Monday, January 28, 2008
Attention, Subscribers
If any of you are reading this through a feed reader and have forgotten that I moved because you couldn't figure out how to subscribe to the new blog, Dr. Maureen, go over to www.docmaureen.com. I figured out how to add the subscription link, and it's one of the tabs on the header image.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Graduation
As I have pretty much used up all of my stories about grad school – well, at least those that are safe for publishing – I have finally decided to move my blog. I haven’t gone far, but the title no longer ties me into any particular theme. I won’t be tied down, man!
Come join me at www.docmaureen.com!
Come join me at www.docmaureen.com!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Babies are weird, man
From the age of 12 to about 16, babysitting was my main source of income. I have also been an aunt since the age of 14. As such, I have had my fair share of putting babies and kids to bed. In my experience, babies who cry themselves to sleep start off with gusto and then taper off over the next 10-15 minutes with maybe one last, pathetic “Eh!” before finally settling down to sleep for the night.
Not my baby.
My baby doesn’t cry himself to sleep at all… or so we thought. Lately, he has been protesting his naps and bedtime about fifty percent of the time. When he does cry, instead of the 10-15 minutes of winding down exhibited by typical babies, Jack does this:
“AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath)
“AAAAHHHHHH!” (silence)
You think that last silence is just him taking a breath for the next yell, but… nope! He’s done! The whole process takes maybe 2-3 minutes. On a bad night, it takes 15. It’s at these times that I wish we had a video monitor just so I could see what the heck he’s doing in there. Does he fall asleep mid cry? Does he just decide he’s too tired for all that effort? He’s usually standing up when I leave, so at what point does he lie down?
On nights like these, this is what I imagine is happening in his head:
But of course, I don’t know. All I know is that we have to listen carefully to hear the difference between angry, “I don’t WANNA go to sleep” yells and scared “I want my mommy and where is my bink*?” cries which don’t end, but just get louder.
So, yeah. Babies are weird.
*All four of your binks are on the FLOOR WHERE YOU THREW THEM. Sigh.
Not my baby.
My baby doesn’t cry himself to sleep at all… or so we thought. Lately, he has been protesting his naps and bedtime about fifty percent of the time. When he does cry, instead of the 10-15 minutes of winding down exhibited by typical babies, Jack does this:
“AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath) “AAAAHHHHHH!” (breath)
“AAAAHHHHHH!” (silence)
You think that last silence is just him taking a breath for the next yell, but… nope! He’s done! The whole process takes maybe 2-3 minutes. On a bad night, it takes 15. It’s at these times that I wish we had a video monitor just so I could see what the heck he’s doing in there. Does he fall asleep mid cry? Does he just decide he’s too tired for all that effort? He’s usually standing up when I leave, so at what point does he lie down?
On nights like these, this is what I imagine is happening in his head:
Why are you leaving me in here all alone? I want another story! I don’t want this stupid bink, I want a story! (snatches bink from mouth, throws it on floor) STORY STORY STORY STORY STORY! (looks around crib, finds second bink, picks it up for the express purpose of throwing it on the floor) I can’t BELIEVE they left me in here all alone! And with no binks! I’m in my bed, I get to have a bink! That’s the rule! How am I supposed to go to sleep with no bink? WHERE IS MY BIN-- (notices third and fourth spare binks in the crib) Oh, wait. There’s one. (puts bink in mouth, ceases crying, lies down, strokes blankie, goes to sleep.)
But of course, I don’t know. All I know is that we have to listen carefully to hear the difference between angry, “I don’t WANNA go to sleep” yells and scared “I want my mommy and where is my bink*?” cries which don’t end, but just get louder.
So, yeah. Babies are weird.
*All four of your binks are on the FLOOR WHERE YOU THREW THEM. Sigh.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Some firsts I'd rather skip
The first year of your child's life is just a series of milestones, one after the other. The first smile. The first word. The first steps. The first trip to the emergency room.
Yes, last Sunday, The Husband and I had the delightful pleasure of taking our baby to the ER to make sure he had not jammed his teeth back up into his head possibly embedding them in his brain. (Short version: He hadn't.) It had happened very suddenly. We had just gotten back from church and The Husband was making grilled cheese sandwiches while I searched for a recipe for cranberry bread and Jack played in the cabinet with the pots and pans. The next thing we knew, he had fallen on his face and blood was pouring from his mouth. Mouths bleed a lot, people.
This was not our first experience with this phenomenon, because Jack has fallen on his mouth at least four other times this year. This was more blood than I had seen, however, and I find bleeding from the mouth particularly troubling, as it is very difficult to see the extent of the damage what with all the crying and wailing and blood pouring out and all. Does he need stitches? Who can tell? At any rate, I held Jack upside down to try and look in there and in the brief flashes I could get, it looked to me like Jack's two front teeth had receded into his gums by at least 50%. I said, "That's it, we're going to the emergency room," and off we went.
I should take a moment here to tell The Husband's side of the story, which is that I "panic" every time Jack gets hurt. He bases this claim on the way I say, "Oh! He's bleeding! Oh! Oh! The blood! Does he need stitches? Should we take him to the ER? How do we clean it? Oh, he's swollen! His lip is swollen! The blood! The blood!" and things along those lines. But it is my position that I do not panic, it's just that I let The Husband be the one in charge of determining the extent of the damage while I take over the job of comforting the screaming, bleeding baby. I do this because I can let him be the one in charge. He's right there, all ready to take charge with his cool, calm, former lifeguard head. If he were not there, however, I would be quite capable of cleaning up the blood and driving to the ER all by myself, because I'd have to be. So no, I don't panic.
So. The ER. The Husband and I were pretty sure that Jack's teeth were probably fine, because he wasn't even crying anymore by the time we were packing him into his car seat, but we weren't going to take any chances with his teeth. He was triaged and registered within 20 minutes of our arrival, and then we had to settle down to wait. The Husband bought Jack a muffin because none of us had had lunch, and Jack had no problems chomping away at it. By the time we were finally seen by the nurse practitioner, Jack was biting a paper cup and pulling on it with his hands, further convincing us that his teeth were fine.
When the NP took a look, he told us that Jack had split his funiculus (that piece of skin that connects the top lip to the gums), but that his teeth looked fine to him. His gums had just swollen up, and that was what made me think his teeth had been jammed. The NP did suggest that we get a dentist to take an x-ray to make sure there was no root damage, and we did that on Saturday. Actually, we didn't. We took him to the dentist, but the dentist said an x-ray wasn't really necessary since Jack's teeth weren't even chipped.
And so it all ended well. Jack's teeth are fine, his funiculus appears to have healed, and we've all agreed that he has filled his quota of accidents for the next year and there will be no more falling on his mouth. We've AGREED.
Yes, last Sunday, The Husband and I had the delightful pleasure of taking our baby to the ER to make sure he had not jammed his teeth back up into his head possibly embedding them in his brain. (Short version: He hadn't.) It had happened very suddenly. We had just gotten back from church and The Husband was making grilled cheese sandwiches while I searched for a recipe for cranberry bread and Jack played in the cabinet with the pots and pans. The next thing we knew, he had fallen on his face and blood was pouring from his mouth. Mouths bleed a lot, people.
