The Curious Case of the Cloth Diaper Mom
Have you seen them? They’re perched on the aisle’s endcap. Glaring at you, as if to boast, “You think you’re extreme, try cloth.” Cloth vs. Disposable, one of the first and arduous mommy decisions. When I was pregnant, my eco-friendly neighbor preached cloths were the only way. Sweet and pushy, she pressed the selling points over lunch:
“Did you know landfills contain over a billion disposable diapers?.”
“No kidding.” I said with quinoa lodged somewhere in my teeth.
“And they take over 100 years to disintegrate”. I tried to act interested, but she saw through the act and went for the jugular, “Regular diapers cause Toxic Shock Syndrome”.
My fork dropped. TSS, the unspoken black plague of every woman’s nightmares. We never knew anyone infected, let alone the bottom-low stats, but it didn’t matter. Like Pandora, curious fingers opened our first pink box to read the shock-tactic insert, and thus we released fear amongst females. We were never the same. Our midnight cold sweats were illusions of poorly-timed deaths and awkwardly worded obituaries.
“Alright, lemme see them.” I said. We went to her bathroom which felt more like a workshop. The over the toilet etagere, held linen-lined wicker boxes labeled “liners”, “spray”, “inserts” next to a hamper with large sign that stated, “Diapers Only!”. The exclamation point threw me. She lifted a hose-to-sink toilet attachment device and a mini plastic scraper. Yes, a scraper. The whole thing looked eerily familiar like hospice medical equipment. Armed with this sophistication, I was guided through the cleaning process. Somewhere in the pitch I forgot that part, and wondered if this was the reason for the 1930s mass influx of housewives in asylums. And with that, I was out, resigned, knowing somewhere in America I’ll be creating my disposable diaper mountain range.
Keep’n it classy, mama.
“Keep it simple” is my mantra. Even from the beginning, having twins felt like parachuting to a hazardous place, where countless militant moms hollered, “Just the basics! That’s all you got time for!”. And they were right. It’s a magical week, when my home is spotless. On laundry day, I’m the coal shoveler in the hull of the Titanic, disposing endless clothes into whirly machines. Meal time is a circus act of balancing plates, juggling favored meals as Elmo’s helium-rich voice echos on and on...
Looking back, I don’t know if my old neighbor kept up with the cloth diaper duty or Dyno-labeled Tupperware meal prep Sundays, but after cutting down cloths, things were different. Lunch invitations were less frequent. Like something was there, but not obvious enough to say something. Eventually we moved, and like friends leaving for college, she went her way, and I the other.
But, something was there. That something that gnaws away, seeks resolution, replays conversations, and pushes insecurities forefront of your mind. So, what was up with that quinoa-bonanza lunch? How did a kale salad wedge pushed two new moms friends apart? Why did I even care? And side note- Why does every salad ad feature women laughing?
If you ever spent a day inside a high school cafeteria, you’ll know exactly where I’m going. The cinder-block walls, plastered with posters reading “Unity First”, “Celebrate Diversity”, “Respect All”, but there they are, separate: the jocks, the anime Fans, student council folk, theater nerds, math nerds, in cliques, all stuffing their faces with Bosco sticks and cold sandwiches. We’re no different, and is this scene really that bad? Yes, there’s that one kid who claims he ate lunches in the bathroom stall, but I’m pretty sure that’s a clique, say, the bathroom bunch! We socialize with those who share similar interests and style. Every now and then, I hear, “the church is full of cliques”. But didn’t Jesus have a 12 member clique? They had diverse backgrounds but shared a similar style. Let’s not confuse style over substance.
Back to moms, the style of mothering is crazy diverse. Thanks to the internet, blog interest topics have flourished into groups to become mommy identities. And corporations are making a massive profit. In the 80s, you probably had three options: Stay at home Mom, Working Mom, or Single Mom. Brands? Fisher Price or Graco. Now, there’s the All-Natural Mom, A Pro-Breastfeeding Mom, A Full-Quiver Mom, Public School Mom, An Instagram Mom, A Parent Board Mom, A Tiger Mom, even the Anti-Mom….you get the point. But the point is, choosing friends with a similar style is okay. It’s when we compare and critique different styles that causes division. Friendships found in high-wall sectors are full of suspicions and segregation. Some have even put their mom identity over their Christian identity. Is spreading awareness greater than acceptance? Is preaching essential oils for newborn brain development greater than love?
In the end, it’s all just style. There’s no right way, it’s your way, a way paved from personality, family history, marriage, and even brokenness, but that’s okay. We’re all trying the best that we can. So, how about more grace and less guilt?
In Matthew 22: 39 Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself”. With my cloth diaper friend, I wish I had chosen to not let style come in the way of love. We both chose to condescend over care. We thought being right was greater than being kind.
So the next time you shop for a baby shower, the registry shows “Organic, goat fur-lined cotton cloth diapers”, smile (even giggle), and love that expectant mommy.
Me and my boys