One weekday morning 2 years ago when I was changing Pixie Pie's sopping wet morning diaper I noticed something strange. In the light of the morning, I noticed that her butt was covered in glistening speckles. Her bottom was shining, like when Edward Cullen revealed himself to Bella for the first time in the clearing. I was pretty sure she hadn't become a vampire overnight, but what could account for this gelatinous substance dotting her rear end? Was it the result of some kind of sweat and pee pee cocktail mixing in the diaper, the molecules binding to create a solid? Was she getting up in the night and having fun with a jar of petroleum jelly? It didn't make any sense. It didn't seem to bother her at all. At the time, I was working and needed to be in the office so I cleaned it up and went on with my day almost forgetting about it until I sat down at my computer. As a mother, anytime that you decide to break the seal of sanity and Google search something regarding your children instead of just calling their pediatrician, it is just asking for trouble. But I did it anyway.
What I found was that the goo was actually a type of super-absorbent polymer called sodium polyacrylate that turns into a gel-like substance when wet. Apparently, this stuff used to be routinely used in tampons until it was determined to inadvertently increase the risk of toxic shock syndrome since the increased absorbency created an environment ripe for toxin-producing bacteria. The stuff is still used in absorbent pads, including disposable diapers, however. This seemed to explain the jelly bits all over Pixie's bottom--the diaper had become so wet overnight that the polyacrylate could no longer contain it and was leaking out of the diaper and onto my daughter's skin. Horrified, and against my better judgment, I read on.
I learned that disposable diapers and pads are full of unhealthy chemicals. In an effort to make disposables thinner and thinner, more chemical tinkering must take place leaving us with a health and environmental hazard in our diaper pails. I learned that it can purportedly take up 500 years for a plastic diaper to decompose in a landfill and that single-use diapers make up both half of the household trash for a family with one child and are the third largest consumer item in landfills. I did the math and estimated that over the past 15 months of Pixie's life, I had probably contributed around 2,000 plastic diapers into the world. I tried to imagine what that would look like in my backyard, not to mention what it would smell like. After reading all of this, I was truly grossed out and felt guilt not just over unknowingly subjecting my child to a life of diaper rash and possible infertility but for blindly relying on disposable diapers to make my job easier.
I went home from work that evening and had a new outlook on diapering. How did I arrive at the assumption that I needed to swath my child exclusively in single-use, plastic diapers? Am I lazy or am I just over-reacting to an uncommon event and buying into a reactionary agenda? Like many a motherly experience, sometimes you don't question your modus opperandi until it's somehow brought to your attention in a negative way. We live in a disposable-waste culture. At the time, I did not know anyone who used cloth diapers after the year 1981. When Husband and I registered for baby shower gifts before Pixie Pie was born, one of the first recommended items was a 250-ct. box of Pampers and the suggestion to make it a 3-count. The store probably sold cloth diapers but what incentive do they have to sell you those? You'd buy them once and never come back, I mean, that just isn't good business.
After my armchair research that morning at the office, I was not prepared to suddenly and completely change our diapering lifestyle so I started researching how I could incorporate cloth diapering and therefore mitigate the problem without making my life harder. That is, I wanted to cloth diaper but I still wanted the convenience of having disposables for certain situations. I found that the cheapest yet most labor intensive method is to use what's called the Chinese prefold diaper. It is basically a little absorbent towel and costs about $2.50 a dozen. Using this method, you would not only save your child's butt and the environment but you would save a ton of money. So, I decided to try them first. In order to make these diapers work, you also need diaper pins and plastic (there it is again) underpants to cover the diaper so it doesn't leak. My experience with these was really frustrating so I gave up on them fast. First of all, the diapers are a lot like cheap towels from the dollar store which means that you have to wash them about 100 times before they become absorbent. They need to be changed about every hour because of their limited capacity. This definitely did not fall into the category of not making my life any harder. I never ended up using the 2 dozen Chinese prefold diapers I purchased as actual diapers. However, they have found new life as dishcloths and dustrags in my home and will probably make excellent shammies for my son to use on his first car in the year 2026. They should be broken in by then.
