A Troublesome New Perspective

11 02 2012

My little girl is a champion pooper.  We can’t get through three days without a blowout.  For awhile, she was pooping during her diaper changes.  Every.  Single. Time.

So I’ve become more or less immune to messes that are less disgusting than liquid poop dripping down my daughter’s leg, into her  sock, and onto the floor.  Or less embarrassing than poop leaking through her fleece suit and soaking into my shirt while I stand in line at the grocery store.

Last night, as I was putting Hazel into her crib, I was holding her just right to create a gap between her leg and her diaper and she peed.  And pee filled my hand, dripped down my wrist, and onto my sock.  I got us clean and dry as quickly as possible, then had to settle her down again so I could finally get her to bed.

I came downstairs and tiredly told my husband what happened.

“That’s gross,” he said in commiseration.

Gross?  I thought.  That’s totally not where I was going with that.  Inconvenient, bad timing, upsetting for the baby (because she had been asleep and woke up during the diaper change, not because she gave a hoot about peeing on me)… Gross didn’t even make my top ten words to describe it.

And that’s my point.

I'm pretty sure this is the only person in the universe who gets to pee on me.

Somehow, I’ve reached a place in my life where GETTING PEED ON DOESN’T REGISTER AS GROSS ANYMORE.


Not the Kind You Get At a Sex Shop

3 08 2011

We’ve had an amazing baby shower, one of those times when you are just blown away by the kindness and love of friends and family.  Our piles of gear, clothing, diapers, and toys have grown to monstrous proportions – alarmingly large enough to motivate even Jason to begin shipping boxes off to the Goodwill.  Half of my childhood collectibles can now be found on ebay.

And yet.

I found myself with a long list of supplies we still need.  Nothing so cute as a newborn onsie, but all that practical crap that I will regret if I don’t buy now.

Like those absorbent pads to shove in my bra to soak up leaking breast milk.  And nipple cream.  Yes, nipple cream, but not the kind you get at a place with a name like The Pink Pussycat.

Still, the fact that my shopping list included “nipple cream” was enough to keep me smirking through most of my trip to the store.  I was, however, somewhat chagrined that my list also included “large granny panties.”  I’ve been making do with my pre-pregnancy underwear; the fact that maternity pants have elastic waists make it fairly easy to yank your panties back to half-mast every five minutes.  But as my due date approaches, it occurred to me that my butt won’t immediately shrink back to it’s previous size, and it will be harder to fuss with my underpants when I have a demon chewing on my nipples.

Also, I apparently need underwear that can support the next item on my list, Super Extra Triple Absorbent  Maxi Pads.  Because instead of the 9 month reprieve I thought I was getting from my period, it turns out I am just going to bleed all 9 months worth in the weeks after I give birth.  Savory.

Personal hygiene aside, I also figured we could use a pack of newborn diapers, since most of our cloth supply start at a little bigger.  Of course, we went for the hippie, earth-friendly diapers.

When I got home and showed Jason my day’s purchases, he objected to the breast milk bags.  “They’re plastic,” he said.  “But we won’t use very many.  It’s just a little box in case we need them,” I explained, as though I hadn’t had thoughts of evil BPA and plastic-bag-island-in-the-ocean as I contemplated milk storage options at Target.  “But you still throw them away,” he said.

Well, it’s true.  I’ve been on an anti-plastic kick for a year now, so maybe I should see this rejection of plastic milk bags as progress.

Besides which, I was having my own environmental crisis.  Having bought natural, unbleached, plastic- and chlorine-free diapers without even thinking about it, I couldn’t help seeing them juxtaposed with my store-brand bleached and chlorinated plastic maxi pads once I got home from the store.


So back to Target I went the next day, to return two bulk packages of feminine hygiene products and a box of breast milk storage bags.

The return went smoothly enough.

Why was I returning the items?

“Because I’m married to an ecologist.”

* * *

And for all you perverts who found this post because of the tags “nipples,” “panties,” and “breasts”: it’s just kind of funny that you ended up reading about diapers and feminine hygiene products.  And you are the reason Jason started saving for a shotgun the second he knew he was having a daughter.


