The Big Boy Bucket - Part I

CWIS'S NOTE: Up today I have the promised 'Big Boy Bucket' blog entry. This is kind of a continuation of my What Is Abysitting? page from the blog, but with less strictness. 

During my recent visit to CAPCON I was fortunate to finally meet up with Baby Spencey - a longtime Abysitter.com contributor and my online fwiend for almost six years! I also got to meet his daddy, Daddy Paul, who met Spencey after seeing so many of his photoshoots right here on this blog. Spencey and Paul also introduced me to a brand new friend, ShyTony. 

The four of us got together and took a whole bunch of photos of the 'Big Boy Bucket' and parts of the toddlerization process. This is Part I - Part II will be coming soon. 

I'll be looking for some abies local to me to participate in other 'toddlerization' photos in the future. If you're around central Florida and not hooked in to any sort of diaper drama, hit me up: abysitter@gmail.com. [18+]

THE BIG BOY BUCKET

PART I

You sit on the couch,

flicking through your text messages. 

You want to be babied,

but now that you're here it's a little...

awkward.

I know you've had a bit of stress back home, 

and a lack of opportunities to pad up lately. 

I can see that you desperately want to be little,

but you don't know where to begin. 

I've promised to toddlerize you, 

and make you feel like the 'true you' - two. 

You don't seem very little, though, at this moment. 

You sit across from me,

a very serious expression on your face,

and I watch you concentrate on those text messages

like your life depends on it. 

It's time to set things straight... 

I walk over and set the 'Big Boy Bucket' down

on the table with a sort of thud. 

You look up, startled for a moment. 

You've seen pictures of the bucket before

on my blog. 

Now it's inches in front of you. 

I can tell you don't know what to make of it. 

You read the label like it's a poison warning lol. 

"Pick it up and look inside," I instruct. 

You obediently comply.

The look on your face says it all... 

"Find the diaper pins and I'll let you

put the diaper on yourself," I tell you.

You move everything around inside the bucket,

but you don't see any diaper pins. 

You look closer... 

"Just kidding," I tell you. "There are no pins. 

Nor is there any way you're putting

that thing on yourself." 

I stand up, snap my fingers, point to the couch, 

and command you to lie down. 

You do.

Your face is beet red now. 

I'm not sure if it's because of what's to come, 

or because of the diaper pin trick. 

It doesn't matter. 

I put my finger to my lips, 

and tell you, "SHHHH." 

You know this means there's no more talking. 

Not that you could think of something 

to say at this moment, anyway... 

I pour the contents of the bucket onto the table. 

Diaper - check. 

Wipes - check. 

Powder - check. 

I'm doing my checklist out loud, 

as you lay quietly, taking everything in. 

I stand over you, gazing into your eyes as I 

lean down, undo your belt buckle,

and then pull your pants down and off in one

expert fluid motion. 

You look surprised by how fast it's all happening,

and your look of surprise intensifies

as I pull your feet up toward your head,

your bottom in the air, now. 

I slide the diaper up underneath you,

get you squeaky clean with just a few wipes

- and some intense wiping - 

and send a cloud of powder reigning down

across your torso, tummy, and li'l squirter. 

"I actually was going to ask to use the bathroom," 

you say. 

Just for talking

I flick you

somewhere nobody wants to be flicked,

and then shake my head

and point to your diaper.

The fact that your face

turns a much deeper shade of red

indicates that you understand. 

Potty? That's a big nope.

You're silent again. 

I tape each tape tightly,

making sure your diaper is on you 

like a second skin. I like diapers nice and snug. 

"Stand up," I order,

as I sit down across from you. 

You stand, putting your hands on your diaper, 

rubbing your bottom, and appearing to be 

marveling at its snugness.

I can't help but smile. 

"Hands at your sides," I cut in. 

You obediently stand, diapered, with your hands

hanging down. 

I let you stand and wait, awkwardly,

for two or three minutes

as I check my own text messages. 

You look toward your phone - I know you're tempted 

to pick it up and check your own texts - 

but you think better of it, 

and remain standing, 

silently,

waiting for me to finish.

I finish reading my phone and set it down on the desk. 

Full disclosure: I didn't really have any text messages. 