This was not our first experience with this phenomenon, because Jack has fallen on his mouth at least four other times this year. This was more blood than I had seen, however, and I find bleeding from the mouth particularly troubling, as it is very difficult to see the extent of the damage what with all the crying and wailing and blood pouring out and all. Does he need stitches? Who can tell? At any rate, I held Jack upside down to try and look in there and in the brief flashes I could get, it looked to me like Jack's two front teeth had receded into his gums by at least 50%. I said, "That's it, we're going to the emergency room," and off we went.
I should take a moment here to tell The Husband's side of the story, which is that I "panic" every time Jack gets hurt. He bases this claim on the way I say, "Oh! He's bleeding! Oh! Oh! The blood! Does he need stitches? Should we take him to the ER? How do we clean it? Oh, he's swollen! His lip is swollen! The blood! The blood!" and things along those lines. But it is my position that I do not panic, it's just that I let The Husband be the one in charge of determining the extent of the damage while I take over the job of comforting the screaming, bleeding baby. I do this because I can let him be the one in charge. He's right there, all ready to take charge with his cool, calm, former lifeguard head. If he were not there, however, I would be quite capable of cleaning up the blood and driving to the ER all by myself, because I'd have to be. So no, I don't panic.
So. The ER. The Husband and I were pretty sure that Jack's teeth were probably fine, because he wasn't even crying anymore by the time we were packing him into his car seat, but we weren't going to take any chances with his teeth. He was triaged and registered within 20 minutes of our arrival, and then we had to settle down to wait. The Husband bought Jack a muffin because none of us had had lunch, and Jack had no problems chomping away at it. By the time we were finally seen by the nurse practitioner, Jack was biting a paper cup and pulling on it with his hands, further convincing us that his teeth were fine.
When the NP took a look, he told us that Jack had split his funiculus (that piece of skin that connects the top lip to the gums), but that his teeth looked fine to him. His gums had just swollen up, and that was what made me think his teeth had been jammed. The NP did suggest that we get a dentist to take an x-ray to make sure there was no root damage, and we did that on Saturday. Actually, we didn't. We took him to the dentist, but the dentist said an x-ray wasn't really necessary since Jack's teeth weren't even chipped.
And so it all ended well. Jack's teeth are fine, his funiculus appears to have healed, and we've all agreed that he has filled his quota of accidents for the next year and there will be no more falling on his mouth. We've AGREED.
Friday, November 30, 2007
It won't... stop... beeping...
There was a period of time when I was in high school that I slept in the attic. During this time, I also worked at a small convenience store as a cashier, and occasionally I had to work the 6am-11am shift on Saturdays which required that I get up at 5:30. Now, I am not one who rises easily, so this was, to put it mildly, a challenge. I typically set my alarm - which was always set to the horrible screeching buzzer and never to the music that stood no chance of awakening me - for 5:00 so that I could hit snooze several times before being late. Since I usually had no memory at all of the first and sometimes second times I hit snooze, I felt this 30 minute cushion was a necessity.
My brother, who slept in the room at the bottom of the attic stairs, felt differently.
"Mo," he said to me one Friday night. "If your alarm goes off more than once tomorrow morning, I am going to have to kill you." He was very polite about it, but he really felt he had no alternative. So that night I set the alarm for 5:20 with great trepidation, but also with the full intention of getting up as soon as it went off to spare my brother the morning Chinese alarm torture.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
I awoke with a start, leapt to my alarm and started hammering the snooze button. I wasn't going to use the snooze button, at least, not in the way God intended it to be used. I just wanted to silence the alarm until I had enough coordination to turn it off permanently. But the noise didn't stop! I pushed the snooze button. I pushed it again. I tried tapping it really quickly, and then I tried holding it down really hard. Nothing.
I finally remembered that to turn the alarm off, I had to turn the dial to the left two notches. I turned the dial. No change. In desperation, I turned the dial all the way to the left, then all the way to the right. To the left! To the right! Left right left right left! It was still honking! Wait! Unplug the clock! UNPLUG IT!
I unplugged it.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Frantically, I looked around the room. Ever so slowly, my powers of deductive reasoning were returning to me, and I was able to determine that the noise was not coming from my alarm clock. It was coming from the window. What was in the window? A fan. I ran to the fan. "I have to turn off the fan," I thought to myself. "That will make the noise stop." But the fan wasn't on. No problem! I just turned on the fan. That way, I could turn it off and make the noise stop.
Astoundingly, this did not work.
I considered the situation. Assuming there was some sort of short circuit causing the on/off switch to fail, I decided to unplug the fan. Hey, it didn't work for the alarm clock because the alarm clock wasn't honking. The fan was honking. So I unplugged the fan.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
"It didn't take!" I thought to myself desperately, and plugged the fan back in so I could try it again. I unplugged and replugged the fan a few more times until a tiny shred of reason managed to penetrate my sleep fogged brain. "Wait," I thought, and held still, plug in my hand. "FANS DON'T HONK."
My father found me a few minutes later, with the window fan on the floor and my face and hands pressed tightly against the screen. I had finally deduced that the honking was coming from outside, but I couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the noise and I was trying my best to stop it using only the sheer force of my will. Unfortunately, I had made so much noise storming around my room trying to track down the source of the noise that I woke everyone up. My father gently assured me that the neighbors' malfunctioning car horn was not under my purview, and, thusly relieved, I went back to bed.
I did get up with the first alarm, though.
***
And so I have reached November 30, the last day of NaBloPoMo. I did it! Technically! OK, I totally cheated. Remember this entry? And this one? So I'm not going to put an icon on here that says I did it, because I don't feel like I did it. Well, that and because I don't really know how to make changes to my template. Nevertheless, I wrote a lot more often than usual this month, and that's got to count for something.
But, being incredibly lazy, I will probably slide back into my habit of writing when only I feel like it in December. Plus, I'm going to work on a super secret exciting blog development that I hope to reveal by January, and that will eat up some of my computer time. The rest will be taken up by my mindlessly clicking "Refresh" in my Gmail window.
Why don't people email me as often as I click "refresh"? You should all email me more.
My brother, who slept in the room at the bottom of the attic stairs, felt differently.
"Mo," he said to me one Friday night. "If your alarm goes off more than once tomorrow morning, I am going to have to kill you." He was very polite about it, but he really felt he had no alternative. So that night I set the alarm for 5:20 with great trepidation, but also with the full intention of getting up as soon as it went off to spare my brother the morning Chinese alarm torture.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
I awoke with a start, leapt to my alarm and started hammering the snooze button. I wasn't going to use the snooze button, at least, not in the way God intended it to be used. I just wanted to silence the alarm until I had enough coordination to turn it off permanently. But the noise didn't stop! I pushed the snooze button. I pushed it again. I tried tapping it really quickly, and then I tried holding it down really hard. Nothing.
I finally remembered that to turn the alarm off, I had to turn the dial to the left two notches. I turned the dial. No change. In desperation, I turned the dial all the way to the left, then all the way to the right. To the left! To the right! Left right left right left! It was still honking! Wait! Unplug the clock! UNPLUG IT!
I unplugged it.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Frantically, I looked around the room. Ever so slowly, my powers of deductive reasoning were returning to me, and I was able to determine that the noise was not coming from my alarm clock. It was coming from the window. What was in the window? A fan. I ran to the fan. "I have to turn off the fan," I thought to myself. "That will make the noise stop." But the fan wasn't on. No problem! I just turned on the fan. That way, I could turn it off and make the noise stop.
Astoundingly, this did not work.
