The Diaper: A Mother’s Companion: Part Three

It’s 10:45pm.

Why am I in this bar?

Because the Guppins wakes constantly, and sucks on my tits relentlessly through the
night, and whines and cries, and it is not good. So Sir Dick, in a temporary moment of
utter compassion, sent me out and is doing bedtime with her.

I was ordered to leave the house, go out and get a drink or something.

The first thing I do is a garbage run. You have to pay like two bucks per bag of garbage
in this town. Taxes don’t cover it. Don’t get me started. My mama friends bust a gut
when I describe darting down to the main street under cover of darkness, lurking in the
shadows, avoiding bank video cams as I deposit small garbage bag after garbage bag
of dirty diapers and household debris in half a dozen public cans (with the small holes
which makes it awkward and tense).

Maybe I could go see some friends.

I have no friends in this town. Lie — I have two friends, Ursula and Slink. Ursula has
family night tonight and Slink is out with his girlfriend for dinner. I know this because
earlier I texted him (desperate) and asked if it was cool to drop in. He, of course, said
yes, so I put the Guppins in the stroller, crossed town, peekin’ in the windows full of
settled homes, families with multiple members (that sounds rude), friends around pianos
with oversized clocks on the walls behind them. It’s all cheery and slightly eighties
and tasteful and perfect. I trudge. I push the $5 yard-sale-special stroller uphill (Sir
Dick’s stroller of choice; mine, which she loves, is in my apartment in Toronto), the
Guppins oddly quiet, immobilized in her strapped-in, blanketed state. I pretend she is
a Mennonite and I am a horse, yet still homesick for my life in Toronto (it’s been three
days) so I have my iPhone streaming my favourite CBC radio show of all time in my
back pocket as I trudge, breathe, take it all in, find peace…

Tom Power squeaks though denim, some barely discernable Kingston Trio on Deep
Roots muffled by my butt, my connection to old life staticky at best. We arrive at Slink’s.
Back door opens. I behold his Guilty Boyfriend Face.

“Trina’s here. We are going out for dinner at 7.”

It’s 6:10. Welcome welcome.

A short visit. Slink serves some delicious sweet Asti. (He has a sign on his kitchen that
says “It’s Wine O’Clock.”) His recently deceased mother’s sewing basket sits at the foot
of his stairs, and her beautiful oval dining table rests in his dining room. He is the guy
from Love You Forever, but he doesn’t have any kids, just nephews and nieces who he
adores, who he always has stuff in the house for. And me.

I love Slink. Just never quite enough, if you know what I mean. Just never quite enough.

They decide to walk downtown to the restaurant; it’s on the way.

“I found a pair of jeans in Slink’s closet, only they are about this much longer than my
legs”

Trina, tiny fireball, uses her hands to denote a giant’s leg…which would be mine.

Slink:

“You stayed over that once, right?”

I stayed several times, Slink. In fact, I stayed there a few times when you weren’t even
there. “Are they really dark denim?“

Trina: “No, they’re a weird blue and they have red paint on them.”

“Hmm. Probably not mine.”

Slink is in super deep shit. Though Trina is most definitely the most civil of my County
boyfriends’ girlfriends, one has to tread carefully in the backdoor of southwestern
Ontario. Girlfriend jealousy at a barbaric pitch. These folks live for violent drama.
Survival? Watch for the signs, fear exile, fear physical assault, fear losing your guy
friend.

I guess I’m still not too old for this shit.

I guess maybe I am remembering why I packed up and moved here in the first place.

I am…the Anthropoligyst.

Definition: Urban dwellers who visit small environs to observe and post comment.

Let the fun begin, I say.

And hey mean Mennonite lady who slapped my daughter’s hand away from your debit
machine buttons: I’m here, I’m watching, and I’m pissing into diapers in your thrift store
parking lots. So BE NICE.

“Sure, I’ll take the check”.

Time to go home.

-Drama Mama

The Diaper: A Mother’s Companion: Part Two

It’s 9:35pm.

I am now in the bar. Thinking about my daughter hitting herself in the head.

When I say “no” to something. Something that will maim her, like a razor blade.

I try to not think about the guy who invited me to New York in this very bar when I was
young and beautiful but I can’t help it.

“I’ll have a beer. Do you have Mill Street Organic? Oh. Ok. No that’s OK. Something
light. A lager. Blue? Umm…”

The first “chat” blog I check out on the subject begins something like this:

“My eighteen-month-old has been hitting herself in the head, so we decided to stop
spanking her,” etcetera and so on.

Someone out there is spanking an eighteen month old? And no one commented on this
post? I mean they commented, but not on the spanking. This depressed me, shocked
me; What The… Honest To… It is unbearable to even think.

“Can I get some wings? No, twenty. At least twenty. With blue cheese. A lot of it.”

I play a move on Word with Friends with the guy. He lives in LA now. He’s married to a
lingerie manager. Lingerie store manager.

“Hi? O Hi yes, I’ll have another beer. And a Caesar salad. No a large. Thanks.”

The next blog I glance at is by a very nice-looking/sounding gal who said that at around
this stage it is normal, babies don’t know how to express emotions, they’ve picked it up
from TV or somewhere (huh?), and the advice is to ignore and distract. What?

In moments of parenting curiosity, I turn to Dr. and Martha Sears’ The Baby Book.
There is a website, but I get suspicious around those websites because of all the
ghostwriting I assume goes on. Like, for example, has anyone out there noticed that
the Dr. Spock website touts attachment parenting principals? I’m pretty sure that
attachment parenting wasn’t his deal.

Anyway The Baby Book itself is fab for the first two years of development.

“Can I get it all at the same time? Thanks.”

I should probably get home. She’s probably awake and crying.

Ding ding. New York LA just made a move.

“Can I get a half? Just a half. Thanks.”

-Drama Mama