Then, I found that you can buy what is called an all-in-one cloth diaper. These diapers are expensive, around $23.00 each, and they work exactly like a disposable diaper but without the disposing part. I decided to give these a try. I purchased 8 of them. I wouldn't be saving any money using these all-in-ones part-time but the health benefits to my daughter were my primary concern and after that, the relief on the environment. I purchased my all-in-ones from a Swedish company called ImseVimse which means "itsy bitsy" in English, as in the itsy bitsy spider. When they arrived, I washed them once and tried them on Pixie Pie. I amused her by repeating "imse vimse" in my best Swedish chef voice. They made her butt look huge. In leggings and tights, she looked like a flamingo with skinny little legs and this huge butt. I didn't have to go so far as to buy her larger clothing, but the cloth diapers do, indeed, add girth. Besides this unfortunate aesthetic quality, I really loved what the cloth diapers did for her butt inside the diaper. Gone was the ubiquitous red ring around the bum and the little callous on her lower back from the rough elastic of the single-use diapers. They also seemd so comfy when she was sitting down I began to wonder what it must have felt like to have a soggy paper diaper around your bottom 24/7. I wore a paper diaper-like thing after she was born and it was awful. And let's face it, not many modern women continue to use pads any more after the age of 16 for the same reason. The ImseVimse diapers are made of terry cloth, fleece (again a polymer), and a waterproof but breathable outer shell. They use Velcro for the tabs. Now, how to store and wash these little monsters? Well, at 15 months, without trying to describe too much, the um, matter, is on the firm side. So, you basically just drop it into the toilet and store the all-in-one in the diaper pail like you would disposables. Every other day you wash and dry the diapers.
Now, there is an argument that says that the water and energy you use in order to re-use these diapers is as environmentally damaging as the little balled up plastic diapies sitting in a landfill but you have to consider that waste elimination is a lifelong process so to speak and that if your little one were potty trained like everyone else and flushing a toilet 6-12 times a day it would average out. Now washing the diapers is an extra load of laundry 4 times a week as if you don't have enough but if you consider the work it takes to remember to buy disposables at the store, bring them home, unload them, store them, use them, store them in a pail, then dispose of them on trash night, it is sort of apples and oranges, you know. Then comes the question, isn't it gross to wash diapers in your machine? Well, that is up to you but today's machines are made to handle a lot more than a little baby peepee and poo skids. My recipe for the all-in-ones has been a rinse with a cup of baking soda, a hot wash with 1/4 cup of Ivory detergent, and if necessary, another rinse with a half cup of distilled white vinegar. You can always hang them to dry like your grandmother probably did or you can just throw them in the dryer and there they are--soft and new and you never run out. I used these diapers on Pixie Pie until she was potty trained and am now using them again on my son Busy Boy.
So what I learned from this experience is that with diapering as with most issues when it comes to raising children, it's all about the gray area: it's impossible to do anything exclusively. If you try to be too strict on any one issue, you will drive yourself crazy. There is always room for improvement in terms of your childrens' health and the "greening" of things so any effort is well worth it. Perhaps most importantly, if you are totally neurotic like me, Google with caution!
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
I (still) Hate Homework
Two weeks ago on a Monday when I arrived at Pixie Pie's preschool for pick up I noticed a large, pink letter A outlined in glitter and posted on the gigantic Parent Information cork board. The A drew me in and I read it's short accompanying note which read: "For morning sharing time on Fridays, we would like the children to bring in something that relates to the letter of the week." My first thought was: "Only 26 weeks to go, how many months is that?" As I tried to do the math in my head, Pixie appeared and distracted me from the wave of post traumatic homework stress that was about to wash over me. The sad thing is, it's not really homework. But it is, however, another thing on my already mile-long laundry list of things to remember.
