Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
It started when the power went out. Flickering lights, the fridge groaning, right as I was tucking Benny into his bed. “Mama Cory, was that thunder?” he whispered, wide-eyed, clutching a stuffed waffle toy. I smoothed his hair, adjusted his thick pull-up, and said, “No, baby. Just the flux capacitor acting up again.” I wasn’t sure what I meant, but it sounded sci-fi enough to soothe him.
As the basement lightbulb popped with a suspicious snap, I told my boy to stay put, kissed him on the forehead, and grabbed my glow-in-the-dark taser (which, admittedly, was just a repurposed sex toy). Armed with maternal instinct, I descended the stairs into the dark, humming the theme song to my favorite show as a way to stay focused.
Flickering lights
Downstairs, the air smelled like ozone and forgotten bottles of warm milk. The bulkhead door creaked open by itself. “Oh, for the love of clean onesies,” I muttered, stepping forward, only to trip over what I swear was a mini portal pulsing with pink light and the faint sound of synth-pop. From it emerged a man. Bare-chested. Glowing faintly. And wearing nothing but a soaked adult diaper. “Mama?” he croaked, shivering. “Took me ten years to find you.”
Now, I’ve been a caregiver for weirdos before. Competitive spoon sleepers, a guy who only communicated in emoji…but this? This was next-level. Still, protocol is protocol. I wrapped him in a fleece blanket, snapped a fresh diaper in place with industrial efficiency, and sat him in the time-out corner with a squeezy snack. “You’re not leaving this dimension until you can explain why you’re wearing absorbent underwear like it’s battle armor,” I said, placing my hands on my hips. He looked up, pupils dilated, and whispered, “The Upside Down has no changing tables, Mama.”
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
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