I had a brief flash of menstrual-cycle panic this week, while Jason was away. I found myself sitting in the nursery, happily contemplating the various ways I could organize the contents of my brand-new changing table, while eating black olives out of the can.
Good news! I am not pregnant in the slightest, but do seem to have retained a few of my weirder pregnancy habits and compulsions.
I know what you're thinking: Who in their right mind buys a new changing table when her third baby is already six months old?
Well, duh. Obviously I make no claims about being in my right mind, but whatever. In addition to the ruined-by-way-of-wipes-warmer surface on the old table, the crappy particle-board back had completely fallen off, a door hinge was busted and wouldn't close and finally one of the drawer guides snapped off and broke in two, and also I kind of own too many freaking diapers at this point OH RIGHT THAT.
Consider this my cautionary tale to anyone trying to justify spending a small fortune on nursery furniture because you know it will totes grow with your child and they'll use it their whole lives and take the changing table to college as a desk or whatever. If you or your children manage to not completely destroy the stupid thing by preschool, it's a damn miracle, albeit a miracle you may feel slightly annoyed by because ARGH I CHANGED MY MIND AND AM SO SICK OF THAT DAMN FURNITURE.
(For the record, no, I have zero idea how I'm getting the old changing table out of the nursery. Jason's back is acting up again and the table is pretty heavy and awkward even without the drawers. But fiddle-dee-dee, I'll just shove it in the corner and ignore it for now. Or for a few months. And now you understand why I end up living with tires in my foyer for close to a year.)
So I know there are people who like to tell pregnant women that they don't even need one changing table in the first place, that it's a dumb piece of furniture and you can just change diapers wherever -- just toss down a pad! Or a towel! RESIST THE CORPORATE CHANGING TABLE INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, PEOPLE.
I'm not going to say those people are wrong or crazy -- but just that they are not my particular brand of crazy. I love changing tables. I need changing tables. A well-organized changing table keeps me zen, peaceful and gives me a sense of control in a world full of chaos. Also, I'd probably get peed on a lot more.
KEEP THE PEE CONTAINED TO THE SAME GENERAL WALL AREA. THAT'S MY ADVICE FOR THE WORLD.
Mr. Hoot Owl, pictured here suddenly re-thinking his life choices.
Anyway, can I show you more changing table pictures? Please? Oh, whatever. Shut up. You know how I get after trips to Ikea by now, right?
So here's the cloth diaper stash at six months (and 15 pounds) in, which should probably not be used as an example to anyone as anything considered "normal," because it's been well established That I Have A Cloth Diaper Problem.
Top Shelf Diapers, aka The Good Booze, are currently one dozen fitteds (including the same Rebel Baby Co. ones I continue to squeeze Ike into despite the occasional glimpse of baby plumber's crack, and a couple Green Mountain Diapers Workhorse Fitteds) and one dozen GMD prefolds, size medium.
As soon as this "Christmas" and "buying stuff for other people" nonsense is over, I plan to buy more of everything you see here. One-size versions of the fitteds and just plain more of the GMD stuff. Do I technically need more of the GMD stuff?
No. NOW SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH.
10 flannel fitteds and soaker pads. I bought these because Jason was getting a bit weary of diapers/covers with snaps and requested Something Easy With Velcro, But Cheap, Because I Know How You Get, Amy.
The nighttime box, AKA heavy-wetter big-gun central. Wooly pants, fleece, mega soakers and other assorted doublers, inserts, boosters and whatnot.
This morning a friend emailed me some questions about doublers and liners, and after responding with a 17-paragraph explanation about how oh-so-simple they are, I had to stop and apologize for writing a novel about, essentially, poop catchers and pee sponges.
And then I took a picture of them. And put it on the Internet.
YOU GUYS I NEED HELP I AM SERIOUS.
I "borrowed" this corner shelf from my parents' house back in 1997, and then proceeded to never have quite the right place to put it in any apartment or house I've lived in since. UNTIL NOW, when I dragged it up from the basement, mentally congratulating myself on being such a persistent packrat. I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME.
Top shelf: Wipes (actually cloth, but stored in a plastic container with a little water and wipes solution), diaper rash cream and a container of Snappis. Spray bottle of Bac-Out is hiding out on the windowsill.
Second shelf: PUL/waterproof diaper covers. I currently have six, but half of them are technically too small. Still stubbornly using them, though, for now.
Third shelf: Liners. bummi's Bio-Soft flushables and reusable fleece liners. I use the fleece at night and with cotton/flannel diapers if Ike has a rash or seems chapped. The flushable ones are leftover from Ezra's diaper days but Ike doesn't quite need them yet. (SOON, says the coming solid-food-diet poop. SOON.)
Bottom shelf: Lotions, snot suckers and other assorted infant torture devices.
Oh, and let us not forget about the Box of Shame, currently full of repelling/leaking pocket diapers and a few unfortunate Etsy disappointments that just weren't well made or quite what I hoped for. When I'm reaching for these diapers you know the laundry situation has turned critical.
Is totes unimpressed with my organizational skills, plotting to delay potty training for as long as possible in order to pinpoint the moment when my love of cloth diapers turns to hate and my spirit is broken.