I considered the situation. Assuming there was some sort of short circuit causing the on/off switch to fail, I decided to unplug the fan. Hey, it didn't work for the alarm clock because the alarm clock wasn't honking. The fan was honking. So I unplugged the fan.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
"It didn't take!" I thought to myself desperately, and plugged the fan back in so I could try it again. I unplugged and replugged the fan a few more times until a tiny shred of reason managed to penetrate my sleep fogged brain. "Wait," I thought, and held still, plug in my hand. "FANS DON'T HONK."
My father found me a few minutes later, with the window fan on the floor and my face and hands pressed tightly against the screen. I had finally deduced that the honking was coming from outside, but I couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the noise and I was trying my best to stop it using only the sheer force of my will. Unfortunately, I had made so much noise storming around my room trying to track down the source of the noise that I woke everyone up. My father gently assured me that the neighbors' malfunctioning car horn was not under my purview, and, thusly relieved, I went back to bed.
I did get up with the first alarm, though.
***
And so I have reached November 30, the last day of NaBloPoMo. I did it! Technically! OK, I totally cheated. Remember this entry? And this one? So I'm not going to put an icon on here that says I did it, because I don't feel like I did it. Well, that and because I don't really know how to make changes to my template. Nevertheless, I wrote a lot more often than usual this month, and that's got to count for something.
But, being incredibly lazy, I will probably slide back into my habit of writing when only I feel like it in December. Plus, I'm going to work on a super secret exciting blog development that I hope to reveal by January, and that will eat up some of my computer time. The rest will be taken up by my mindlessly clicking "Refresh" in my Gmail window.
Why don't people email me as often as I click "refresh"? You should all email me more.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Hi, Honey, I've reentered the domestic habitat!
The following conversation is a near word-perfect transcription of a typical conversation between me and The Husband as we discuss our days.
THE HUSBAND: You know antifreeze?
MO: Uh... yeah?
TH: I froze it today.
MO: Well, everything freezes eventually.*
TH: We had to run a test at -40 Celsius --
MO: Which is also -40 Fahrenheit!
TH: I know! One time I tried to convert -40C to Fahrenheit in my calculator, and it came back as -40! I did it three times before I realized.
MO: Well, the lines aren't parallel! They have to intersect at some point, right?
TH: Yeah. So anyway, antifreeze freezes at -50F, and we had cooled it so quickly that we overshot -40F, and it froze.
MO: That's pretty cold.
TH: So we're going to run it with ethanol instead, since that freezes below -120C.
MO: Ethanol or ethylene glycol?
TH: Ethanol.
*The Husband helped me remember this conversation, and he maintains that not everything freezes. I said that even hydrogen freezes at absolute zero, and he said no it doesn't. I still think it does, but I suppose he might be right, now that I'm typing this, because I guess that freezing is not the same thing as a cessation of molecular vibration. And yes, I'm typing this footnote as an excuse to write the phrase "cessation of molecular vibration," because I like to show off sometimes.
THE HUSBAND: You know antifreeze?
MO: Uh... yeah?
TH: I froze it today.
MO: Well, everything freezes eventually.*
TH: We had to run a test at -40 Celsius --
MO: Which is also -40 Fahrenheit!
TH: I know! One time I tried to convert -40C to Fahrenheit in my calculator, and it came back as -40! I did it three times before I realized.
MO: Well, the lines aren't parallel! They have to intersect at some point, right?
TH: Yeah. So anyway, antifreeze freezes at -50F, and we had cooled it so quickly that we overshot -40F, and it froze.
MO: That's pretty cold.
TH: So we're going to run it with ethanol instead, since that freezes below -120C.
MO: Ethanol or ethylene glycol?
TH: Ethanol.
*The Husband helped me remember this conversation, and he maintains that not everything freezes. I said that even hydrogen freezes at absolute zero, and he said no it doesn't. I still think it does, but I suppose he might be right, now that I'm typing this, because I guess that freezing is not the same thing as a cessation of molecular vibration. And yes, I'm typing this footnote as an excuse to write the phrase "cessation of molecular vibration," because I like to show off sometimes.
Hi, Honey, I've reentered the domestic habitat
The following conversation is a near word-perfect transcription of a typical conversation between me and The Husband as we discuss our days.
THE HUSBAND: You know antifreeze?
MO: Uh... yeah?
TH: I froze it today.
MO: Well, everything freezes eventually.*
TH: We had to run a test at -40 Celsius --
MO: Which is also -40 Fahrenheit!
TH: I know! One time I tried to convert -40C to Fahrenheit in my calculator, and it came back as -40! I did it three times before I realized.
MO: Well, the lines aren't parallel! They have to intersect at some point, right?
TH: Yeah. So anyway, antifreeze freezes at -50F, and we had cooled it so quickly that we overshot -40F, and it froze.
MO: That's pretty cold.
TH: So we're going to run it with ethanol instead, since that freezes below -120C.
MO: Ethanol or ethylene glycol?
TH: Ethanol.
*The Husband helped me remember this conversation, and he maintains that not everything freezes. I said that even hydrogen freezes at absolute zero, and he said no it doesn't. I still think it does, but I suppose he might be right, now that I'm typing this, because I guess that freezing is not the same thing as a cessation of molecular vibration. And yes, I'm typing this footnote as an excuse to write the phrase "cessation of molecular vibration," because I like to show off sometimes.
THE HUSBAND: You know antifreeze?
MO: Uh... yeah?
TH: I froze it today.
MO: Well, everything freezes eventually.*
TH: We had to run a test at -40 Celsius --
MO: Which is also -40 Fahrenheit!
TH: I know! One time I tried to convert -40C to Fahrenheit in my calculator, and it came back as -40! I did it three times before I realized.
MO: Well, the lines aren't parallel! They have to intersect at some point, right?
TH: Yeah. So anyway, antifreeze freezes at -50F, and we had cooled it so quickly that we overshot -40F, and it froze.
MO: That's pretty cold.
TH: So we're going to run it with ethanol instead, since that freezes below -120C.
MO: Ethanol or ethylene glycol?
TH: Ethanol.
*The Husband helped me remember this conversation, and he maintains that not everything freezes. I said that even hydrogen freezes at absolute zero, and he said no it doesn't. I still think it does, but I suppose he might be right, now that I'm typing this, because I guess that freezing is not the same thing as a cessation of molecular vibration. And yes, I'm typing this footnote as an excuse to write the phrase "cessation of molecular vibration," because I like to show off sometimes.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Uh oh, it's magic!
Nanoposting is almost over, and I am desperately trying to hold my head above water over here. I had no idea posting every day would be so taxing. Well, that's not true. I did foresee difficulties which is why I wasn't going to sign up, and I knew that if I did sign up that I would moan and whine about it, because that's what I do. I'm a complainer. Still, it's been really hard! Did you know that Thanksgiving is in November? And our anniversary? And that I am nursing a cold I've had for over a week and am considering taking Mucinex even though the commercials for Mucinex are the most disgusting commercials ever and I wish not to support them? But still, here I am, slaving away at the keyboard. And it's all for you, Internet! All for you!