My phone is actually on 'airplane mode' now - 

(I take sitting pretty seriously. )

Still, you need to see that you're on my time, now. 

If I want to check my texts, or watch a movie,

or go out into the kitchen and bake a cake (lol), 

you'll stand quietly and wait. 

"Little boys should be seen and not heard"

is one old-fashioned motto

that fits modern-day abysitting well. 

That's what being my little is all about. 

"Take off your socks, and put them into the bucket," 

I finally command. 

You look relieved to have something to do, 

and comply quickly. 

I give you instructions, one item at a time,

making sure there's at least a half minute of 

awkward silence in between. 

"Put your shoes in the bucket, Spencer." 

You do. 

[awkward pause]

"Pick up your pants, fold them neatly, 

and put them on top of your shoes."

Quiet obedience follows. 

[awkward pause]

"Turn off any electronics you've brought with you,

and put them in the bucket." 

"Does that mean - " you begin to ask, 

but I snap my fingers and silence you. 

"Off, then in," I order. 

You obey, but I see you wishing for one last peek 

at your phone before you drop it in the bucket. 

Smartly, you resist the urge. 

"Put your car keys in, now." 

You look at me as if I might steal your car

and take it for a joyride. 

I look at you sternly, and you obediently drop them in. 

"Driver's license? Passport? Any other ID?" I ask.

You carefully pull out your identification,

handing it to me as if I need it to fill out

paperwork or something. 

I roll my eyes, chuckle, and toss it into the bucket. 

"From now on you're Baby Spencey," 

I tell you. "Not whatever that ID says." 

You nod. 

Once your cigarettes and rolling papers

top everything off, I tell you to pick up the bucket

and hold it up in the air. 

"What do the contents of this bucket represent

to you?" I ask you. 

I sit back, awaiting your answer. 

You look thoughtful, for a few moments, 

and I watch you mull my question over. 

"Well," you begin,

and I can tell you've come up with

something both thoughtful and introspective. 

I shake my head, cutting you off.

You roll your eyes. 

Tricked again... 

"I'd love to hear your thoughts, Spence...

some other time," 

I tell you as I hold up my phone and take a pic. 

You hold your bucket up, looking uncomfortable. 

I take a good minute looking at the pic, 

then take a few more while you wait,

for good measure. 

My time, little bro... 

I snap my fingers and point to the floor,

and you slowly get down on your knees, 

careful not to drop the bucket. 

I motion for you to follow me, 

and you do, awkwardly crawl-walking behind me. 

I stop by the bathroom and point to the toilet. 

You know better than to speak, 

but you look at me with a look of horror on your face. 

I read your mind. 

"Not in the toilet, on top of it," 

I command, rolling my eyes, 

and you look relieved as you obediently set

the contents of your life

on the lid of the commode. 

Now it's time to get serious. 

"Until I dismiss you later, you're in toddler mode," 

I tell you.

You smile a little, but blush at the same time. 

"Your dinner will come out of a baby bottle. 

Or a little jar with Gerber on the label.

You won't even see the potty again, 

or anything else in this room, 

until it's time to leave. 

Nod if you understand." 

You nod, and obey my gestured instructions

to crawl backward, 

across the bathroom floor,

away from all of your possessions. 

I push your stuff into the bucket,
put the top on and sort of seal it, and

point for you to crawl out into the bedroom.

I follow you, closing the door behind us. 

I can't be sure, but you seem more relaxed now. 

Like watching all your grownup stuff

be sealed in a container

and left in a room you're not allowed to enter

may have had a positive

psychological effect. 

I certainly hope it has...

that's the basic premise of the bucket. 

You're backed up against the playpen, 

looking at it out of the corner of your eye,

and you are finally smiling a little. 

You look at me, as if waiting for your next set

of instructions, but you already know

what they're going to be. 

"Climb in," I command, 

and I lift you a little, helping you climb the wall

and descend into your new playspace. 

You instinctively pick up an inflatable toy, 

clutch it,

and look around... 

you spy a plushie, coloring books and crayons...

you're even more relaxed now, 

and I can see it. 

"Is wi'l Spencey thuwsty?" I coo. 

You giggle and hold your big, inflatable baba

toward me. 

"Don't worry, Baby Spence," I assure you

with a smile, "you'll be slurping on the real thing

soon enough." 

