The last words I heard my daughter utter, slur, really, before she was diagnosed with the brain tumor that would eventually take her life were, “Change your diaper, change your life.” I remember it like it was yesterday, but it was almost seven years ago now.
Donna had been not herself for a couple of weeks and we had been admitted to Children’s Memorial the night before to expedite an MRI scan which would give us answers to the questions we had. I woke up with her early and bent over the hospital crib to change her diaper. As we had done thousands of times before, I set Donna down and got to work. Our ritual, since shortly after birth, was to share the words, “Change your diaper, change your life.”
It was a clever little mantra that came to me early in Donna’s infancy and struck me as so simple, so true. As she had countless times before, Donna repeated the mantra to me, except her words were slurred. She crashed moments later, we were rushed into the CT room within minutes, and our lives changed forever when we learned of her cancer.
Donna lived for another thirty-one months, and all of that time was spent in diapers. Despite being four, Donna never outgrew her diapers. She would always say, whenever we flirted with toilet training, “I am too young to use a toilet.” It was hard to argue or force, as so very many things in Donna’s life were out of her control. So we didn’t, and she remained in diapers.
I remember just how proud she would be when she grew into a new size. At her death, that number was 5. That’s hard to imagine as our baby, now just four months old, is bursting out of his size 3 diapers.
Now, when I change a diaper, I say the same words, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. I never fail to think of Donna when I do, and I never fail to recognize just how profound the words are. Think about it. There is your baby or toddler sitting or standing or sleeping in wet or soiled diapers. And then mom or dad or nanny or grandparent comes along and changes that wet, heavy, poopy diaper. Blessed relief!
Something so simple completely changes that baby’s life. I mean it. Your baby’s life is vastly improved with the act of cleaning and drying and creaming and powdering and swaddling their little bottom in a new diaper. Wow. Don’t ever discount the act again. It’s transformative. That is some powerful parenting shit, pun absolutely intended.
I think about this sometimes when the sheer volume of diaper changes gets to me. I think about it in those moments when I am counting pennies and realize just how much a diaper costs (just under a quarter a pop, or .24 cents for the accountants in the house; and, for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, don’t anyone tell me I should not use disposable diapers). I think about it when I realize how profoundly lucky my husband and I are to have adopted our newest little one, and to have the opportunity to love and nurture and care and provide and support another child.
Full disclosure, diaper changing has never bothered me. I know many of my friends say with relief, “Whew, I am SO GLAD to be done with diapers,” but for me, it’s never been a thing. It’s a brief couple of minutes in your child’s day where there is lots of sweet eye contact, playful exchanges between you and baby, and there is a clear beginning, middle, and end. Mission accomplished, you know?
Change your diaper, change your life. Yes, mam, it’s true! I will happily and gratefully and playfully change those diapers and know, really know, how very lucky I am that my simple act of parenting is profoundly changing my baby’s life, if only for a moment.
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This post is part of the ChicagoNow monthly collective “blogapalooza” wherein one topic is presented at 9 p.m. and bloggers are afforded one hour to write their little blogger hearts out, publishing whatever they have by 10 p.m. Today’s topic:
Write about a great challenge faced by you, by someone else, by an entity, at any point in the past or in the future.
Eleven weeks ago today I stood in a labor and delivery room and watched another woman birth her child, who is now my child. What kind of riddle is this?, you ask. This is no riddle, my friend, this is adoption.
Rewind to four months earlier. A bright young woman connected with my husband and I through our aptly named Facebook page, “Sheila and Jeremy Want to Adopt.” She was pregnant, already mothering, and in no position (her words, not ours) to raise another child. We talked. We communicated. We connected. A few days later we learned that we were the ones — the family she wanted to raise her child.
I still, when I stop to think about it, have trouble wrapping my brain around this.
Caring for a baby comes easily to me. The fact that this child and I do not share DNA or deep genetic codes appears to have had no ill effect whatsoever on my maternal bonding. There is something about this stage in life that is supremely primitive. A baby’s needs are simple and consuming: food, warmth, shelter, protection, love. I stare into my baby’s deep blue eyes and the uterus he grew in, the sperm that fertilized the egg, seem not so important.
Except they are. They are very important and always will be.
Our son will always have two mothers and two fathers. We can slice and dice it ten ways to Sunday, but this basic truth will never change. Somehow, someway, circumstances led to one man and one woman conceiving and birthing this baby and one man and one woman parenting and providing for this baby, our baby.