Last night, The Husband and I watched Night at the Museum. We thoroughly enjoyed it, despite getting a little over-invested in the plot. (Warning: Extremely minor spoilers ahead. Well, not technically minor in that I sort of give away the end, but if you couldn't have guessed how it ended you have never seen a movie before. Or read a book. Or interacted with humans.) We were both incredibly concerned that the T-Rex and the other museum displays would get stuck outside at sunrise. It seemed impossible to us that Ben Stiller would be able to round them all up. How could he do it? There were too many! Ah, but there was one thing we had forgotten. We had neglected to account for the possibility that magic could solve everything in this story about museum displays magically coming to life. Crisis averted!
I would like to think that it is because the movie was so well done that The Husband and I were so worried. Yes. That must be the reason. Because the only other explanation is that we are both idiots.
Last night, The Husband and I watched Night at the Museum. We thoroughly enjoyed it, despite getting a little over-invested in the plot. (Warning: Extremely minor spoilers ahead. Well, not technically minor in that I sort of give away the end, but if you couldn't have guessed how it ended you have never seen a movie before. Or read a book. Or interacted with humans.) We were both incredibly concerned that the T-Rex and the other museum displays would get stuck outside at sunrise. It seemed impossible to us that Ben Stiller would be able to round them all up. How could he do it? There were too many! Ah, but there was one thing we had forgotten. We had neglected to account for the possibility that magic could solve everything in this story about museum displays magically coming to life. Crisis averted!
I would like to think that it is because the movie was so well done that The Husband and I were so worried. Yes. That must be the reason. Because the only other explanation is that we are both idiots.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
At least it's recyclable
In an ironic twist, today Jack and I played with an old cardboard box for about twenty minutes.
I have yet to order the book from yesterday, but rest assured I will, and I will get organized with my plan. People left some great links in my comments, so I recommend you check them out.
I have yet to order the book from yesterday, but rest assured I will, and I will get organized with my plan. People left some great links in my comments, so I recommend you check them out.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Not so fresh air
Today on Fresh Air, Terry Gross interviewed Mark Schapiro who has written a book called Exposed: The Toxic Chemistry of Everyday Products and What's at Stake for American Power. Because I was driving, I didn’t get to listen to the whole show, I didn’t get to listen as carefully as I would have liked, and I am unable to find a transcript online, so what I’m about to say must be taken with a grain of salt. Nevertheless, I learned two particularly horrible things from this interview.
First, there is a family of toxic industrial chemicals called phthalates that are used as softeners in PVC plastics. Products made out of these plastics range from dashboards to toys to IV tubes. The E.U. has banned these products, but the U.S. has not. According to Schapiro, companies have had absolutely no problems conforming to the E.U. ban on phthalates. Toy sales have not decreased, and European children are not condemned to play with nothing but old cardboard boxes. And yet these same companies continue to manufacture toys and other products containing phthalates to sell in the U.S.
Second, and according to Schapiro, the E.U. has also banned carcinogens, mutagens, and compounds which affect the reproductive system from all cosmetics. The U.S. has not. Once again, the same companies which are carefully finding replacements for toxic cosmetics ingredients are simultaneously lobbying the U.S. government to stop legislation requiring the disclosure of the ingredients of cosmetics.
It’s getting to the point that I am seeing everything I own, everything manufactured, as a threat to the health of my family. I’m starting to feel like I should get rid of all of Jack’s toys and give him some old cardboard boxes instead. So here’s what I’m proposing: Let’s all send emails and actual, hand-written letters to our representatives, Senators, the president, toy companies, and cosmetic companies calling for a U.S. ban on the same toxic chemicals that the E.U. is banning. This should be a no-brainer; companies are already finding alternatives to comply with the E.U. law, so they should just make the same safer products available to us here. And I’m also asking all of my readers who have their own blogs, especially those of you with more than the 20 readers I have – I’m talking to you, Emily, Arwen, and Maggie – to put the call out to your readers as well.
I need a day or two to get a list of names and addresses of where these letters should be sent, and I need to buy Schapiro’s book to make sure my facts are right. But once I have the information, I’ll post it here.
I know it doesn’t seem like much, but if we could just raise awareness, maybe the American consumer would start to demand better choices, and better choices would become available. Maybe our own children won’t be doomed to a toy box full of old cardboard boxes.
First, there is a family of toxic industrial chemicals called phthalates that are used as softeners in PVC plastics. Products made out of these plastics range from dashboards to toys to IV tubes. The E.U. has banned these products, but the U.S. has not. According to Schapiro, companies have had absolutely no problems conforming to the E.U. ban on phthalates. Toy sales have not decreased, and European children are not condemned to play with nothing but old cardboard boxes. And yet these same companies continue to manufacture toys and other products containing phthalates to sell in the U.S.
Second, and according to Schapiro, the E.U. has also banned carcinogens, mutagens, and compounds which affect the reproductive system from all cosmetics. The U.S. has not. Once again, the same companies which are carefully finding replacements for toxic cosmetics ingredients are simultaneously lobbying the U.S. government to stop legislation requiring the disclosure of the ingredients of cosmetics.
It’s getting to the point that I am seeing everything I own, everything manufactured, as a threat to the health of my family. I’m starting to feel like I should get rid of all of Jack’s toys and give him some old cardboard boxes instead. So here’s what I’m proposing: Let’s all send emails and actual, hand-written letters to our representatives, Senators, the president, toy companies, and cosmetic companies calling for a U.S. ban on the same toxic chemicals that the E.U. is banning. This should be a no-brainer; companies are already finding alternatives to comply with the E.U. law, so they should just make the same safer products available to us here. And I’m also asking all of my readers who have their own blogs, especially those of you with more than the 20 readers I have – I’m talking to you, Emily, Arwen, and Maggie – to put the call out to your readers as well.
I need a day or two to get a list of names and addresses of where these letters should be sent, and I need to buy Schapiro’s book to make sure my facts are right. But once I have the information, I’ll post it here.
I know it doesn’t seem like much, but if we could just raise awareness, maybe the American consumer would start to demand better choices, and better choices would become available. Maybe our own children won’t be doomed to a toy box full of old cardboard boxes.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Today's teatime was long and dark
For the first Sunday in weeks, The Husband, Jack and I went to church together as a family. Normally, The Husband goes to the 9:00 Mass and I go to the 11:15 and sing with the choir. Jack is usually napping at 9:00, so and The Husband has a hard time wrangling him all alone at the 11:15, so this is what has been working for us lately. But today Jack slept until almost 8:15 which meant no nap for him at 9:00, and I have laryngitis which meant no singing for me at 11:15. Thus, the family went to mass together.
As much as I like singing with the choir, today was actually quite nice. We only live about a quarter mile from the church, so we always walk and today was a beautiful sunny morning. We left the stroller at the back of the church and as Jack and I walked down the aisle together, I reveled in the expressions of the churchgoers admiring my adorable child. There was a minor kerfuffle when I accidentally chose the only pew with an electrical outlet at the end of it, but overall, Jack was pretty well behaved. I can't say I remember an awful lot of the homily (that's "sermon" to you non-Catholics) thanks to my reading "Little Duck" while the priest was speaking, but we didn't have to take Jack outside or anything. He hit his nap wall just about when Mass was ending, but that worked out pretty nicely for us.
And that is how we found ourselves at home at 10:15 on a Sunday morning with a sleepy baby and a whole day stretching out ahead of us with nothing to do. At first it was fantastic. I read the whole paper. The whole paper! We had coffee and doughnuts. I tried to do the Sudoku. Jack woke up from his nap and had some lunch, and then... it was Sunday afternoon. With nothing to do.
