Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
I remember the first time I truly embraced my role as an ABDL Mama. It wasn’t some grand revelation under a disco ball, it was more like a slow, creeping realization. Things began innocently enough, with a few playful indulgences. But before I knew it, my linen closet was less about sheets and more about industrial-sized diaper bundles. And my mornings routinely kicked off with a debate over whether the “baby” preferred his pureed squash or a somewhat lumpy oatmeal.
The alarm clock wasn’t just ringing anymore; it was practically a lullaby for grown men in footie pajamas, and I frequently found myself trying to decipher complex grunts and gurgles. To anyone else, they would sound like a malfunctioning plumbing system but, to me, they were clearly demands for more juice. My grocery runs became legendary. Gone were the days of buying kale and quinoa! My trips to the grocery store are more about a veritable convoy of baby wipes, oversized onesies, and enough powdered formula to feed a small army. An army that, conveniently, always needed a nap after consuming said formula.
my role as an ABDL Mama
My car, once a symbol of freedom, now resembled a mobile nursery, perpetually scented with a delicate blend of baby powder and the faint, unsettling whiff of something that definitely wasn’t baby powder.
One memorable afternoon, I was attempting to introduce “little” Bartholomew – a man who, I should remind you, was a certified tax accountant by day – to the delights of finger painting. I’d meticulously laid out newspapers, prepared non-toxic paints, and even donned my least favorite (read: most stain-resistant) apron. Within minutes, Bartholomew managed to paint not just the paper, but also half the kitchen wall, and somehow, inexplicably, the inside of his own ear. When I tried to gently redirect him, he let out a wail that could curdle milk, flopped onto the floor, and thumped his fists in a tantrum so convincing, I half expected his actual mother to materialize and demand answers. I just sighed, grabbed another roll of paper towels, and began the laborious process of de-finger-painting the entire room.
The sheer mental gymnastics involved in ensuring no one ever suspected my home was a literal adult playpen was, frankly, exhausting, but also a source of endless, secret amusement. Watching one of my “babies” drift off to sleep, pacifier gently falling from his lips, after a particularly exhausting day of building block towers or pretending to be a train, filled me with a warmth I hadn’t anticipated. The sheer innocence they embodied in those moments, shedding the stresses of the adult world, was genuinely heartwarming, even if that innocence sometimes manifested as an inexplicable desire to eat crayons or hide my car keys in the diaper pail.
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
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