Some 35 years ago I carefully chose cloth diapers for my soon-to-arrive first child. My choices were pre-folded or folded. White cotton, only. Diaper pins with blue bunnies or yellow ducks. Rubber pants. He came. I changed. Literally. Seven children later, I sent my (previously) cloth-diapered son, coupon in hand, to the store to buy the most economical disposable diaper on the shelves for his newborn sister (19 years his junior). Today I see some of my young friends returning to the more "natural" way of diapering their babies, albeit colorful prints and velcro add a new charm (but those ducky pins were sure cute!) They say it's more "green," though it still has that initial mustard color, so far as I can see. Many the stories I could share of those diapering days, good ones they were.
A couple of years ago I began diaper shopping again. My Mother, this time. I remember hustling out of Costco pushing a loaded cart, giant box teetering on top, large letters plastered on all sides: DEPENDS. I'm not sure who they were named for--her or me? (I don't know if it matters much to her, as Saturday she thought her fluffy pink polka-dot socks would work as well.) But I DEPEND on them, oh I do!! This Mother of mine, turned Child in her mind. Alone with Daddy for a half hour. I thought she'd be okay. I thought she'd chatter to him in his silence, he unable to answer back. I thought she'd sit in her recliner and watch out the window for my return. I thought she'd meander to her room to admire her pristinely-made bed that she's so proud of. Or walk around in circles. And I'm sure she did. From the time I was a child, she was often a step ahead of me, and today was no exception. As I walked to the door I glimpsed through the window. She sat in her chair, next to Daddy in his matching one. She heard the creak of the door as I tried to sneak in. She hustled to it's sound, excited for my return. "You're home! Where have you been?" Though usually engulfed by her presence, today I was overwhelmed by an indefinable aroma bearing strong hints of burning rubber. My long-suffering husband, trailing behind me, jumped into action as we began the search. Knobs off all burners on the stove. Check. Heaters off. Check. No candles or matches. Check. What? As I tried to pinpoint the source, the "fragrance" drew me to the kitchen. Toaster. And a tell-tale pink Depends. My Mother toasted her Depends! Unbelievable, even for her. I knew we were out of bread, but DEPENDS? Neatly folded, with burn patterns and melted elastic (I found 4 more "toast" in the trash). No evidence she tried to eat them. Relief. I gotta laugh, or I'd cry. Nearly 60 years ago, my mother diapered me. Maybe she gets the last laugh. Mom, It's NOT funny! But I love you! I really do.