I remember so clearly standing in front of a crowd of hundreds at our daughter’s memorial service eulogizing the life of my oldest child. My parting words to these hundreds of folks was the assurance that we, my husband and I, would “figure it out,” somehow and someway. We were charged, for better or worse, with the task of figuring out how to live a life moving forward that would no longer involve the day-to-day care of our child.
The parallels between our loss and the loss of our son’s Birth Mother do not escape me. She, too, is charged with the call to “figure it out,” and move forward in her life that will not include the day-to-day care of her child. There is tremendous loss attached to adoption, as well as tremendous joy and hope.
Our grief and comfort with our grief was something that our son’s Birth Mother was attracted to as she carefully vetted couples to raise the child growing inside her. She clearly told us that she believed our own experience with great loss would help us understand and empathize with her own impending loss. We agreed. It’s true, you see. Experiencing deep loss, like that of a child, is a life altering experience. It hardens you, it softens you. You evolve by accommodating the loss, or you don’t. If you don’t evolve, if you don’t accept the loss, you stagnate. That is no kind of life to have, most especially if you are parenting.
So here we are, eleven weeks in to our child’s life. He smiles at us, he eats like a farmer after harvest, he relies on us for everything. We change him, soothe him, bathe him, love him. We are blessed. To know this particular joy again, of infancy and firsts, well, I have no words. I am a lucky freaking lady.
But our son’s story started before those first bottles and first diapers and first smiles. His story started in a state we had never even visited. He’s been places, our boy, literally, figuratively, and metaphorically. When we adopted him, we entered a sacred pact with his Birth Mom — one, I believe, that is even more sacred than marriage. There is no divorce with adoption, no do overs, no “starter” childhoods.
We have committed our lives to this child, just as we have to our two others before. And the trust that our son’s Birth Mom has placed in us? Well, I have no words. That level of trust is beyond words for me. At least right now. Maybe someday they will come to me. In the meantime, I will change a diaper and wipe a nose and fold a onesie and warm a bottle and tickle a foot and buckle a car seat and love and love and love and love.
I curse Anne Geddes. I do. You know who Anne Geddes is, right? WHAT?! Well, if you don’t know her name, you certainly know her work. Take a gander:
Photo from annegeddes.comPhoto from annegeddes.com
A lot of folks love this stuff. Me, not so much. Hell, she’s sold 18 million books and 13 million calendars, so clearly, I must be in the minority on this one. I know I’m not supposed to snark about babies, and she’s just a mom doing her mom thing, but dammit, this gal has singlehandedly shaped the landscape of newborn photography. So even if I label this photo genre as a wee bit excessive, I give mad props to her ability to shape and promote an entire industry.
The Mary Tyler Family entered into that industry ourselves for the very first time a few weeks ago. Despite never having done formal portraits for Donna or Mary Tyler Son as newborns, when we adopted our newest little one, well, things are a little different this time around. It seemed like a very nice gift for Mary Tyler Baby’s Birth Mom. How could we not?
Cue the baby photographer!
We went with the same photographer who shot our adoption family video. I know, I know, a what? YES, we shot a family video on the advice of our adoption agency. Social media has changed things, folks, and adoption is not exempt from that. Long story short, the amazing woman who gave birth to Mary Tyler Baby found us through a Mary Tyler Mom reader who knew we were looking to adopt. After she saw our family video, well, she liked us and reached out. The rest of the story is still being written, but suffice it to say we are some lucky sons of guns over here.
The day of the shoot, the photographer called and asked us to turn the heat up. Way up. Way, way up. Like 88 degrees up (insert fan here). The reason being that naked babies are more comfortable in warmth. Honestly, naked anybody is more comfortable in warmth, right? So up the heat went, cause we are nothing if not obedient photo subjects.
When the photographer arrived, she came prepared with props. Not mad props, yo, photo props. This shoot was serious. There was a super cool bean bag, hats, blankets, etc. I had no idea. She looked around our home and decided the best light was in our playroom. We all tromped downstairs and I was grateful, as it’s always a few degrees cooler there.
Mary Tyler Baby was wrapped in a blanket and before I knew it, we were both in front of the camera. What the what? Honest to God, this was supposed to be a newborn thing. I had no earthly intention of being in front of the camera, as evidenced by my messy pulled back hair, total lack of make-up, and yoga pants. But our photographer liked what she saw when I was feeding Mary Tyler Baby and before you knew it I was glamour shooting it up with abandon.
