Tag Archives: I don’t care if you hate cloth diapers

Desert baby bested by grass, mother unmoved, unhip, big hipped.

Let’s all just agree now that we won’t expect much from each other on the weekends.

Mine involved a lot of spitting (Penelope), a lot of “I don’t want to touch you,” (me, to various family members – some covered with wet food, some covered in stinky fur), and a lot of sighs of various tones (Phil – there were two trips to Target and an unfruitful hunt for a red cardigan that I think he knew that I knew was going to be unfruitful from the start. I did know. Sighs accepted.)

Oh, and we also went to dinner with The West Coast Aunts!

I would say that you could look forward to meeting the West Coast Aunts at PJs at TJ’s, but if you’ll look to your right, you’ll notice that registration is closed. I don’t really have anything more to say about that. I went into this paragraph thinking I was going to offer some consoling words, or say something about a wait list or whatever, but eh, if you were going to register, you would have done it by now.

Tomorrow, I have big plans – BIG PLANS. I’ve got to mail out some diapers I sold – did I tell you I’ve been selling my diapers? It took a while. When the first one sold, I had to lay down on the floor for a minute. Then I laughed and counted the $48 it sold for. I auctioned one yesterday, one that wasn’t even brand new and unworn like that first one, for $45.

It’s been getting easier.

After that, Pen and I will stop at JoAnn Fabrics for supplies for my much hipper hobby of counted cross stitch. My sister and I have begun collaborating on our own somewhat inappropriate patterns that will be available for purchase around probably never, or Christmas, depending on how action packed my month long trip to Pennsylvania is.

In other news, I’ve been participating in the Biggest Blogging Loser competition, and between that and a little work I’ve done on my own before it, I’ve lost 20 lbs, bringing me down to weighing… well, 20 lbs less than my prepregnancy weight and wearing one size larger than my prepregnancy size, and looking exactly zero percent different than I did three weeks after I had the baby, because I have giant boobs and a c-section pooch.

But hey, it’s about the health, right? I mean, twenty pounds! That’s something! I can be proud of that! So what if none of my old clothes fit! So what if I actually have to buy all new, BIGGER things to fit my twenty pounds lighter self! It’s not about APPEARANCE. It’s about — oh, go fuck yourself, me.

(There’s a video in this post. You don’t see it if you’re reading this in Google Reader. I’m not saying you have to click through, or even that it’s worth a click through. I’m just saying that I want credit for more content than you’re actually seeing. I want you to mentally tally up more content points for me than you would give me if I hadn’t made this note. Thanks.)

Medical apologizers, people who don’t know it’s them, fluff butts.

Situations have been such lately that I have not been entirely comfortable putting as much of my personal business on the Internet as I might once have been, but you know what? Fuck it, and right the fuck up yours. You know what I mean?


-I had a lumbar puncture yesterday, and it was basically my least favorite thing to happen to me in about my last hundred years of existence. I was numbed, so it wasn’t as excruciatingly painful as I had decided it would be, but it was certainly one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life, which of course caused me to apologize through the whole thing, just like I did all the way through labor.

“Oh, I’m sorry my sheet is so damp. I think I might be a bit sweaty. I’m sorry about that.”

Except this time, it was more like,

“I’m sorry, I think I might throw up. Can I have a bucket, please? Thank you. Don’t worry, I’ll hold it until I can move. I’m sorry. Can I throw up yet? Sorry to bother you. Is it almost time to puke? Oh, ok. I can hold still, don’t worry. I’m sorry. Is it almost time? Uh oh. I might faint. Can you faint laying down? Am I talking really loud? Sorry. No, I’m sorry. I think I might throw up. I’m sorry. Ok. Ok. I’m sorry.”

I am a compulsive medical procedure apologizer. I can’t be the only one, of course, as I am one of the most average people on the entire planet, so I am interested in hearing from the rest of you and your theories on why we feel we are such an inconvenience to medical professionals who are just doing their jobs.

What’s weird is that I didn’t start my serious medical apologies until late in life. You know who I probably really owed an apology to? That nurse who did a throat culture back when I was 10 or so, the one whose hand I slapped right the hell out of my face. Reflex. I’m sorry.

No, but seriously, lumbar puncture. That sucked a fat fart. I’m sorry.