As a student, I had a love/hate relationship with my own homework. That is, I loved that homework gave me a good excuse to close my bedroom door and not be bothered since I was at 'home' doing 'work'. However, I hated the actual work part because it took up so much time that could be spent doing other interesting things at home like gossiping on the phone or watching The Brady Bunch. I am also one of those people that proudly thinks I don't need to write anything down because I have such a good memory! But the fact is, I forget everything and spend a considerable amount of time trying to remember things that I should have just written down. Plus, I now have mom-brain and therefore am seriously in need of a 4-foot stack of post-its.
When we arrived at home on that Monday, I tried to think about the "assignment." The note said something that "had to do with" the letter of the week. Did that mean that the thing should begin with the letter or is that too simple? I instantly thought of an Apple and felt ashamed for thinking so obvious. Then, I noticed Busy's half-eaten Avocado in the fruit basket and thought how clever! I could send her in with an Avocado and a post-it explaining that avocado began with the letter A; a long A no less as opposed to Apple which makes the short-A sound. Or, I could send her in with both fruits and note the difference. I concluded it would make a fabulous lesson and made a mental note to pick up both more avocados and post-its at the grocery store.
On Friday morning as I was driving Pixie to school I suddenly realized that we forgot her "homework assignment". At a stop light, I started fishing through my purse for something that had to do with the letter A. The first thing I found was a tin of original Altoids. I actually considered this. Then, the thought of the kids opening the tin and eating the Altoids seemed way too cruel and irresponsible since they are in fact, curiously strong. Next, I found a coupon for Advil. This just seemed wrong. Plus, I needed it. Oh well, I thought, she's just going to have to blow her first homework assignment ever. The wave washes over me.
When we arrived at school, I extracted Pixie from the back seat and noticed that she had stretched her fuzzy purple Hello Kitty hair elastic around her anklet and declared "Anklet!" That's it, Pixie, brilliant. "Just tell your teacher during morning sharing time that you're wearing an anklet and that it begins with the letter A," I said. Somehow, I felt like we had cheated. To make matters worse, in the cubby room, I saw a giant stuffed Penguin that wasn't there the previous week. I told myself it figures that Penguins live in the Arctic. How clever. I already felt beaten. Sadly, I somehow know that I'm putting way too much thought and energy into this assignment and that the penguin is probably just someone's nap time companion.
I vow that the next week, my daughter will present something that is both relevant and interesting. Something that goes above and beyond the task at hand. Something that says we took this assignment seriously and not "I spent all week watching Yo Gabba Gabba." So today is Friday and before we walk out the front door on our way to preschool I remember the letter B. I scan the kitchen and see baby bottles. That's a start. I look in Busy's drawer and find a Blue Baby Bottle. Wonderful, I think, I can send a note explaining that blue baby bottle begins with the letter B and also, that the phrase is itself called a triple-alliteration which means that all of the words begin with the same letter. Then, I remind myself that this is preschool and I just need to stop. Just stop.
As I update this blog, I am concurrently adding the letter of the week assignment into my Google Calendar. Because, let's face it, I am in danger of sending Pixie to preschool with Chapstick next week unless I start relying on something other than my own brain to remember the minutiae of every day life; including the dreaded homework. Perhaps the reason that I stressed out so much over this was not only because it brought back the performance anxiety of yesteryear but because I sadly see it as an opportunity to right the wrongs of my own doing; namely staying up late to watch Cheers and Night Court with my Dad instead of trying to solve math problems from a textbook that had the answers in the back anyways. But, there's plenty of time for that later. This is preschool after all, and it should be fun. No pressure.
As a student, I had a love/hate relationship with my own homework. That is, I loved that homework gave me a good excuse to close my bedroom door and not be bothered since I was at 'home' doing 'work'. However, I hated the actual work part because it took up so much time that could be spent doing other interesting things at home like gossiping on the phone or watching The Brady Bunch. I am also one of those people that proudly thinks I don't need to write anything down because I have such a good memory! But the fact is, I forget everything and spend a considerable amount of time trying to remember things that I should have just written down. Plus, I now have mom-brain and therefore am seriously in need of a 4-foot stack of post-its.