16 07 2011

Back when we first knew we were pregnant, I needed some sort of retail fix to feel really pregnant.  This was back when “pregnant” meant a blue line on a stick, as opposed to now, when “pregnant” means it’s awkward to bend over and I have to sleep with six pillows to support myself.

Anyway, I began shopping all the fabulous daily baby deals online (babyhalfoff, greenbabybargains, ecobabybuys, zullily, babysteals, babyheist, minibargainz… there’s a few…), but I decided I would only buy diapers.  I figured they would be something gender neutral and practical, yet cute enough to satisfy my urge to begin preparing for the little demon.

Today, I realized I should really take stock of what I have managed to stash over those first few months.

Here’s what I ended up with:

A pretty good assortment… and an educational experience.  Planning to cloth diaper?  Here’s some key words you’ll need to learn:

fitted diapers


pocket diapers

diaper covers





disposable inserts

cloth inserts


stripping (not as cool as it sounds)

minky and bamboo and organic cotton and hemp and fleece and polyester…




I even got a couple of diapers that are envelope diapers, a term that hasn’t really hit the cloth diapering community yet.

Of course, parenting comes with all sorts of new vocabulary.  But when you think of what diapers are actually used for… I mean, it’s pretty impressive how much thought goes into collecting poop.

Or Maybe It’s Just Gas

11 02 2011

When I found out I was pregnant this time, I didn’t want to tell many people – or any, really.  Jason told plenty, but I only told a few – including a couple of people at work who would need to know if anything went wrong.

On hearing the news, one of my coworkers said, triumphantly, “I thought so!”

I must have looked puzzled, because she elaborated: “Well, a couple of weeks ago, I thought you were getting, you know, a belly.”

“Linda!” I gasped.  “I’m only, like, six weeks along.  I think you’re just calling me fat!”



Today, I announced to several people that my pants are getting tight.  Universal cheers to this.

Until I explained: “They are getting tight on my thighs.”

I paused.  Then: “Do you think I’m gestating this baby in my thighs?”

I was almost hoping for it, really.



I haven’t been doing belly shots during this pregnancy.  I’m trying not to be superstitious about anything this time around, but it’s nearly impossible.  Today, I placed an order for a few cloth diapers, and as soon as I hit the “Place Order” button, I immediately ran to the bathroom to check for spotting and began overanalyzing every twinge in my uterus.  In addition to my fear of causing spontaneous abortion by doing something reckless, like, um, I don’t know, actually acting like I’m expecting a baby in seven months, I am still recovering from this disappointment during my previous pregnancy: I spent two days absolutely fat with pregnancy – I mean, unquestionably so – and then, just like that, a good, long fart and I was deflated.



However, yesterday a coworker told me I was showing.  And I wanted to believe her.




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Here’s 9.5 weeks… Or maybe I just really, really need to fart.

I’ll Never Grow Up, Not Me

8 06 2010

It was a typical scene: Jason and a few of his friends sat around a table in a dim room; fish tacos, Pabst Blue Ribbons, and a pitcher of margaritas in front them.  Among his friends was Travis, new father.

Karen and I sat a little way apart from Jason and his friends.  Karen was nursing her and Travis’s 3-week-old son, and I was keeping her company.  We were talking quietly, and could hear snippets of the boys’ conversation.

We heard Travis first: “But that all changes when they switch to solid food!”

“He’s talking about baby poop!” I exclaimed.

Karen and I were properly impressed that Travis had Jason and the rest of the group listening to him talk about baby poop.

But a few minutes later, I heard Jason jumping in: “They have these hybrid ones, that the inside you flush and the outside you reuse.”

“Karen,” I hissed.  “He’s talking about g Diapers!”

Jason was chatting about a brand of reusable diapers that somehow I had worked into a conversation some weeks past.  I had no idea Jason was paying attention at all – we’re not even married yet, he really has no motivation to tune into my chatter about diapers.

But… He does look pretty good holding a screaming baby:

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