Cloth Diapers

Even though we had registered for them, I was absolutely terrified of using cloth diapers. I thought it would be twice as much work. I mean, there’s a reason they call them disposables, right? You can just toss it away, and that’s the end of your relationship with that particular one.

I have to say, though, it is incredibly easy. I have partly to thank Juice, a girlfriend of mine who has been using cloths with her little one. She was my cheerleader.

But first I had to get into a cleaning rhythm, which was easy to do, because I am hooked up in the diaper department. The more we have, the less number of times we have to do the wash. If you are expecting, and think you might get into cloths, be sure to register for them. It will save you so much money, it’s unbelievable. R’s coworkers went above and beyond with their gift to us.

It’s a gift that just keeps on giving. I guess Ruth is too. At least, she’s the gift that keeps on giving to the gift that keeps on giving. Nevermind. She poops, people. A lot.

We are using a combination of Fuzzibunz One Size, Fuzzibunz Small (I misread an ebay description and thought I was buying One Size. I like them, though. And will be looking for the Mediums/Larges/XL in the future), and BumGenius One Size.

The BumGenius ones are velcro which I didn’t think I’d like, but I do. It lets me adjust to her perfectly. See the Fuzzibunz in the photo above? And see the little gap by her thigh? This was taken before I really grasped how tightly to snap them. After two leakages, let’s all give thanks above that it was not a #2 leakage, I am now the snapper psycho. Once the velcro starts to lose its luster, it can be turned into snaps.

Look at her, though. She likes them. In fact, getting her diaper changed is perhaps the highlight of her day. No kidding. I’m slightly in awe, because I can go on a camping trip and not shower once, and be okay with it. She must have gotten her cleanliness from R. But then again, have you seen his goatee lately? Yikes.

We think that part of the reason she loves getting her bum wiped, is well.. because of the wipes. And the “wipe juice.” No really, that’s what’s it’s called. Baby wipe juice.


It smells heavenly and is organic. I’ve grown to hate that word. I love what it produces, but the actual word now just rubs me the wrong way. Every time I say it, I have to say it as though I’m an English aristocrat. Orgaaahhnic. (and be sure to put your nose in the air.)

I put a capful into a travel spray bottle and fill to brim with water. Ba Da Bing.

My sister had hooked me up with a gigantic tub full of clothes, blankets, burp cloths etc. There were quite a few receiving blankets in there, much more than I needed. So I cut them up in 8″x8″ squares. Ba Da Boom.

And my mom sewed two pieces together. No, I didn’t do it, she did. You remember the last time I took a crack at sewing. If you don’t recall that lovely creation, check it out here: The trapezoid baby blanket.

So, you either spray a couple times on the wipe, or spray directly on your child. Either way, I’ve found that I use less cloth wipes than disposable ones. Maybe because they’re thicker? I don’t know, but R and I both agreed that it hasn’t been a hard transition for either the wipes or diapers.

Now on to the dreaded cleaning part. Yes, I wash every day, but I don’t think I’d need to if I didn’t want to. That’s why the more diapers the merrier. It gives you breathing room.

You can either dry them on low, or air-dry them. The sun bleaches out any stains, so that’s the preferable way. Problem is, we don’t have a clothesline. All we have is an expandable one, which does not hold up well with this wind. I’ve had to rewash countless loads after finding it face-planted in the front lawn.

But then I discovered the perfect spot for it. Wait for it…. In our dining room! Now who wants to come over for dinner?  You know, and stare at diapers that 30 minutes prior was holding human excretions. Brownies anyone?

No, but this is perfect. This particular window gets great sunshine and of course it can be opened for the breeze on nice days. Plus, I’ve found my winter solution, which makes me ecstatic.

And yes, I’ll put it away if you come over to play spades. Promise.

Unless I lose. Then game on.