When we arrived at home on that Monday, I tried to think about the "assignment." The note said something that "had to do with" the letter of the week. Did that mean that the thing should begin with the letter or is that too simple? I instantly thought of an Apple and felt ashamed for thinking so obvious. Then, I noticed Busy's half-eaten Avocado in the fruit basket and thought how clever! I could send her in with an Avocado and a post-it explaining that avocado began with the letter A; a long A no less as opposed to Apple which makes the short-A sound. Or, I could send her in with both fruits and note the difference. I concluded it would make a fabulous lesson and made a mental note to pick up both more avocados and post-its at the grocery store.
On Friday morning as I was driving Pixie to school I suddenly realized that we forgot her "homework assignment". At a stop light, I started fishing through my purse for something that had to do with the letter A. The first thing I found was a tin of original Altoids. I actually considered this. Then, the thought of the kids opening the tin and eating the Altoids seemed way too cruel and irresponsible since they are in fact, curiously strong. Next, I found a coupon for Advil. This just seemed wrong. Plus, I needed it. Oh well, I thought, she's just going to have to blow her first homework assignment ever. The wave washes over me.
When we arrived at school, I extracted Pixie from the back seat and noticed that she had stretched her fuzzy purple Hello Kitty hair elastic around her anklet and declared "Anklet!" That's it, Pixie, brilliant. "Just tell your teacher during morning sharing time that you're wearing an anklet and that it begins with the letter A," I said. Somehow, I felt like we had cheated. To make matters worse, in the cubby room, I saw a giant stuffed Penguin that wasn't there the previous week. I told myself it figures that Penguins live in the Arctic. How clever. I already felt beaten. Sadly, I somehow know that I'm putting way too much thought and energy into this assignment and that the penguin is probably just someone's nap time companion.
I vow that the next week, my daughter will present something that is both relevant and interesting. Something that goes above and beyond the task at hand. Something that says we took this assignment seriously and not "I spent all week watching Yo Gabba Gabba." So today is Friday and before we walk out the front door on our way to preschool I remember the letter B. I scan the kitchen and see baby bottles. That's a start. I look in Busy's drawer and find a Blue Baby Bottle. Wonderful, I think, I can send a note explaining that blue baby bottle begins with the letter B and also, that the phrase is itself called a triple-alliteration which means that all of the words begin with the same letter. Then, I remind myself that this is preschool and I just need to stop. Just stop.
As I update this blog, I am concurrently adding the letter of the week assignment into my Google Calendar. Because, let's face it, I am in danger of sending Pixie to preschool with Chapstick next week unless I start relying on something other than my own brain to remember the minutiae of every day life; including the dreaded homework. Perhaps the reason that I stressed out so much over this was not only because it brought back the performance anxiety of yesteryear but because I sadly see it as an opportunity to right the wrongs of my own doing; namely staying up late to watch Cheers and Night Court with my Dad instead of trying to solve math problems from a textbook that had the answers in the back anyways. But, there's plenty of time for that later. This is preschool after all, and it should be fun. No pressure.
Two-Seat Solution
Our car is a smallish vehicle compared to most on the road these days. Husband and I bought it a month before we were married for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with transporting children. He liked it because it's a good quality car and I liked it because it's cute. We shared the car and our only back seat passenger was our puppy Jo-Jo, a fresh but adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. I think we have an emotional attachment to this car because of these early days of bliss so instead of trading it in for a mini-van just yet, we've decided to try and make it work with the kids in the back seat for just another year or before they seriously hurt each other; whichever comes first. Plus, it was an expensive car.
