I've actually been working on writing my entire case history. One of these days, if I ever finish it, maybe I'll post it (with names changed to protect the innocent!) in the library section here. (I've always wondered, do you get participation points for posting in blogs or the library?). Anyway, the first part of it deals with this topic so I'll post it here:
So how did I become a diaper lover? Honestly, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in some way fascinated with diapers, panty wetting, panty pooping, and other kids who still did this either by accident or on purpose.
My earliest memories are from when I was around two or three years old but even back then I remember a warm, happy, excited, longing feeling whenever I was around diapers or other kids wearing them, and was always jealous of the other kids who still wore them.
I don't actually remember wearing diapers and being aware of it. I do still have a few faint memories—flashes of a scene here or there—from times when I certainly would have still been wearing them.
I remember seeing my mother wash diapers in her old wringer washer, hang them on the clothesline, and later fold them up—and I realize in retrospect that they HAD to have been mine. I had a big pink stuffed doggy and once, when helping her with my diapers, I remember putting a diaper on him and my mother laughing. I vaguely remember the diaper changing table being in what was then my bedroom.
There were a few other incidents from this era. Once, I’m told, I had to be taken to the doctor for eating a handful of Zincofax Diaper Rash Cream. Another time, my parents were upset because one of them had left one of my soaking wet diapers on the hardwood floor in their bedroom and it caused a big, dark spot to form in the wood. The spot never went away for the entire ten years we continued to live there.
Another time, so I’m told, my mother took me to the doctor and while lying there naked, being examined, I peed so much and so hard that it hit the doctor in the face. He then picked up a cloth diaper, wiped off his face, said “I think we’ll turn on the windshield wipers!” and put the diaper over my nether regions.
I was born just before Christmas, 1957. I was six weeks premature and had to spend my first two months in the hospital in an incubator. I then came home for a few weeks, got pneumonia and had to go right back to the hospital where I almost died.
By the time this was all over, it was spring, 1958. Our home had a big sun deck along the back side and on nice days, my parents sat out there and relaxed. Therefore, I’m certain that my very first ever experiences of being home and feeling happy and secure were from a time when I’d have been spending copious amounts of time outside, on sunny days, wearing diapers.
I lived across the street from a kid who was born about six weeks after I was. As we grew up, we became friends. His family had a photo of him and me in his back yard, sitting in a red wagon on a sunny day wearing nothing but diapers. In this photo I appear to be about two years old so I’m assuming that this was taken—and I was still wearing diapers—in the spring or summer of 1960.
I know for certain that I was no longer wearing diapers by the time I was three years old. I have memories and old photos from Christmas, 1960 when I'd just turned three, and I was not in diapers.
So, I’m guessing that I was toilet trained—or as I like to refer to it—“forced into adulthood by my mother who took my beloved diapers away before I was ready to give them up”—sometime around fall, 1960.
It makes sense that my mother would want me out of my diapers as soon as possible, because my mother has always been paranoid about germs. This may be because of the time when I was an infant and was so sick I had to be hospitalized.
It didn’t help that my grandmother was a nurse and was always telling my mother horror stories from the hospital, or that my grandfather always worried about everything and was convinced that if we went to the grocery store and back we’d either be killed in a wreck or get germs and die from some horrible disease.
Because of all of this, my mother used to carry a bottle of alcohol and a wash rag everywhere she went and wouldn't let me touch anything until she had first given it her "germ treatment."
I remember times when I was older when we’d be in public and if I had to pee or poop my mother took me into the ladies’ room to do it so she could be sure I didn’t touch any nasty germs. If I had to poop, she’d alcohol wipe the top of the toilet seat. Then she’d unroll about three feet of toilet paper, place it on the seat, and lift me up there so I could “go” without touching “that ol’ germy seat.” Then she’d flush for me so I wouldn’t have to touch “that germy ol’ handle.”
So let’s put all of this together:
*For the first four months of my life, I was sick and in the hospital.
*My earliest happy experiences were from a time when I was home, often outside on nice sunny days, and was wearing my diapers.
*I peed in my diapers LOT and was sometimes left in them for long periods of time, to the point of getting diaper rash.
*I was made to give them up before I was ready because of my mother and her “germ thing.”
*After that, as you’ll soon hear, I was always fascinated by diapers and envious of other kids who wore them.
That sounds like a recipe for a life-long diaper fetish. And indeed, there’s nothing I love more today than spending long periods of time in sopping wet and / or poopy diapers, on nice sunny days, while thinking about how dirty and nasty and naughty it is. So you tell me.