie bunching as he belly-flopped onto the blanket, sending stacking rings scattering like colorful confetti.   At one point, William snatched a Foot Soldier from Paul’s lineup mid-battle, clutching it tight with a possessive “Mine!” and refusing to let go, his little fists white-knuckled around the soft plastic. Paul paused, a flicker of frustration crossing his hooded face—the adult side whispering Hey, that’s not fair, but the little side softening it into a gentle nudge. From the kitchen sidelines, Kim leaned over the island, her voice carrying warm authority without halting the fun:   “William, darlin’, we share with our friends—let Pauly have a turn too.”   William pouted but relented with a dramatic sigh, tossing the figure back haphazardly, and Paul felt a small swell of pride in handling it calmly, his tracker staying green as the supported environment absorbed the minor tension. Another moment came when William played too rough, lunging forward to “attack” with Casey Jones, swinging the figure wildly and bonking it against Paul’s arm—not hard enough to sting, but with enough toddler force to make Paul jolt in surprise. Laughter followed immediately from both, but Lilly called from her stool, her tone maternal and guiding:   “Gentle hands, boys—ninjas are strong, but they’re kind too.”   The bigger hiccup arrived amid a crescendo of giggles, as William’s eyes locked on the Shredder figure Paul held aloft, mid-“evil monologue” in his muffled play-voice. William reached out, his tiny hand grabbing for it insistently. Paul hesitated for a moment, his fingers tightening reflexively—the Shredder was the big villain, the key to his makeshift story arc, and a flash of possessiveness surged, the inner conflict bubbling up: It’s just a toy, but… it’s mine right now. William’s face crumpled, his pacifier dropping from his mouth with a soft plop onto the blanket, landing nipple-up amid the scattered bricks. He whined in full toddler language, high-pitched and insistent, tears welling at the corners of his eyes:   “Wanna sheder! Paw no shawe! Wanna sheder now!”   From the kitchen, Lilly’s head turned immediately, her maternal instincts sharp as she set down her mimosa mid-sip, her heart tugging at the scene—not just for William’s distress, but for the opportunity it presented Paul to practice kindness amid his own vulnerabilities.   “Paul, honey, share with William please,” she said gently, her voice carrying across the room like a soft bridge over the tension.   Paul felt embarrassment flush his cheeks hot beneath the Raphael hood—the adult side cringing at being called out like a child, the little side shrinking a bit in vulnerability. I’m supposed to be the big one here, he thought, conflict flickering but not overwhelming, the regression’s positive effects holding steady as he recognized this as a chance to grow, to model the sharing he himself needed in tougher moments. He handed over the Shredder figure without further protest, his pacifier still in his mouth muffling the words but not the sincerity.   “Sowwy, Wil-yum.”   Lilly smiled wide, her eyes glistening with pride, cooing softly from the sidelines. “Good job, baby.” The words landed like a warm embrace, affirming Paul’s choice and deepening his sense of security—the tracker’s green light a silent cheer for the emotional resilience building inside him. This small hiccup triggered both Lilly and Kim to exchange a quick, knowing glance across the island, their shared maternal radar aligning perfectly. Time for a reset, Kim thought, her motivations rooted in the practical wisdom of diffusing toddler tensions (big and small) with nourishment and routine—Lilly nodded, feeling the same pull, her growth evident in how seamlessly she balanced encouragement with intervention. They rose together, prepping the snackies with swift, coordinated hands: two silicone bowls—one green for William, one blue for Paul—filled with a mix of animal crackers shaped like zoo favorites, yogurt chews in fruity strawberry and banana flavors that melted softly on the tongue, and veggie sticks in carrot and cucumber varieties for a crisp, healthy bite. Plus, each boy received an open pouch of apple sauce—organic, smooth, and ready to squeeze. They carried the snacks over to the pillow nest, kneeling down amid the toys with warm smiles. William’s eyes lit up instantly; he dropped everything—including the Shredder toy he’d just whined about, letting it tumble forgotten to the blanket—and snatched the pouch greedily, sucking it down with noisy slurps, apple sauce smearing his chin as giggles bubbled up between gulps, his toddler world shifting effortlessly to the new delight. Paul was handed the pouch from Kim, who offered it with a sweet, encouraging smile.   “Here you go, sugar—nice and yummy for my big ninja.”   