The day just stretched interminably. If Jack were older, I would have suggested a movie, but alas, that was no option. We brought Jack outside for some fresh air, and he had a great time throwing the leaves around. When he started to get cranky I said, "Let's go inside and have some supper," only to discover that it was merely 4:15. There were at least thirty more minutes to endure before we could reasonably give Jack his dinner.
Thank goodness Jack thoughtfully was ready for bed by 6:30 ending our Sunday afternoon ordeal. The hours between 4:00 and 6:30 are usually difficult, but today 4:00 seemed to start around 2:30 or so. And now I've reread this and feel like an enormous jerk for complaining about having a lazy Sunday with a basically well-behaved adorable baby. Man, I have such problems.
As much as I like singing with the choir, today was actually quite nice. We only live about a quarter mile from the church, so we always walk and today was a beautiful sunny morning. We left the stroller at the back of the church and as Jack and I walked down the aisle together, I reveled in the expressions of the churchgoers admiring my adorable child. There was a minor kerfuffle when I accidentally chose the only pew with an electrical outlet at the end of it, but overall, Jack was pretty well behaved. I can't say I remember an awful lot of the homily (that's "sermon" to you non-Catholics) thanks to my reading "Little Duck" while the priest was speaking, but we didn't have to take Jack outside or anything. He hit his nap wall just about when Mass was ending, but that worked out pretty nicely for us.
And that is how we found ourselves at home at 10:15 on a Sunday morning with a sleepy baby and a whole day stretching out ahead of us with nothing to do. At first it was fantastic. I read the whole paper. The whole paper! We had coffee and doughnuts. I tried to do the Sudoku. Jack woke up from his nap and had some lunch, and then... it was Sunday afternoon. With nothing to do.
The day just stretched interminably. If Jack were older, I would have suggested a movie, but alas, that was no option. We brought Jack outside for some fresh air, and he had a great time throwing the leaves around. When he started to get cranky I said, "Let's go inside and have some supper," only to discover that it was merely 4:15. There were at least thirty more minutes to endure before we could reasonably give Jack his dinner.
Thank goodness Jack thoughtfully was ready for bed by 6:30 ending our Sunday afternoon ordeal. The hours between 4:00 and 6:30 are usually difficult, but today 4:00 seemed to start around 2:30 or so. And now I've reread this and feel like an enormous jerk for complaining about having a lazy Sunday with a basically well-behaved adorable baby. Man, I have such problems.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
I don't know how he likes his martinis
Today we got to have lunch with Professor The Doctor and Mr. Professor The Doctor* and their son, who is 2 1/2. After lunch, Professor The Doctor had some tea, and it reminded me of the time they were visiting and I offered them tea. Mr. Professor accepted, but he asked me how I prepare tea. "Do you add the tea to the water or do you add the water to the tea?" was his question.
Coming from a strong tea-drinking background, I was a mite offended that he thought I might not know how tea should be made. "I add the water to the tea of course," I replied.
"Oh, no no no!" he said. "You're never supposed to add the water to the tea. Everyone always does that, but it beats the crap out of the teabag! You're supposed to add the tea to the water, to gently release the essence of the tea."
Well. I didn't know where he was getting this information, but he was clearly insane. The water is added to the tea. Everyone always does that because that is how tea is made. Tea that has been brewed by dipping a teabag into a cup of hot water tastes like old dishwater. In fact, 90% of the reason I learned to like coffee is that tea takes too long to prepare correctly at coffee shops and that so many restaurants bring you a cup of hot water - water that is not even boiling - and a teabag after supper. So I was not about to take any lip from someone who was clearly a tea-drinking troglodyte. Besides, he was acting incredibly snooty for someone who was so very very wrong.
I turned on my laptop and looked up tea on the internet. (Whatever did we do before the internet? How were bar bets settled?) I pulled up site after site supporting my tea position, but he would not be dissuaded. "An English person told me that you're supposed to add the tea to the water," he kept insisting.
"No English person told you that," I said, but prepared his "tea" as he requested it.
About a year and a half later, I heard an interview with Giles Hinton, a certified Tea Master, who said the following: "...And then pour it [the water] almost still bubbling onto your tea bag or onto the leaves." He further noted that the boiling water is "... full of oxygen, full of life, full of brightness. And it has a great effect on the tea. It brings it back to life, it brings out the flavor efficiently." Naturally, I emailed the transcript of this interview to Mr. The Professor immediately, because I am always the bigger person and know when to let things go. I also may, possibly, have gloated just a little bit.
Mr. The Professor scrabbled around for a day or so trying to gather evidence supporting his tea recipe, but was finally forced to concede the argument. I mean, come on, I had the direct quote of a TEA MASTER. If he doesn't know how to make tea, who does?
Lest you think I am totally innocent in this relationship, I should tell you that Mr. The Professor are both Scrabble enthusiasts and have played against each other quite a few times. Each of these bouts were preceded by weeks of trash talk in which I proclaimed my Scrabble greatness and promised to reduce Mr. The Professor to a tiny pile of quivering, vowel-less goo.
I think I won once.
*At some point in the past I wrote and entry about these two and let them approve their nicknames, but now I can't remember what they were. After a half-hearted attempt to find that post in my archives I'm going with these, because I have no idea when I wrote it and I have no idea what it was about. Professor The Doctor was in my class in undergrad, and now she, like many of my friends, has become a Professor. You know, quite a lot of my friends grew up to become professors. You might say that's not all that strange given that I went to grad school, but I knew three of them in undergrad. I would be jealous of their exciting careers except that if I were a professor I'd have to kill myself. I think I might be jealous that they want to be professors because I'm jealous of anyone who has a cool job they like, but as far as the actual job goes, they can keep it.
Incidentally, Mr. The Professor reads this blog just about every day, so everyone say hi. Hi, Mr. The Professor!
Coming from a strong tea-drinking background, I was a mite offended that he thought I might not know how tea should be made. "I add the water to the tea of course," I replied.
"Oh, no no no!" he said. "You're never supposed to add the water to the tea. Everyone always does that, but it beats the crap out of the teabag! You're supposed to add the tea to the water, to gently release the essence of the tea."
Well. I didn't know where he was getting this information, but he was clearly insane. The water is added to the tea. Everyone always does that because that is how tea is made. Tea that has been brewed by dipping a teabag into a cup of hot water tastes like old dishwater. In fact, 90% of the reason I learned to like coffee is that tea takes too long to prepare correctly at coffee shops and that so many restaurants bring you a cup of hot water - water that is not even boiling - and a teabag after supper. So I was not about to take any lip from someone who was clearly a tea-drinking troglodyte. Besides, he was acting incredibly snooty for someone who was so very very wrong.
I turned on my laptop and looked up tea on the internet. (Whatever did we do before the internet? How were bar bets settled?) I pulled up site after site supporting my tea position, but he would not be dissuaded. "An English person told me that you're supposed to add the tea to the water," he kept insisting.
"No English person told you that," I said, but prepared his "tea" as he requested it.
About a year and a half later, I heard an interview with Giles Hinton, a certified Tea Master, who said the following: "...And then pour it [the water] almost still bubbling onto your tea bag or onto the leaves." He further noted that the boiling water is "... full of oxygen, full of life, full of brightness. And it has a great effect on the tea. It brings it back to life, it brings out the flavor efficiently." Naturally, I emailed the transcript of this interview to Mr. The Professor immediately, because I am always the bigger person and know when to let things go. I also may, possibly, have gloated just a little bit.
