I want to be Thwee

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I want to be Thwee.

I listen to the track by Queen – but I don’t hear their words. I misheard it as 'I want to be Three'. Part of me did want to go back to being three. When my mummy loved me. Was that where this began?

I want to be three. I liked being three. When I was able to wear satin and frills and I had curly blonde hair and I felt so happy. When I had a mummy. When I had a daddy.

Then things changed.

Mummy died, I think, that’s what people said. But I don’t remember her being ill. I just remember her smile when she said ‘I’m going away’.

Then Daddy became angry. About everything. And I know now that he lost his job, he started drinking heavily, he got into arguments, he was arrested but sort-of let off with a warning. But this didn’t stop him. There was family money – there isn’t any more. So he was able to keep things going for several years.

But me – I was not important in his life. I was sent away to schools for termtime. For holidays, I was sent to camps and to stay with friends – huh, strangers really. And I was a sad, lonely, hurting child.

Dad’s dead – not exactly of drink – but he fell and broke his hip – sepsis and complications. He lingered for a month or more but I rarely visited. What was I supposed to say to him. I was all too certain that he would have nothing of value to tell me.

Why can’t I go back to then. When I was little and my life was new and fresh and there was a future.

I’m 20 now. I’ve left school and I’m pretty much average everything – not too tall, not too fat, not too short, not too thin. Average results but not enough to make University a sensible option. I’ve done my time in the nasty, smelly fast-food joints. I’ve been a shop assistant, a bookie’s assistant and now I’m working at the newsagents. The boss has expanded to four shops and so, if I keep going, I could stay with this job and build up some savings. The idea of a girlfriend requires some spending money. A car, a flat …. Much further away. But I can hope. And I can plan.

And one day – I was drifting from porn-site to porn-site and I came across ‘Adult Baby – Is it for YOU’.

WOW.

Mega WOW.

What a strange question.

But it made me look.

~o~O~o~

And that was the beginning.

I kept looking. I spent hours that evening – looking at so many new and puzzling things. How could an adult want to do that. But then I remembered the too-many nights looking at other strange behaviours, yeah, you can call them fetishes if you want. But all I knew was ‘ain’t people STRANGE’. And this was stranger than most. And sometimes it was me too.

It didn’t take long. I started going into Mothercare – just to remind myself about all the baby things that real babies might need. In the supermarket, looking at the Baby aisle. Soon, I had to buy some of the pots of babyfood. They were almost all tasteless and ghastly. But then I realized how easily a baby’s tastebuds could be overwhelmed by salt or any of the other strong adult flavours. I got used to pap.

Soon I bought an adult-baby pacifier and feeding-bottle. I’ve read about addicts and how quickly they succumb to nicotine, cocaine, drugs of all sorts – including sugar. I’ve read about addictive behaviours too and how the dopamine and serotonin drive the brain chemistry to more addiction. But being a baby. I couldn’t be interested in that.

No.

NO. A thousand times NO.

But something was driving me on and on into more babyish activity. I bought a CD of baby nursery rhymes. Soon it was the only music I listened too.

The books I read … soon I was reading children’s books … then books for young children. I even felt at times that it was too difficult to do some of my work. I felt more and more alone.

I knew, somewhere deep in what was left of my working brain, that there must be others like me otherwise why would such material be available. There must be wannabe-babies, carers, helpers, manufacturers too wouldn’t make without a viable market. I wasn’t alone – I did know that – but by golly I felt lone. And I didn’t know what to do.

It’s hard to hide something that’s taken over your life.

I put NetNanny on my work computer to prevent me using it for baby-stuff at work. I know that sounds contrary – but it helped. At home, however, it seemed necessary to indulge more. A sort of compensation for ‘being so good at work’.

My brain became filled with baby Baby BABY.

It didn’t take long before I was looking deeper at the adverts – the professionals who wanted to take money so they could cater to my needs, wishes, desires … ?hopes … DEMANDS. But I didn’t want to go down that route while I felt I retained the capacity to separate Baby and Me. There was enough of the time I was an adult, able to make choices. I did love the time I was Baby – because then I felt that nothing mattered, all my needs were safely delivered. I did know that there might come a time when I would need to give that control away – especially if I felt that Adult-me wasn’t coping well enough. Or that Baby had become too demanding. Needed more than Adult-me could manage. If Baby was allowed to worry – and babies shouldn’t – that was a worrying flicker hiding at the back of my thoughts.

But as things were, I knew, I knew, I was coping. We were coping. A touch of deliberate schizophrenia – I don’t think so.

I looked at clothing – things that limited my control, made me more babylike. Those came first. Mittens so that I had no control of my fingers. Smooth satin and soft cashmere instead of ‘ordinary male clothes’. There was considerable time deciding whether to adopt a blue or pink style – even though I knew that all derived from a 1920s advertising campaign of incredible effectiveness. I obviously went for pastel – very few clothes for babies are bold colours. Infants get some bold – but not babies. Yellow and Green mostly.

After about three months, in a moment of adulting – that’s what I called it - I looked around my flat and realized how much Baby had taken over my life.

The big chair was surrounded by bright plastic – several pacifiers, drinking bottles, sippy-cups, bibs toys, cloth-books, mittens, my new baby-bonnet. The kitchen was a mass of babyfood containers and the new liquidiser – that Baby wasn’t allowed to touch. Even writing that sentence feels weird.

It wasn’t that long before I tried on a diaper.

Then again.

Then all night.

Then sometimes in the daytime.

Once at work.

Then again.

And I was sometimes using them. Mostly for peepees. But babies don’t have a lot of control – do they.

More and more often.

Having to make sort of adult choices as to whether I ‘enjoyed’ throwaway or washable.

I found myself in increasing turmoil while my remaining adult braincells tried to maintain control over this deeply strange ‘situation’.

Rather obviously, I didn’t invite anyone into my flat. Baby stuff all over a place without a Baby. Obvious much. Stupid much. But sometimes my brain didn’t think as well as it used to.

Then I found the hypnosis sites. Oh God. Or Oh Good – depends. Feminization sites – once you got past the anti-smoking, anti-drugs, self-help stuff. Sissy sites. Bimbo sites. At last I found a couple of Adult-Baby sites. Hooked – you’ve got to be joking. I went looking for the hook and impaled myself like the most willing fish ever. On purpose.

I wondered about how far I would go.

Were there limits I should set before I lost too much ability?

Hooked – addicted.

I got into real trouble at work as my spelling and grammar deteriorated. I was spenging all mytime in babymode.

Worse and worse.

Compleely Deliebwate.

Oh deeh.

Mumma – he’p.

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Comments

I really hope that the baby

Beoca's picture

I really hope that the baby in question was able to find a "Mumma" while there was still a chance of it.

Part 2?

doubtful...

it's the only one of this type in my collection - not really my preferred topic - so continuation doubtful as yet.
thanks for the comment
AP

Oh yes . . .

SuziAuchentiber's picture

The electrician calls - "I'm in the area so I'll just drop in and be there in 10 minutes"
Then you are a whirling dervish trying to clean up the room and make it "adult" for visitors to see and you answer the door to him and find you aew still wearing pink booties on your feet. .. . .and the wall calendar is Teletubbies . . . . .
Hugs&Kudos!!

Suzi