OH AND TO TOP IT OFF? I rewarded myself a s’mores pie, which I HAD SEEN on the McDonald’s drive thru menu all the times recently that I had rewarded myself a large diet soda for such feats as driving Phil to work and driving to pick Phil up from work and wandering around Target aimlessly, and when we got to the speaker, they said they didn’t HAVE ANY, even though it was on the menu, and I bellowed, “BUT I HAD A SPINAL TAP!” from the passenger seat into the speaker. They were not swayed. No pies were had that day.


Okay. Okay. I can’t take watching one more “Let’s all sit around and brainstorm about what outside force is making people not comment on our blogs anymore” discussion. Is it Twitter? Is it Facebooks? WHY IS OUR CHILDREN NOT COMMENTING?

Okay. Two things.

1. It’s you.
2. It’s you.

Allow me to explain.

Point 1:  It’s you. Are you commenting? I mean, seriously. Be honest with yourself. Are you commenting on blogs? Not just once in a while. I mean with the frequency you are expecting comments to show up on your own. I mean effort. Every day. You don’t have to. There’s no law. Lots of people don’t. Lots of people don’t, and still get comments on their blogs. That’s the way of things. But if you’re not seeing comments on yours and that bothers you and you’re not commenting on other blogs, then come on. Because, shut up. You’re not special.

Point 2: IT’S YOU. When I write a blog post that doesn’t get many comments, I don’t sit here and think, wow, everyone must have something else to do that is keeping them from my awesomeness today. I think, shit, must have written a stinker. Okay, and I also think that maybe you guys are kind of ignoring my brilliance a little, because the posts that you think are stinkers, I think are hilarious but in my old age I have come to realize that no one really finds me as hilarious as I find myself AND THAT IS FINE.

And if posts and posts and posts go by with hardly any comments, then I assume I am writing lots of stinkers and also that I am not engaging with the people to let them know I am still out there. I don’t sit here and wonder what jerkwad piece of asshole technology is STEALING MY FAN CLUB. I assume that I am WRITING CRAP and IGNORING PEOPLE who are trying to connect with me.

It’s not Twitter. It’s not Facebook. It’s not… anything.

Other people are still getting comments. I mean, lots of other people. And lots of comments.

When people don’t comment, it’s because YOU HAVEN’T WRITTEN ANYTHING PEOPLE WANT TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT.

People don’t just SHOW UP because you keyboard-slapped out some words that interested YOU and leaned back in your chair to wait. If that’s what you want to do, more power to you, go ahead, but don’t sit around and look for something else to blame when no one shows up to listen raptly at your feet, damn.


 Pen’s surgery is coming up fast, and I’m preparing by losing weight to provide a nice cushion for all of the chocolate cake I intend to consume while we’re waiting. I’ve read a lot about the surgery – well, as much as I could find, anyway – and no two accountings of it have been the same except for ONE THING. Every single recap of the surgery I have read has said that it was supposed to be a 90 minute surgery, but ended up taking 3 hours, or 4 or even up to 5. Every single one. I’m glad I read that in advance. Now I know to wear some stretchy pants. More room for extra anxiety cake. I know from our last stay in Phoenix Children’s Hospital that they have four varieties of chocolate cake alone.


Remember when I used to talk about cloth diapers a lot? Well, HERE’S A BLAST FROM THE PAST.

I use fitted diapers almost exclusively now, with the occasional all-in-two. I have several pocket diapers still hanging around, and Phil uses them from time to time, but I plan to sort through what I have and pull those out to be sold. I might keep one or two for outings, we’ll see.

In the house, Pen wears a fitted diaper and Babylegs. No pants. Since fitted diapers aren’t waterproof, this is the easiest way. I just change her every two to two and a half hours or when she’s stinky or damp. The picture above is of all my favorite fitted diapers soaking in Rockin’ Green Funk Rock ammonia bouncer. Stinkies happen, you guys.

Here’s some stuff I know:

  • There’s really no such thing as a super trim, super absorbent diaper. More absorbent means more bulk. Your baby is going to have a big butt.
  • Also, you have to change often. That shouldn’t be a big deal. It may seem like to to those used to disposables, but when you think about it like this – how long should your baby have to wait after she has peed herself for fresh pants – it really shouldn’t be a big deal.
  • Anti-pill fleece is cheap and you can cut your own liners for babies with sensitive parts. It keeps them cozy and dry-feeling.
  • Fitteds rule.
  • Rinsing takes an extra minute but saves a lot of hassle at wash time.
  • Good diapers are expensive but used diapers aren’t gross.
  • And nothing has to be all or nothing – Pen wears disposables to bed and often out of the house.