Now you're starting to get silly,

and I can see that you're allowing yourself

to be transformed to 'toddler mode'. 

"What an adorable wi'l squirt," 

I say in babytalkanese. 

You smile shyly, and hold your bottle out to me. 

I reach in and tousle your hair, instead. 

"There's that big smile I've seen on Tumblr," 

I say. You nod vigorously. 

"Big smile for Cwis!" you say, giggling. 

Now you're feeling little. 

You notice a pacifier, and pick it up, holding it out to me. 

I gently take it from your hands

and pop it in your mouth, 

clipping your paci clip to your shirt. 

Wait a minute... a shirt? 

How did Cwis not notice you somehow managed

to keep your shirt on?!

I think about giving you a smack 

across your padded butt,

but I can see how relaxed you are, 

finally, so I don't. 

I know that your daddy will be stopping by shortly. 

I'll let him decide how to handle this.

I watch you play for a few minutes. 

You're coloring in that coloring book

like it's your job, 

and you look so adorable in your playpen

that I suddenly realize that I wish

that it could be. 

Growing up should be optional. 

Working from the nursery, in diapers and a playpen,

should be encouraged. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... 

You look up and toward the living room. 

You look at me quizzically, 

as if to say

were you expecting company?

I haven't mentioned that Daddy Paul 

will be stopping by.

He wanted you to have a little time alone

with me and the 'Big Boy Bucket'. 

I open the door and let him in, 

and he spies the problem immediately. 

"How'd the baby get to keep his shirt?" 

Daddy Paul asks. 

I admit that I failed to notice, 

and invite Daddy to take it off of you. 

You look surprised as he reaches for it, 

but obediently put your arms into the air

and let him pull it off of you.

With your shirt off you're even more adorable - 

and even more relaxed. 

You're going ham on that coloring book, now,

and I hear you explaining

the plot on each page

to Pomsky,

my little stuffed Pomeranian-Husky mix

that you seem to have adopted. 

It's adorable. 

Daddy Paul and I decide to let you

do your thing, and we sit back and relax, 

having some grownup conversation

while you babble away, 

choosing colors and crayons, 

taking your little project very seriously. 

"Spencey has a puppy back home - Banner," 

Paul explains. He tells me how you both called home

and talked to Banner that morning, 

and the idea of you communicating with your pup

through the phone makes me smile. 

I fix drinks for Paul and myself, and we sit, 

talking about goings-on and CAPCON,

the people we've met, and other

'grownup' talk. 

Once or twice I see your ears perk up, 

and I can tell you want to contribute to the conversation. 

You think better of it, and continue

your murmured convo with your new canine friend. 

Your coloring is finally finished. 

You tear out the finished page and hold it in the air proudly.

I take it, and Paul and I both agree

you and Pomsky have done

an outstanding job. 

I peel a tape off an old diaper in the diaper pail

and stick it to your masterpiece, 

hanging it on the fridge.

You beam broadly.  

Daddy and I are finished with our drinks now,

and I tousle your hair again

as I walk into the kitchen to fix one for you. 

I push the contents of the refrigerator around. 

Coca-Cola? Went well with my Jack,

but not for Baby Spencey. 

Blue Moon? Not for the baby... 

There it is, in the back... 

good old fashioned Vitamin D milk. 

I pour it into a baby bottle,

pop it in the microwave, and it heats up nicely. 

I let Daddy Paul know it's feeding time,

and he helps you out of your playpen. 

You happily toddle across the floor, 

waiting for him by the couch. 

Paul picks you up and puts you on his lap, 

and you go to town on that bottle. 

By the time you're finished, you're wet. 

"Look, look!" you exclaim with excitement, 

pointing to the front of your diaper. 

"LittlePawz all gone!" 

I have to admit, it's adorable. 

You lay back, contentedly, 

and look like you're about to pass out. 

"It's too early for naptime," I say,

and you giggle and close your eyes. 

They're quickly re-opened by a knock at the door. 

You don't know it yet,

but outside stands a fwiend for Baby Spencey - 

and he's eagerly waiting the chance

to go from 20s to 2, 

just like you.

Let the toddlerization begin, again... 

TO BE CONTINUED...