Mr. The Professor scrabbled around for a day or so trying to gather evidence supporting his tea recipe, but was finally forced to concede the argument. I mean, come on, I had the direct quote of a TEA MASTER. If he doesn't know how to make tea, who does?
Lest you think I am totally innocent in this relationship, I should tell you that Mr. The Professor are both Scrabble enthusiasts and have played against each other quite a few times. Each of these bouts were preceded by weeks of trash talk in which I proclaimed my Scrabble greatness and promised to reduce Mr. The Professor to a tiny pile of quivering, vowel-less goo.
I think I won once.
*At some point in the past I wrote and entry about these two and let them approve their nicknames, but now I can't remember what they were. After a half-hearted attempt to find that post in my archives I'm going with these, because I have no idea when I wrote it and I have no idea what it was about. Professor The Doctor was in my class in undergrad, and now she, like many of my friends, has become a Professor. You know, quite a lot of my friends grew up to become professors. You might say that's not all that strange given that I went to grad school, but I knew three of them in undergrad. I would be jealous of their exciting careers except that if I were a professor I'd have to kill myself. I think I might be jealous that they want to be professors because I'm jealous of anyone who has a cool job they like, but as far as the actual job goes, they can keep it.
Incidentally, Mr. The Professor reads this blog just about every day, so everyone say hi. Hi, Mr. The Professor!
Friday, November 23, 2007
23 rounds down to 20
So Thanksgiving was yesterday, and we hosted the family dinner this year. This may have been mentioned on this website at some point. Claims may have also been made that The Husband and I were preparing a turkey dinner for 30 people, but these claims, as it turns out, were a bit inflated.
First of all, yes, we prepared a turkey dinner insofar as we roasted a turkey. We also roasted some sweet potatoes, I made a pumpkin pie and a cheesecake, and we bought a couple of appetizers. But that’s it. We farmed the rest of the food out to various family members.
Speaking of family members, did I say there were 30 of them? Because there aren’t. The total number of people requiring a place setting at the table was actually only 23. Adding in the three babies under two and the one adult who couldn’t make it brought the total to 27. This was the number I was carrying around in my head and rounding up to 30. Thirty people! We were going to have 30 people for dinner! Except we weren’t!
As it turned out, 23 people fit quite comfortably around our borrowed tables, and no one had to use plastic utensils. The turkey wasn’t dry at all, despite being done an hour and a half early. Jack, who is quite fond of cranberry sauce, only hollered a little bit during dinner. (The other babies made not a peep.) (Also, the other babies did not throw 90% of their dinners on the floor.) (Note: none of Jack’s cranberry sauce was thrown on the floor.) We also got my parents to bring over their Nintendo Wii, and The Husband set it up in the attic after supper. Strangely, that is just about when the teenagers disappeared.
All in all, it was a good day. If you’ll pardon me for a moment of cheesiness, The Husband and I are blessed with an incredible family, and have a lot to be thankful for. More than most, I’d say.
First of all, yes, we prepared a turkey dinner insofar as we roasted a turkey. We also roasted some sweet potatoes, I made a pumpkin pie and a cheesecake, and we bought a couple of appetizers. But that’s it. We farmed the rest of the food out to various family members.
Speaking of family members, did I say there were 30 of them? Because there aren’t. The total number of people requiring a place setting at the table was actually only 23. Adding in the three babies under two and the one adult who couldn’t make it brought the total to 27. This was the number I was carrying around in my head and rounding up to 30. Thirty people! We were going to have 30 people for dinner! Except we weren’t!
As it turned out, 23 people fit quite comfortably around our borrowed tables, and no one had to use plastic utensils. The turkey wasn’t dry at all, despite being done an hour and a half early. Jack, who is quite fond of cranberry sauce, only hollered a little bit during dinner. (The other babies made not a peep.) (Also, the other babies did not throw 90% of their dinners on the floor.) (Note: none of Jack’s cranberry sauce was thrown on the floor.) We also got my parents to bring over their Nintendo Wii, and The Husband set it up in the attic after supper. Strangely, that is just about when the teenagers disappeared.
All in all, it was a good day. If you’ll pardon me for a moment of cheesiness, The Husband and I are blessed with an incredible family, and have a lot to be thankful for. More than most, I’d say.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
When Engineers Cook
Sometimes, we improvise. Like when I couldn't find any "turkey laces" so we had to make do with what was in the pantry.
(In case you can't tell, that there is a gingerbread man cookie cutter.)
Happy Thanksgiving!
(In case you can't tell, that there is a gingerbread man cookie cutter.)
Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Communication
Today, Jack slept until 8:00, so I didn't even try to put him down for a nap until 11:00. He went down easily, but started complaining about five minutes after I left the room. I went back in to soothe him back down, but he was having none of it. He was talking, joking, pointing out my ears... the whole nine yards. Since I have a policy of not killing myself getting him to take a nap if he doesn't want to, I gave up and said, "OK, but if you aren't going to take a nap, you have to give me the bink."
I'll be damned if he didn't hand it over!
I'll be damned if he didn't hand it over!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tagged
On my last day ever at the house I grew up in, Big Sister #4 and I took our kids for a walk. My parents' house was on the border between two towns, and the town line marker that was across the street. As we approached it, I called Elfin Nephew over to show him the initials of the two towns. "Look," I said to him. "See? There's an 'M' on this side, and an 'S' on the other!" My sister looked at the post, then looked at me, shocked and horrified.
"When did you do that?" she cried. My initials, you see, used to be "M.S." She had never known that the post was a town line marker, she just thought it was an old granite fence post or something. But that's not the funny part. I can't fault her; I didn't discover its true purpose until I was an adult either.
No, the funny part is the idea that I had somehow, at some point, perhaps in the dead of night, sneaked out of my house and carved my initials into city property. I, the rule follower, the teacher's pet, the bookworm. I, who never so much as dropped an apple core on the street. The worst thing I ever did was to lie to my mother about watching an R-rated movie when I was naught but 14, but I was so torn up by the guilt that I confessed it to her, through choking, shame-ridden sobs, that very night. She didn't even punish me, I was so pathetic. So to imagine that I would have dared to graffiti at all, never mind graffiti that required a hammer and chisel, is so ridiculous as to be laughable.
And my tag would have been way cooler than that.
"When did you do that?" she cried. My initials, you see, used to be "M.S." She had never known that the post was a town line marker, she just thought it was an old granite fence post or something. But that's not the funny part. I can't fault her; I didn't discover its true purpose until I was an adult either.
No, the funny part is the idea that I had somehow, at some point, perhaps in the dead of night, sneaked out of my house and carved my initials into city property. I, the rule follower, the teacher's pet, the bookworm. I, who never so much as dropped an apple core on the street. The worst thing I ever did was to lie to my mother about watching an R-rated movie when I was naught but 14, but I was so torn up by the guilt that I confessed it to her, through choking, shame-ridden sobs, that very night. She didn't even punish me, I was so pathetic. So to imagine that I would have dared to graffiti at all, never mind graffiti that required a hammer and chisel, is so ridiculous as to be laughable.