If you have ever tried to drive with two children under the age of three in the back seat, it is not usually fun unless they're both sleeping. Actually, it's never fun under any circumstances I can think of. I was a kid back in the early 80s when car seats were made of aluminum, upholstered in vinyl, and probably optional in the first place and my parents transported three of us in the back seat of our station wagon. Configured in the only way possible, my twin sister and I sat on opposite sides of our younger sister. The baby would fall asleep in her center car seat and I would delight in using my little fingers to pry open her eyelids as she slept and inspect her eyeballs, especially their whites. I thought it was hilarious and creepy that she would never wake and it was hard not to laugh so I usually pried one of her eyes open with one hand and kept the other clamped tightly over my mouth. In the rare event that she would begin to stir and whimper, I would innocently tuck my hands back into my lap with the exceptional stealth that only a 3-year old can possess. In the event that my mother caught me, she would turn to the backseat and firmly reprimand me. At these times I felt it especially hard not to laugh; not because I thought it was funny when she was mad but because she usually had pink lipstick smudged on her teeth while she was yelling at me.
My daughter "Pixie Pie" is of the same ilk as I. I don't just call her Pixie Pie because of her cute haircut and general warmth and sweetness, she's also got that twinkle in her eye. Any mother with an impish daughter knows exactly what this looks like and is mentally counting down the days until she becomes a teenager with dread in her heart. Among other things, sibling rivalry is in Pixie's blood. Like her mother, she seems to get some kind of sick satisfaction by initiating her younger brother's discomfort. And my reaction probably only fans the flames. He sleeps, she screams; he laughs, she tells him to be quiet; he cries, she cries louder.
I spent all morning Monday trying to configure their car seats in a way that would simultaneously comply with safety law and minimize fighting or at least physical contact. Busy's seat is backwards behind the passenger side and Pixie Pie's is behind the driver's seat. It's not my first choice arrangement since Pixie can always kick the crap out of my seat while I'm driving but I had to allow for Busy's seat to comfortably recline. When Busy was in his infant carrier, he could be reasonably shielded from his big sister's terror by the sun visor but now, he is without armor. However, the new seats do have arm rests which act as barriers plus the simple fact that they are facing opposite directions unintentionally works to my advantage since the laws of physics make it impossible to slap someone at full force across the face when they are at a certain angle.
Despite my best efforts, I know that my time is limited and that peace in the back seat is basically a dream that will never be realized by any parent in the drivers seat. It's likely just going to get worse as the years go on. Unlike when I was a kid and by a certain age, we ditched the seat belts and the back seat all together so that we could ride in what we called "the way back" of the station wagon. By that time, my sisters and I had joined forces and moved on to harassing other drivers rather than each other and doing so was much more effective when done out of the rear window. Children today will never know such joy since by law they are required to be strapped into some kind of expensive booster and tethered to the back seat until they are both 200 lbs. and 40 years old.
When Busy and I picked up Pixie Pie at preschool on Monday afternoon she decided to play an especially cruel trick on me. As I was strapping Busy into his side, she broke free of her chains and dove for my center console which contained all of the change I diligently save for parking. She mined my pile of change for the silver and threw it in between the driver's seat and the console, getting it just right underneath the seat in the only place I couldn't reach it without some kind of tool. I started yelling like a crazed individual: "Pixie!!! Stop!!! I need that change! Mommy needs to use that for parking! Especially in Cambridge! The meters there only accept quarters!!!!!!!" I was so annoyed. "Sorry Mommy, I don't do it again" she said. After I wrangled Pixie Pie into her seat, I took a moment to extract the change. I had to push my seat all the way back, causing Pixie to get frog legs. Call it gentle revenge. I was able to get almost all of my change out and while I was digging, I kept coming up with hairs. But they weren't mine; they were indeed long, but they were completely white. Jo-Jo's hairs! A fitting reminder of a simpler time. As I drove away, I glanced in my rear-view mirror at the two little people with their iron wills and angel faces and just laughed at the three of us. For some reason, The Three Stooges came to mind.