He looked at it strangely, the flexible packaging foreign in his larger hands, his pacifier falling out of his mouth to hang off the clip on his fleece suit, dangling like a badge of his softened state. Politely but shyly, his voice small amid the lingering embarrassment from the sharing moment, he said   “No thank you, Mama Kim.”   Kim looked at Paul with gentle persistence, her eyes kind and motivating: “Aw, honey, just give it a little try—it’s smooth and sweet, like a big hug for your tummy. You might like it more than you think.”   Paul’s gaze shifted toward Lilly for a way out, his inner conflict a soft tug—It looks weird, like baby food, the adult side whispered, but the regression’s positive hold encouraged openness, the green tracker affirming his calm. Lilly met his eyes with supportive warmth, her voice coaxing   “Go on, baby—try it for Mommy. You’re being so brave today.”   He slowly brought the pouch to his lips, hesitating a beat before sucking tentatively. The taste was as advertised—pure apple sauce, sweet and tangy like fresh orchard bites—but the texture was way too foreign for him, smooth and slurpy in a way that felt unfamiliar on his tongue, triggering a instinctive shake of his head no. He handed the pouch back to Lilly, his expression apologetic but firm. Lilly sighed softly—not in frustration, but in understanding—then smiled wide, her pride in his effort shining through.   “Good job for trying, baby.” She passed it back gently, leaving it with him on the blanket. “I’m gonna leave it right here—if you want more, you can have it anytime.”   Paul just set it away from him, out of immediate reach but not discarded, and tackled the bowl of snackies instead—the animal crackers crunching satisfyingly, the yogurt chews melting sweetly, the veggie sticks adding a fresh snap that grounded him further. As both William and Paul were finishing off their respective snackies, the two were getting ready for play with renewed energy bubbling up like fresh springs after a rain. That’s when both Lilly and Kim stepped in gently, Kim leaned down first with effortless strength honed from years of lifting her own little one, scooping William into her arms in one fluid motion and carrying him over to the side of the couch—the chenille fabric dipping slightly under their combined weight as she sat down, cradling him close against her chest like a precious bundle wrapped in love. Lilly, her eyes sparkling with that deep, evolving pride that had become her anchor through Paul’s journey, praised him softly for finishing all his yummies, her voice a melodic blend of encouragement and affection. “Look at my big boy, all done with his snackies—such a good eater today!” She took his hand in hers—her manicured fingers intertwining with his larger, calloused ones from basketball grips—and walked Paul over to the other side of the couch, her steps slow and reassuring, the faint crinkle of his diaper beneath the Raphael fleece a quiet underscore to the moment. Lilly sat down first, the cushions sighing under her as she smoothed her slacks and patted her lap invitingly. Then, to the best of her ability, she pulled Paul down next to her—his taller frame requiring a gentle tug and shift, but he yielded without resistance, settling his head in her lap with a trusting exhale, the hood of his suit framing his face like a cozy frame around a cherished photo. Kim cradled William even tighter, her arms rocking him instinctively in a rhythm as old as motherhood itself, while both mothers whispered it was time for milkies, their voices overlapping in harmonious softness as they each held out Paul and William’s respective bottles—William’s smaller than Paul’s, a pint-sized version with a playful turtle sticker on the side, but both filled with the same warm milk designed for gentle nourishment. The boys were fed the same, the silicone nipples pressing to their lips in unison, the quiet suckling sounds filling the air like a lullaby’s prelude—rhythmic, soothing, a shared ritual that bridged the gap between toddler and teenager.   Soon, it was just both Lilly and Kim softly whispering sweet nothings into their boys’ ears as they each nursed, the words weaving a tapestry of unconditional love and security—intimate murmurs that wrapped the moment in closeness, each phrase a tender brushstroke painting the scene with warmth. Lilly leaned down slightly, her breath soft against Paul’s ear as she cooed,   “That’s it, my precious ninja, drink up all that yummy milkie—Mommy’s so proud of her big boy, takin’ it all in like a champ, feelin’ all cozy and loved.”   Her free hand moved lovingly, patting Paul’s outer thigh with tender strokes that traced the soft fleece, then gently cupping the bottom of his diapered behind—the padded bulk yielding slightly under her touch, a reassuring reminder of the protection that had become his safety net. He’s so peaceful like this, Lilly thought, her heart swelling with a complex fulfillment that had reshaped her world.  