And my tag would have been way cooler than that.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Blog fodder
Today Big Sister #4 came over with her two kids, Elfin Nephew and The Spitfire. They came to take Jack off my hands for a few hours and give me time to get the place ready for Thursday. When she first arrived, I took the opportunity to vacuum while there was another pair of adult eyes around to make sure Jack wasn’t sticking his hands in it while I used the attachments. Then she offered to take all three kids to the park, so we spent fifteen or so minutes bundling them up and then we all trooped outside. I was with them only to get Jack’s stroller out of my car; as such, I brought my car keys but not my house keys.
While I was unloading the stroller, I heard Elfin Nephew say, “How come the door is open?”
“Oh, because I’m just going right back inside,” I told him. You see, normally when I run outside for a quick thing like this, I check the door handle to make sure it’s not locked, leave it hanging ajar, and do my thing.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
Today, I did not check the door handle, and today, Elfin Nephew helpfully closed the door while I was unloading the stroller. So there I was, in the freezing cold wearing naught but my thin cotton 3/4 –length sleeve sweater, locked out of my house.
It could have been worse. I might have left the oven on, or Jack might have still been inside, or my sister and I might have left our car keys and cell phones in the house. Fortunately, none of these things were the case, so we were able to put Jack’s car seat in my sister’s car and drive up to meet The Husband to get his key. Still, it put a bit of a damper on my grand plans for the day.
Sigh.
Incidentally, it turns out that the kitchen hutch lock may not have been designed to withstand professional thieves, but it could withstand two engineers unwilling to damage the hutch, and we couldn’t pick it. But in a stroke of luck, The Husband discovered the key tonight inside a postal box that he was breaking down for recycling. So… score!
While I was unloading the stroller, I heard Elfin Nephew say, “How come the door is open?”
“Oh, because I’m just going right back inside,” I told him. You see, normally when I run outside for a quick thing like this, I check the door handle to make sure it’s not locked, leave it hanging ajar, and do my thing.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
Today, I did not check the door handle, and today, Elfin Nephew helpfully closed the door while I was unloading the stroller. So there I was, in the freezing cold wearing naught but my thin cotton 3/4 –length sleeve sweater, locked out of my house.
It could have been worse. I might have left the oven on, or Jack might have still been inside, or my sister and I might have left our car keys and cell phones in the house. Fortunately, none of these things were the case, so we were able to put Jack’s car seat in my sister’s car and drive up to meet The Husband to get his key. Still, it put a bit of a damper on my grand plans for the day.
Sigh.
Incidentally, it turns out that the kitchen hutch lock may not have been designed to withstand professional thieves, but it could withstand two engineers unwilling to damage the hutch, and we couldn’t pick it. But in a stroke of luck, The Husband discovered the key tonight inside a postal box that he was breaking down for recycling. So… score!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Bad timing
I knew it was a bad idea to let Jack play with the key that goes to our kitchen hutch, but I did it anyway, and now it's gone and all of our serving dishes and teapots are safely locked away. There they will remain for Thanksgiving, which is at our house. Have I mentioned that?
OK, I'm exaggerating for comedic effect, because it's not like the lock to our kitchen hutch is designed to keep out Nicky Holiday and his gang of burgling models. he Husband is picking it as I type. But still.
OK, I'm exaggerating for comedic effect, because it's not like the lock to our kitchen hutch is designed to keep out Nicky Holiday and his gang of burgling models. he Husband is picking it as I type. But still.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
One legged pants
This post is only being posted because I made the insane commitment to NanoBlo... blog every day this month. See, I spent the day today purchasing an outfit for Thanksgiving as I thought it might be nice to wear something that fit next Thursday. And then I spent the evening mildly panicking about the fact that we are hosting our family Thanksgiving and approximately 30 people are coming to my house next week to eat roast turkey which neither The Husband nor I has ever cooked before. Fortunately, these people are all related to me and must therefore love me even if the turkey is dry. And now I have to finish I still haven't finished hemming my new jeans. (The first leg came out pretty good; it is a nice straight, tiny stitch for awhile, and then it goes a little wonky. Apparently, I had enough energy only for 7/8 around.)
Check back tomorrow; maybe I'll think of something by then.
Check back tomorrow; maybe I'll think of something by then.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Cloth Diapering Manifesto: Part IV
OK. Now you know why we use cloth diapers, you know about all the different kinds of cloth diapers available, and you know how to wash them. So what else do you need? Accessories!
Here’s what you need:
diaper pail
2 pail liners
2 wet bags
diaper sprayer
rubbing alcohol
rubber gloves
And, if you’re going to use pocket diapers:
Trader Joe’s bar towels
For a diaper pail, all you need is a trash barrel of some sort. The Husband and I splurged a bit here and bought this Simple Human can. Yes. It’s quite expensive. But we wanted something that would last and that would hold the smell in, and this can delivers. We smell nothing until that lid is up, and then…. wooooeeeee! Not having tried any other pail, I can’t say that a cheaper one would not have sufficed, because the liners do a good job of keeping in the smell. But in my experience, cheap trash cans fall apart. So we got the fancy one.
As for pail liners, there are a myriad of choices out there, and they probably all work just fine. We use Wahmies pail liners are quite happy with them. I told you that you need two of them so you are never without when one is in the wash. I should also mention here that there are hanging diaper bags available if space is an issue; in this case, you don’t need the pail at all, just the bag.
You will also need something to carry the dirty diapers when you are out and about. This is called a wet bag. I recommend getting a small wet bag for shorter outings and a larger one for longer trips. Again, lots of choices abound here, and I’m sure they’re all great. We have a Dinkerdoodles bag that holds about 10 or so diapers. The pull string kind of broke so now it doesn’t really close properly, but that doesn’t matter as far as you are concerned because Dinkerdoodles bags are no longer available. We also have a small Bummis tote bag; it can hold about 4 diapers and is ideal for a typical day’s outing. It also seems to be impermeable to odor.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally arrived at what you have all been anxiously awaiting: the explanation of the diaper sprayer. A diaper sprayer is a fixture that you attach to your toilet and works just like the sprayer on your sink. You use it to spray the diapers clean, saving yourself from having to dunk and swish the messy diapers. Because although the diaper websites tell you that you don’t have to rinse the diapers because the poop just rolls right off the fleece, they are lying. Yes, sometimes you don’t have to rinse, but, as Kerflop notes, sometimes you do. Trust me, you’ll be able to tell the difference.
Technically, you don’t actually need the diaper sprayer because you can just dunk and swish, but you will probably want the diaper sprayer because, ew. I have been places with no diaper sprayer at critical times, and boy, do I miss it. When you tell your mother (or possibly your grandmother) you are going to use cloth diapers, watch how her skeptical expression changes to amazement when you tell her about the diaper sprayer. My diaper sprayer has impressed cloth diaper veterans far more than my fancy designer pocket diapers.
The diaper sprayer we use is no longer offered at Cotton Babies; instead they have this one and they claim that it does not splash or drip. I hope they are correct, because ours splashes and drips. We have solved the dripping problem by closing the valve when we’re not using it, and I actually recommend getting one with a valve you can shut off if only to thwart your eventual curious toddler. The splashing remains a problem, but we always wipe down the toilet with toilet paper soaked in rubbing alcohol and then flush it, so it’s no big deal.
As for the rubber gloves, we just leave a pair by the toilet and use them when we need to. It’s not totally necessary because you can just wash your hands, but we are squeamish. Again, I have dunked and swished when out somewhere without gloves and I’m still alive, but it’s nice to have the gloves.