If you have ever tried to drive with two children under the age of three in the back seat, it is not usually fun unless they're both sleeping. Actually, it's never fun under any circumstances I can think of. I was a kid back in the early 80s when car seats were made of aluminum, upholstered in vinyl, and probably optional in the first place and my parents transported three of us in the back seat of our station wagon. Configured in the only way possible, my twin sister and I sat on opposite sides of our younger sister. The baby would fall asleep in her center car seat and I would delight in using my little fingers to pry open her eyelids as she slept and inspect her eyeballs, especially their whites. I thought it was hilarious and creepy that she would never wake and it was hard not to laugh so I usually pried one of her eyes open with one hand and kept the other clamped tightly over my mouth. In the rare event that she would begin to stir and whimper, I would innocently tuck my hands back into my lap with the exceptional stealth that only a 3-year old can possess. In the event that my mother caught me, she would turn to the backseat and firmly reprimand me. At these times I felt it especially hard not to laugh; not because I thought it was funny when she was mad but because she usually had pink lipstick smudged on her teeth while she was yelling at me.
My daughter "Pixie Pie" is of the same ilk as I. I don't just call her Pixie Pie because of her cute haircut and general warmth and sweetness, she's also got that twinkle in her eye. Any mother with an impish daughter knows exactly what this looks like and is mentally counting down the days until she becomes a teenager with dread in her heart. Among other things, sibling rivalry is in Pixie's blood. Like her mother, she seems to get some kind of sick satisfaction by initiating her younger brother's discomfort. And my reaction probably only fans the flames. He sleeps, she screams; he laughs, she tells him to be quiet; he cries, she cries louder.
I spent all morning Monday trying to configure their car seats in a way that would simultaneously comply with safety law and minimize fighting or at least physical contact. Busy's seat is backwards behind the passenger side and Pixie Pie's is behind the driver's seat. It's not my first choice arrangement since Pixie can always kick the crap out of my seat while I'm driving but I had to allow for Busy's seat to comfortably recline. When Busy was in his infant carrier, he could be reasonably shielded from his big sister's terror by the sun visor but now, he is without armor. However, the new seats do have arm rests which act as barriers plus the simple fact that they are facing opposite directions unintentionally works to my advantage since the laws of physics make it impossible to slap someone at full force across the face when they are at a certain angle.
Despite my best efforts, I know that my time is limited and that peace in the back seat is basically a dream that will never be realized by any parent in the drivers seat. It's likely just going to get worse as the years go on. Unlike when I was a kid and by a certain age, we ditched the seat belts and the back seat all together so that we could ride in what we called "the way back" of the station wagon. By that time, my sisters and I had joined forces and moved on to harassing other drivers rather than each other and doing so was much more effective when done out of the rear window. Children today will never know such joy since by law they are required to be strapped into some kind of expensive booster and tethered to the back seat until they are both 200 lbs. and 40 years old.
When Busy and I picked up Pixie Pie at preschool on Monday afternoon she decided to play an especially cruel trick on me. As I was strapping Busy into his side, she broke free of her chains and dove for my center console which contained all of the change I diligently save for parking. She mined my pile of change for the silver and threw it in between the driver's seat and the console, getting it just right underneath the seat in the only place I couldn't reach it without some kind of tool. I started yelling like a crazed individual: "Pixie!!! Stop!!! I need that change! Mommy needs to use that for parking! Especially in Cambridge! The meters there only accept quarters!!!!!!!" I was so annoyed. "Sorry Mommy, I don't do it again" she said. After I wrangled Pixie Pie into her seat, I took a moment to extract the change. I had to push my seat all the way back, causing Pixie to get frog legs. Call it gentle revenge. I was able to get almost all of my change out and while I was digging, I kept coming up with hairs. But they weren't mine; they were indeed long, but they were completely white. Jo-Jo's hairs! A fitting reminder of a simpler time. As I drove away, I glanced in my rear-view mirror at the two little people with their iron wills and angel faces and just laughed at the three of us. For some reason, The Three Stooges came to mind.
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