I reached the pinnacle of celebrity two years ago when my photo won a contest:
Arlo wore cloth diapers. With every intention of cloth diapering Farrah, I recently “stripped” them. Depending on your search results, this can mean anything from washing them six times in baking soda to boiling them, to burning sage over your baby’s crotch while chanting Kumbaya. I chose to boil.
After two rinse-only cycles in the washer they are stacked up and ready to be sized for our chubby morsel. Like swaddling however, I am reluctant to get Farrah in these diapers. Here’s why:
This is after a test run. This is a simple fit issue resolved by adjusting the diaper to her size while still containing its contents. A fine line, but one we already walked with Arlo. It should not hinder me from going forward and yet . . .
I have spent the better part of my life in discomfort whether it be from wearing tight jeans or the common bra. The best I ever felt were my years in the Army wearing a shapely but roomy uniform. I know what that elastic mark feels like and I won’t subject my daughter to it. Was I as concerned about Arlo’s tender haunches? Most definitely, but not nearly with the conviction or compassion. Does that make my son tougher than my daughter, that he can endure what she should not? I look within myself and I do not feel that way, I would never let him endure the slightest insult, but at the time I’m sure I deferred to Kris. The sameness of our selves, Farrah and I, has deepened my parenting experience; a gift from a girl-baby I was not sure I could handle. I will protect her body as long as I can because it is my body too.
I will sit down this week and get these diapers sized. I will give it my best shot (I didn’t boil them for nothing) but if I can’t match comfort with containment I will march on, my carbon footprint 15 lbs heavier but my daughter’s comfort contained.