Archive for learning a lesson

How Not To Do It

Regarding cloth diapering, more specifically, regarding your well-intentioned husband’s eagerness to help with cloth diapering; and regarding sheet changing, especially at night after aforementioned husband helps with cloth diapering:

1. Either fully train husband in cloth diaper procedures, especially: absorbancy of inserts vs. doublers, the need for extra absorbancy at night; or always double-check his application of cloth diapers to baby.

How-not-to-do-it example: Your loving husband takes over bedtime duties while you walk around the neighborhood at dusk chatting with an old middle school friend. Upon arriving home, you find your son sleeping peacefully. You smile at your husband and decide not to look closer to see what he is wearing on his bum (your son, not your husband). Your failure to check your son’s bum results in waking up to a screaming, soaking wet baby. Your husband has put a newborn insert on top of a pocket diaper. This is the equivalent of putting two rough paper towels into a pair of waterproof pants. Not only does the paper towel not hold any of the liquid that a baby’s bladder releases, it feels extra terrible against his skin when it gets wet. This is how not to do it.

2. Install baby sheets and waterproof pad in this order: baby sheet, big waterproof pad, extra baby sheet. Failure to do so will result in you or your loving husband wrestling to change a wet sheet in the middle of the night, which sounds less challenging than it really is, considering how tightly fitted crib sheets are designed. Installing two sheets with a waterproof pad inbetween will allow you to simply removed the soiled sheet and pad without even removing the mattress from the crib.

How-not-to-do-it example:  Use only one waterproof pad and one fitted sheet on your baby’s crib.  When he wakes up to a soiled crib sheet and your husband stumbles in to see what he can do to help, give him the task of changing the linens.  Direct him to the drawer where you’ve put the crib sheets, watch as he pulls the mattress out of the crib.  Watch as he flops the mattress around, trying to get the tight, wet (this is a G rated post, despite the diction) sheet off the firm, not-throbbing mattress.   Watch as he throws the mattress on the floor as he tries to get the seemingly tiny new sheet onto the mattress.  Finally, watch as he shoves the mattress back into the crib.  This is how not to do it.

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A Whole New World

So I just found out that my neighbor, the one on the side of the house with all the windows, is an interior designer who works from home.

Great.

Now someone besides my nine month old knows that I blast “Disney’s Greatest” and sing along all day.

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No Television (Okay, maybe a little)

I am one of those irritating women who has been brainstorming ways to parent “the best way” since before she hit puberty.  So of course, I have very strong opinions, 20 years later, about what a parent should and should not do.  And, naturally, one of these opinions is about the television my son should, or rather, should not be watching.

I am also one of those women with priorities.  For example, washing my son’s cloth diapers is usually a priority.  Folding and putting away the grown-up laundry is (sorry, honey) usually not.  Going for a walk everyday?  Priority.  Shaving my legs?  Not.

Imagine my conundrum:  Our morning walk had just commenced, when I realized that my legs (bare, in the mid-west heat) had taken on a gorilla-like hairiness.  Only a block away from our house, I turned the stroller around.  Having decided that my as-were legs were unfit for public viewing, I only had two options.  Option number one was immediately out, as long pants weren’t going to do it for me when the temperature outside got up higher than 102 degrees.  So option number two it was:  a quick leg shave.

Let me back up for a moment to only ten minutes earlier:  I had just gotten laundry done (cloth diapers, not my husband’s work uniforms; sorry, honey), and Michael was fussing because he was a tired baby.  Then he was fussing because I ignored him while I ran around the house throwing useful things into the bottom of the stroller.  Then he was fussing and thrashing because I was actually buckling him into his stroller.  He was as relieved to stop fussing as I was relieved that he’d stopped by the time I hoisted him down the front steps.

After I’d made the decision to do a quick hair-removal, turned around, and hoisted him back up the front steps, there was no way I was going to take him out of the stroller for the five minutes it would take me to run a razor up my calves.  So I did what I have sworn since 1992 I would never do:  I turned on our Wii, found a nice Curious George movie, and I put my infant son in front of the television.

Racked with guilt, I quickly wet my legs, used Michael’s baby body wash (no time to dig out the girly shaving gel!) to lube up my gams (what a weird word), and I shaved them.  As I was rinsing  (the baby body wash turned out to be an awesome choice, by the way), I realized something:  even though Michael was strapped into his terrible, awful, evil, non-moving stroller, he was not fussing.  I slowed down and enjoyed the next 45 seconds of quiet.

When I emerged, newly hairless, from the bathroom, my son had survived.  In fact, he looked rather peaceful.  He had survived my awful parenting decision, and he was probably not going to turn into a sociopath.  But just in case, I hit the power button toute suite and wheeled him out the door.  No sense tempting fate.

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