Photo by Bum Bul Bee Photo + Films. Hey! Did you all ever know that I am a huge fan of Caillou? Well, here is photo evidence of said adoration of one tiny, whiny, bald little kid. Also, remember to dress better than his when you take your own newborn photo shoot. And pop the damn contacts in, too, why don’t you?
Sigh. I really didn’t expect that. So tip number one, if you are getting newborn shots done, you best look photo ready yourself. At a bare minimum, brush your teeth.
Soon enough, after bottle and in the tropical climate of our playroom, Mary Tyler Baby was ready to rumble, newborn style. Things went swimmingly for a while. There was a favored blanket knit by a friend, there was a diaper, there was a sleeping baby. All was good.
Then shit got serious, literally and figuratively.
With the diaper off and a sweet little gnome knit hat on, Mary Tyler Baby was still pretty cooperative. Until the Anne Geddes poses started. Did you know that most newborn photo shoots occur right after baby is ten days old? There is a reason for that and it’s because it’s before the baby acne sets in at week two and babies are still pretty comatose in their first few days, pliable, if you will. You know, like play doh.
At twenty-three days old, Mary Tyler Baby was ancient for a newborn photo shoot. Like Kate Moss on a runway ancient. Twenty-three day old babies don’t want to be molded in the hands of a photographer or mom. Nosiree! Twenty-three day old babies want to be left the hell alone, unless you are feeding them, holding them, or changing them. This nonsense with knit hats and props? Oh, hell no.
So tip number two is to get that photographer in there early, or you best believe you will be charged extra for the airbrushing of unsightly blemishes and baby wrangler fees.
At this point I was half nervous about my undiapered baby on the photographer’s pure white blanket and half cracking up over the directions she was shouting at Mary Tyler Baby, “MOVE YOUR LEG TO COVER YOUR DINGLE!” I mean come on. COME ON! How can you not laugh at that?!
My nervousness won out, though, as I worried aloud about my baby’s fluids on this pristine white blanket. I was repeatedly reassured that Mary Tyler Baby could do nothing that had not already been done. Oh wait! Except shoot spit up out his nostrils, projectile style! Does your baby do that? My baby totally does that. It’s pretty cool, honestly, and gave the photographer a new story for her baby photographer arsenal. I could almost hear her say to her fellow baby photographers, “And then the kid shot milk out his damn nostrils!”
The clock was ticking. I needed to go pick up Mary Tyler Son at school and I had a naked baby that needed dressing and car seat harnessing, pronto. The photographer promised just one more shot. Mary Tyler Baby was deeply sleeping after some of the requisite close-ups of hands and feet that required no play doh manipulation of his little limbs, and she was getting some great shots.
And then it happened. The poop smelled round the world.
Would you believe my precious Mary Tyler Baby did exactly as I was worried he would do? That boy pooped, or more accurately gushed, a bright orange liquid poop all over that perfectly white Ralph Lauren blanket. Wow. It was disgusting and hilarious and so very orange all at the same time.
Poor baby. Poor photographer.
I sprang into action, grabbing Mary Tyler Baby in one hand, wrapping a blanket around his bits as I lifted him up, and with my free hand, I grabbed my iPhone and took a photo. Cause it was freaking hilarious and it demanded documentation and I could not stop laughing and the very game photographer plugged her nose with one hand and smeared orange poop with a burp cloth on her perfectly soiled fancy blanket with the other hand.
Poop happens, folks, especially when you have an undiapered newborn on a white blanket.
Within minutes my little one was dressed and harnessed and I had sprayed the shit, literally, out of that blanket. Moms are excellent multi-taskers. And when I got home from the school pick-up, I popped that pooped blanket right in the wash and an hour later it was as good as new, ready to be pooped on again by another little newborn of another little family full of hope and laughs and giggles and joy.
So tip number three is to have a lot of Shout it Out on hand, and apologies, and a camera within reach.
I never got those Anne Geddes style shots of my two oldest, and much as I have skoffed at them in the past, and despite knowing all the work that goes into those newborn photo shoots, I’ve gots to say that seeing Mary Tyler Baby, precious as precious can be, nestled all snug with a gnome cap on his head, manipulated as the image might be, Lordy, am I glad to have it. Cause ain’t no gnome as cute as my wee little gnome.
Bum Bul Bee Photo + Films, the woman owned business behind our newborn photo shoot, is right now having a holiday special through November 15. And, nope, I didn’t trade this mention for a free photo shoot. We paid full freight, cause they are that good.
Mary Tyler Mom 