Nora Ephron hated her purse. I hate my diaper bag.
Swept up in the wild, hormone fueled nesting with my first, I purchased a Petunia Picklebottom that I’m probably still paying interest on.
You would judge me, if you saw it. You wouldn’t want to, but you’d have a hard time separating the bag from the woman. The sticky goop stuck in the pocket that might be caramel – but could also be poop – would give you pause. You’d also find one full pound of fish crackers crushed at the bottom of the bag, intermingling with opened diapers of every size except the size my toddler actually wears (5). The bag of wipes with only one dried up wipe left, that I’ve been devastated to discover at least 39 times while my daughter has lied there on the changing table after a John Goodman sized poop. Her eyes, filled with compassion, but also concern that she’s not entirely safe. I’ve tried to remember replacing the dried up bag of wipes, but it’s impossible. God knows I’ve tried.
Oh, you’ll have your opinions about the old Dum Dum sticks stuck on the old backup newborn onesies still crammed in a pocket. The lone pink boot, the gray sock covered in fishy cracker powder like moss. Desitin, with the cap open slowly oozing over every possible surface like molten lava. I will put my hand in it and since it’s impossible to wash off, it’ll linger there forever, reminding me of my failings. You’ll find a melted Burts Bees chapstick and bags of expired fruit snacks I swear I’ve never purchased.
Outdated passes to the Children’s Museum. Ripped stickers. A tightly rolled used diaper from who knows when (only peed – even I have my limits). Markers with no caps, a broken crayon and a kids menu from Red Robin. Old pacifiers that are a health hazard, and books like Pride and Prejudice, because like an idiot I think I’ll get in some good reading while the girls play. It’s too late now, the pages are matted together by caramel, or possibly poop. Who the hell knows.
And to be honest, the oversized, half-empty, bacteria laden water bottles are the least of my problems. When I wear my diaper bag, it’s as if I’m lugging around a dead body. It alone is keeping my Chiropractor’s lights on. And it’s like a bag made in Hogwarts. Although it’s holding everything we own in our house, it’s also curiously empty. You won’t find a single thing in it. Not one. I just put my hand in, swirl around and pull out a sticky hand covered in fish cracker crumbs.
Yes, I’m afraid you’d judge me if you saw it.
Unless, of course, you hate your bag too.
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