Kim, rocking William with a steady sway that creaked the couch faintly, whispered her own sweet nothings in that warm Southern drawl, her voice like honey dripping slow and sweet. “Oh, my darlin’ lil’ turtle, sippin’ that milkie so good—Mama’s heart’s just burstin’ with love for her brave boy, all snuggled up safe and sound, dreamin’ of adventures already.” She sang enough of a lullaby—her voice a soft, melodic drawl with that warm Southern Georgia accent, drawin’ out the vowels long and lazy like a lazy river windin’ through magnolia trees “Hush lil’ baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy ya a mockin’bird… an’ if that mockin’bird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy ya a diamond ring…”—causing both William and Paul’s eyes to drift, heavy lids fluttering like butterfly wings in the warm late morning light.   The bottles were eventually empty, the last drops savored with contented sighs, the air thick with the milky scent and the faint, powdery aroma rising from the boys’ suits. Kim’s motivations shone in her gentle handling. With Lilly saying in a mix of baby talk and gentle tones, her voice wrapping the words in affectionate warmth.   “It looks like we’ve got ourselves two tired wittle ninja’s rewady for a nap,” the observation hung in the air like a soft blanket, acknowledging the peaceful drowsiness settling over the room. William whined softly, his voice a sleepy protest muffled against Kim’s shoulder: “No nap, pway wif Paw…”   Kim chuckled lightly, the sound rich with understanding and humor, her hand stroking William’s back in soothing circles.   “Aw, sugar, you can play after a quick nap—promise, Mama’s got you.” With Kim looking over at Paul, her eyes twinkling with that knowing Southern warmth, saying, “Come on, sugar, let’s show Mommy Lilly where you slept the last time you stayed here, remember the nursery?”

A false win is still a win.  So, again, I win.

Very interesting data @boogles. Keep us updated!

Nope, I am the true winner!

Well, I’d have to say that first off I use and wear a premium adult diaper for urinary incontinence. It feels kind of weird and naughty but exciting and comfortable to make a big load of turd in my diaper. It’s hard for me in the morning when I’m peeing a lot to hold in so I just end up making my first big large long well formed big but not messy load of turd in my diaper. It feels pretty good when I’m giving us hard push to get the turd to come out. It’s a pleasurable feeling when it’s coming out of my anus and I give the final push to get that big load out and it presses up against the back of the diaper and then hangs, but then falls in. I love it when it’s a really long turd and it goes back in the middle of the back of the diaper and then up the front a little. Since it’s always never messy I keep my diaper on and just go and wash dishes. Do some cleaning in the kitchen and sweeping maybe vacuuming. I’ll usually make another big turd in the diaper about two or three hours later then after that, I’ll pretty much after 30 minutes change into a fresh diaper I make a big load again in my diaper between 6 PM and 11 PM if I’m at home or if I’m coming home late from New York City or a outdoor concert in the summer as I’m leaving the concert in the summer there’s only those porta potties once you’re out of the venue so I really don’t want to go to one of those so I’d much rather and it’s more convenient for me to just make  my diaper again. So I pretty much make a big large load of turd in my diaper twice in the morning and then once in the evening. My girlfriend was accepting of me having to wear a diaper for urinary incontinence. She was a little bit more annoyed about me making poop in my diaper in the morning, but I told her it was hard for me to hold in now she pretty much knows I do it for convenience in the evening and make some annoyed comments. She even told a couple of her best girlfriends that I’m diapered for urinary incontinence, but she tells him my poop in the diaper too. Even one of them was over one time when I had to make an my girlfriend told me that she wanted to see how it looked when someone made in the diaper. I felt kind of embarrassed, but excited and I had a really big load. She said “oh my God I can see it making a big bulge against the back of the diaper. Then she asked was it messy and I told you no it’s a big and solid. She asked if I was gonna change right away. My girlfriend said “no he isn’t. He’ll keep it on for two or three hours“ her girlfriend Jennifer didn’t quite know what to say but I guess she ended up saying it doesn’t really hurt anyone and if you like it, it’s better than my last boyfriend who was a drug user a lot more trouble there than someone who likes to make a big load of turd in his diaper every day a couple times a day