I also listed cloth wipes as a needed accessory. While not actually a requirement, I like using cloth wipes when he’s really messy, just to get the bulk so that I can rinse the wipe in the toilet and not have smelly disposable wipes stinking up my bathroom. Diapering sites usually sell special washcloths designed to be wipes, but you can just use a regular baby washcloth. I also keep my Peri bottle from the hospital filled with water to rinse him off if necessary. I always end by wiping with a disposable wipe, though, because I can’t seem to maneuver the cloth ones into all his cracks and crevices.
Last but not least, I would be doing you a disservice if I did not tell you about the Trader Joe’s bar towels. (Trader Joe’s does not have them on their website, so I can’t give you a link.) We ran into a problem with the bumGenius One Size pocket diapers when Jack was about 5 months old or and starting to sleep through the night, because the diapers could not contain a full night’s worth of pee. We tried stuffing them with two inserts, but that made them too tight. In desperation, I emailed Moxie, and she suggested I get some bar towels from Trader Joe’s. They are made of viscose which is thin but highly absorbent, and they CHANGED OUR LIVES. The combination of the insert plus bar towel is enough to keep Jack comfortable all night. We still have occasional leaks, but they don’t wake him up and we are all much happier.
If you don’t live near a Trader Joe’s and you run into this problem with a pocket diaper, check the online diaper stores for “doublers.” Or consider going with a different type of diaper for overnight. Tallulah Baby, for example, offers “Simply Nights” diapers; maybe they’ll work. And you would only need two or three of them, because the diapers should be washed every two or three days anyway.
So that’s it! That’s cloth diapering! It may seem overwhelming at first, but once you actually start experimenting, you will find that it is not nearly as complicated as this four-part dissertation makes it seem. And remember, you are allowed to buy things for your baby even after he’s born! So if you try a few diapers but don’t like them, you can try a few others until you find the system that works for you. You can start with one wet bag and then add another later. You can even decide not to buy the diaper sprayer and then change your mind!
Good luck, and feel free to email me with any questions.
Manifesto Part I: Why cloth?
Manifesto Part II: Diaper types
Manifesto Part III: Washing the diapers
Here’s what you need:
diaper pail
2 pail liners
2 wet bags
diaper sprayer
rubbing alcohol
rubber gloves
And, if you’re going to use pocket diapers:
Trader Joe’s bar towels
For a diaper pail, all you need is a trash barrel of some sort. The Husband and I splurged a bit here and bought this Simple Human can. Yes. It’s quite expensive. But we wanted something that would last and that would hold the smell in, and this can delivers. We smell nothing until that lid is up, and then…. wooooeeeee! Not having tried any other pail, I can’t say that a cheaper one would not have sufficed, because the liners do a good job of keeping in the smell. But in my experience, cheap trash cans fall apart. So we got the fancy one.
As for pail liners, there are a myriad of choices out there, and they probably all work just fine. We use Wahmies pail liners are quite happy with them. I told you that you need two of them so you are never without when one is in the wash. I should also mention here that there are hanging diaper bags available if space is an issue; in this case, you don’t need the pail at all, just the bag.
You will also need something to carry the dirty diapers when you are out and about. This is called a wet bag. I recommend getting a small wet bag for shorter outings and a larger one for longer trips. Again, lots of choices abound here, and I’m sure they’re all great. We have a Dinkerdoodles bag that holds about 10 or so diapers. The pull string kind of broke so now it doesn’t really close properly, but that doesn’t matter as far as you are concerned because Dinkerdoodles bags are no longer available. We also have a small Bummis tote bag; it can hold about 4 diapers and is ideal for a typical day’s outing. It also seems to be impermeable to odor.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally arrived at what you have all been anxiously awaiting: the explanation of the diaper sprayer. A diaper sprayer is a fixture that you attach to your toilet and works just like the sprayer on your sink. You use it to spray the diapers clean, saving yourself from having to dunk and swish the messy diapers. Because although the diaper websites tell you that you don’t have to rinse the diapers because the poop just rolls right off the fleece, they are lying. Yes, sometimes you don’t have to rinse, but, as Kerflop notes, sometimes you do. Trust me, you’ll be able to tell the difference.
Technically, you don’t actually need the diaper sprayer because you can just dunk and swish, but you will probably want the diaper sprayer because, ew. I have been places with no diaper sprayer at critical times, and boy, do I miss it. When you tell your mother (or possibly your grandmother) you are going to use cloth diapers, watch how her skeptical expression changes to amazement when you tell her about the diaper sprayer. My diaper sprayer has impressed cloth diaper veterans far more than my fancy designer pocket diapers.
The diaper sprayer we use is no longer offered at Cotton Babies; instead they have this one and they claim that it does not splash or drip. I hope they are correct, because ours splashes and drips. We have solved the dripping problem by closing the valve when we’re not using it, and I actually recommend getting one with a valve you can shut off if only to thwart your eventual curious toddler. The splashing remains a problem, but we always wipe down the toilet with toilet paper soaked in rubbing alcohol and then flush it, so it’s no big deal.
As for the rubber gloves, we just leave a pair by the toilet and use them when we need to. It’s not totally necessary because you can just wash your hands, but we are squeamish. Again, I have dunked and swished when out somewhere without gloves and I’m still alive, but it’s nice to have the gloves.
I also listed cloth wipes as a needed accessory. While not actually a requirement, I like using cloth wipes when he’s really messy, just to get the bulk so that I can rinse the wipe in the toilet and not have smelly disposable wipes stinking up my bathroom. Diapering sites usually sell special washcloths designed to be wipes, but you can just use a regular baby washcloth. I also keep my Peri bottle from the hospital filled with water to rinse him off if necessary. I always end by wiping with a disposable wipe, though, because I can’t seem to maneuver the cloth ones into all his cracks and crevices.
Last but not least, I would be doing you a disservice if I did not tell you about the Trader Joe’s bar towels. (Trader Joe’s does not have them on their website, so I can’t give you a link.) We ran into a problem with the bumGenius One Size pocket diapers when Jack was about 5 months old or and starting to sleep through the night, because the diapers could not contain a full night’s worth of pee. We tried stuffing them with two inserts, but that made them too tight. In desperation, I emailed Moxie, and she suggested I get some bar towels from Trader Joe’s. They are made of viscose which is thin but highly absorbent, and they CHANGED OUR LIVES. The combination of the insert plus bar towel is enough to keep Jack comfortable all night. We still have occasional leaks, but they don’t wake him up and we are all much happier.
If you don’t live near a Trader Joe’s and you run into this problem with a pocket diaper, check the online diaper stores for “doublers.” Or consider going with a different type of diaper for overnight. Tallulah Baby, for example, offers “Simply Nights” diapers; maybe they’ll work. And you would only need two or three of them, because the diapers should be washed every two or three days anyway.
So that’s it! That’s cloth diapering! It may seem overwhelming at first, but once you actually start experimenting, you will find that it is not nearly as complicated as this four-part dissertation makes it seem. And remember, you are allowed to buy things for your baby even after he’s born! So if you try a few diapers but don’t like them, you can try a few others until you find the system that works for you. You can start with one wet bag and then add another later. You can even decide not to buy the diaper sprayer and then change your mind!
Good luck, and feel free to email me with any questions.
Manifesto Part I: Why cloth?
Manifesto Part II: Diaper types
Manifesto Part III: Washing the diapers
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