I have a favorite diaper.

No nostalgia parking, future diapers, and P TWO.

Does anyone else remember that old Nickelodeon commercial with the song that had the line, “or when you’ve had enough of doing grown up stuff?” Do you remember any more of it?

Please note that I am only interested in this one specific commercial that has been running through my head for days, and not interested in getting into a Nickelodeon nostalgia fest. Not that I’m against a good nostalgia fest. It’s just that we don’t need one here.

It starts out innocently enough, with someone being all, “Hey, speaking of Nickelodeon, what was that show with the hat?” (Today’s Special.) And someone answers, and then they’re all, “Hey, remember Snick? Wasn’t Snick great? I used to want a big orange couch.” And someone else will bring up the merits of TGIF on ABC, and the time Steve Urkel crossed over onto Step by Step to give Al a valuable lesson about something. Being a nerd or parachuting or whatever.

And that’s fine, while we’re all discussing TV or whatever, but then someone pops up to say, “Hey, remember slap bracelets?” And tells the story about how his school banned slap bracelets, as if EVERYONE’S SCHOOL EVER did not ban slap bracelets (except for yours, commenter who is rushing to the comments section to tell me that I’m wrong. I know that your school didn’t ban them. Don’t worry. I know. You don’t need to tell me.) And someone else has to say what was banned at their school. Jellies or whatever.


And, see, now you’ve done it. Now the comments turn into a long string of “Hey, remember _________?” And it’s stuff we all remember. And even that is kind of fine, because people are talking about their favorite things, telling little anecdotes and what not. Fine. But it just goes downhill from there. Soon, the comments are just one-liners. “Hey, remember Popples?” Then, they turn into lists.

Teddy Ruxpin
He Man

Okaaay… even when the lists start, a couple people still pop up here and there to say, “Oh, I had forgotten all about that!” or, “I’ve been trying to remember what that was called for YEARS!”

But that only lasts so long before people are Googling lists of “crap from when we were kids” and then just pasting entire lists into the comments with no further information. Okay. Yes. All of those things existed at one point. Got it. What a nice reminder.

Except? It’s NO LONGER A NICE REMINDER. Do you know why? Because this EXACT CONVERSATION has been happening on websites and in blog comments and on forums SINCE THE DAWN OF THE INTERNET.

It is a standard Internet conversation, and there’s nothing wrong with it, but we’ve all had it eighty times, and if you feel like you need to have it again, there are about 900 other places you can DO THAT, RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT. Right NOW, I just want to know, do you REMEMBER THE LYRICS IN THAT ONE VERY SPECIFIC COMMERCIAL?


I have pictures of the burger diaper on Penny’s butt but I think I am going to save them for a diaper post. Which I will probably be making this weekend some time. I tell you this now so that if you have any pressing questions that have not been answered on any of the eight thousand identical cloth diaper posts over the last few years, you can email me or contact me any other of a number of ways to ask before I write the post so that I may incorporate that information and ALSO so that those of you who are mortally offended by coming across a post that does not apply to you or your current interests are warned to STEER CLEAR, because if there’s anything I strive to avoid, it’s forcing you to read things that don’t apply to you or interest you in any way.

But I’m also pretty much done apologizing for the whole diaper thing. I like them. I like shopping for them. I like trying all different kinds. I like trying to snag super pretty, one of a kind diapers when they’re stocked in work-at-home-mom shops each week.  If you don’t, that’s fine. I promise to use the word “diaper” a lot of times in the title of the post so you catch on before you have to read too many words. But that is all the consideration I am prepared to give.

Also? This is coming to my house today or tomorrow:

Macadamia by tangerine.baby

There is a whole story of heartbreak and redemption that goes along with the purchase of that diaper, but I am not going to tell you because I said I’d talk about diapers this weekend, and the people who just CAN’T STAND IT when I talk about stuff like diapers and babies because they hate diapers and babies are too far into this entry now to abandon it and it just wouldn’t be fair to them.


Hey, did you know that Penny can time travel? She went all the way back to Easter, 1977 and someone snapped a picture.

I’m kidding, my baby can’t time travel. My husband, though, has apparently perfected cloning in secret. Or has produced Penny on his own, splitting off a small piece of himself in an amoeba-like fashion, without need nor want of my participation.

Vast improvements have been made in v2.0 based upon your feedback, but unfortunately we were unable to address the smell issues at this time.