I have just come back from the Farnborough role-play preschool I have written about on numerous occasions and it has confirmed one thing I have been thinking about for a long time:
I am a little not an adult baby.
Now, I may wear nappies but I try to live as much in the mindset of a three year old as possible and, if nothing else, three year olds are not babies; they are toddlers or little people.
Accepting and (generally speaking) loving myself as a little is one of the greatest things I’ve achieved in my life (which did not have a very good start), and I will firmly grasp that achievement I’ve made for the rest of my life.
Being a little brings me so much gentle, uncomplicated, pure joy, and who could reasonably argue that is a shameful thing to strive for? When I build Lego with my big brother, get a cuddle from daddy or try not to fall asleep as I listen to a bedtime story I am not only filled with happiness, but also with an over-arching sense of being me. The real me. The pure essence of myself. That’s rather satisfying.
The role-play school, for ages 3-6, reminded me that littles are less self obsessed and more personable than adult babies. Adult babies often tend to hyper-fetishise their fantasies so they cannot possible involve anyone else as it would break the spell they have worked up in their minds. They are often so filled with toxic shame about their fetish they almost seem to think that any public acknowledgement that adult babies exist will somehow unmask them and bring unceasing ignominy and obloquy. This is a bit sad.
The age-players who are littles, like those I met at preschool today, have moved on from this unfortunate state and are more comfortable with their younger side. This brings more social competence and openness. Littles are a nice bunch and the type of people who are always up for a chat or game for a laugh. You can play with littles whilst adult babies simply cannot let anyone that close.
Even though I am a gay man who is more firmly attached than it is possible to believe, it is quite nice that as a little one tends to meet more women than adult babies do. They are nice women, largely, as well. Of course, the men who are littles, even the men who dress up as women, or the men who are actually women, are largely a nice lot too. Generally speaking, littles are good, socially competent people who you can have a good time with, and that sounds like a pretty fair description of me, do you not think?
Now it is true that feeling you are an age younger than your real age is a bit different, and many are not as open as me about being little. However, hiding that you feel, to whatever degree, three only goes so far if you have truly embraced that aspect of yourself. The infectious enthusiasm, the desire for fun, the readiness to be friendly and funny that shines from any three year old, even glister if that three year old is forty – we will be making merry at your cocktail party (even if our mummies or daddies have forbade us from quenching).
Although I wonder at the reaction if I disseminate this piece to my big friends, no one seems to mind in the slightest if you are little. A few years ago I wrote a whiny piece on my big blog saying on my next birthday I had decided to be three. Not only was my readership pool undiminished but it continued to grow, and I got sent a load of cool toys, onesies and training pants by the vastly kind members of my readership pool. No one cared and if they did it was caring positively about me being happy.
Similarly, at the end of last summer I went into the local wine merchant wearing a Sonic the hedgehog t-shirt and a pair of shortalls with a dinosaur on the bib pocket:
A New Zealand winemaker was giving a tasting of his Pinot Noir. It was good, very good, so the enthusiastic, wine loving toddler in me instantly let rip, demonstrating in a few sentences that I knew an incredible amount about wine. Then, for this winemaker everyone else in the room ceased to exist: he asked for recommendations about what to buy in the shop, producers to visit in France, wine shops and restaurants in London – he invited me to a trade tasting where he would be showing his wines in London and emailed the organiser from his phone whilst I was there to make sure I got in. He cared not that I was dressed like I had just escaped from day care; he liked the infectious, childish enthusiasm of a wine demiurge.
It’s true I wear nappies. Partly because Clozapine and diabetes have left me largely incontinent (especially at night, oh how often my sheets need washing…); but also partly because I like the feeling of comforting safety they give me and I enjoy the caring tenderness of a nappy change. I think it is ok to be a three year old with issues, they are just wee issues 😀
So as I am a little and not an adult baby it irks me somewhat that I have to lace every article on here with the keywords (in bold): adult baby, just to catch the search engines’ eyes and get me more traffic, because traffic means freebies. I wish I could litter every article with little, but then I would have a fraction of my huge and loyal readership.
And on that note, presumably having alienated most of my huge and loyal readership, I have a little poll to assay the members of my readership. I know what I’ll be answering:
I am Davy! I am a little! I am happy!