Don’t let me out of the house


I was in the cry room at church last Sunday, nursing Ruthie. Finally, I was let out of my quarantine and made my way out to R. As soon as I got to the aisle, I noticed something was amiss. So I looked down (Naturally. As about 1 out of every 3 embarrassing things that happen to me involve my chest in some way.) and holy schnikes, one side of my nursing bra was hanging out for all to see. Apparently, I forgot to pull my shirt back up. (For the record, I had to look up how to spell schnikes and, look, it’s got its own definition: A non-cursing expression of amazement and/or surprise. It’s pronounced schnaik-ees, not schnaiks.)

I sat down next to R and whispered, “Well, I gave the whole back row a show. That outta bring ’em back next Sunday.” He looked puzzled but I didn’t elaborate, because I was already in the middle of thanking God that at least my bra had been pulled up.

You’d think I’d learned my lesson, huh. Nope.

Ruth and I were listening to the KSU football game and I took a photo to remember that special moment. And it is indeed special now.

The nursing pad gave it a glamorous touch, I have to say. She’s appalled.

This is going in her baby book.


Ruthie was gracious enough to invite us on a picnic outing over the weekend. The weather was absolutely gorgeous. We packed up a lunch and then about 15 other bags full of random things that were never needed. It’s trial and error right now, trying to figure out the least we can get away with while towing a 5 week old.

I was intent to stay on that blanket for as long as possible. Could you blame me? Check out the color of that sky. Perfect.


I was in charge of getting lunch together while R played with Ruthie. Egg salad sandwiches, cheese and crackers, apples, celery with peanut butter… oh and a jumbo sized bag of Tootsie Roll pops. I fear I have an addiction.

At some point in my teenage years, I must have run into a dealer on the street who opened up his trench coat and revealed hanging tootsie roll pops. “The first one’s free, girlie.” And the rest is history. I’ve been waking up at odd hours of the night to eat them and then disposing of the evidence so R doesn’t know. Not like he’d care. In fact, the only person who is going to care is my dentist. I have my first appointment since having Ruth in a few weeks, and I think there’s about 300 cavities living in my teeth. Two of them found love and have since started a family.

So with a pop in my mouth, I started to spread the egg salad.

And then something flutter by me and landed nearby. Oh, just a leaf… Yay Fall, I thought.

And then I looked closer.

And then I looked at R.


Please, God, no.

The dreaded booger sucker and R was knuckle deep with it.

“Sorry, it’s just not working,” he said. “It won’t suck them all the way in. So I have to find some way to dispose of them.”

And by disposing of them, he means attaching them onto leaves and then throwing them into the beautiful gentle breeze.

So that it can drift its way right next to my lunch-making station.

I looked at the leaf again and dry heaved. They say that, as a mother, you don’t get grossed out by your kid’s excretions. Well, whoever they are, are wrong.

Fricken disgusting, Ruth. Use a kleenex.

That booger sucker must have also sucked out Ruth’s energy because she immediately zonked out.

So what did we do on a wonderful day outside? Watch a dvd of course. We’re crazy about Mad Men and had a few episodes left to watch. Ruth didn’t mind. Next time, we’ll fly a kite we swear.

You see? She really didn’t care. Look at her mouth. When it’s all pushed out like that, she is happily dreaming away.

Probably dreaming of better skin, from the looks of it. We’re in week 3 of baby acne and it took zero seconds before R brought up the classic pizza face commercial below.

We still love you, Ruth. You’re a beautiful before photo of a Clearasil model.

After our romp in the hay with Mad Men, R pulled out our financials to work on for next month. As soon as he said, “finan…” he heard snoring and looked around.


It was Ruth’s fault.

Apparently being hip is not a requirement.

I don’t know how I snaked by. Unless it means that only mamas with hips can join. In that case, I was a shoe-in. In fact, I’m sure there’s an email in my inbox right now requesting that I be the spokesperson for that group of mamas with hips. If that were true, though, I don’t think the current clipart is appropriate.

Either which way, I’ve joined this local group.

It’s confirmed, people, I’m hip. So you can stop sending me emails on how to up my cool factor. It’s already been achieved.  After I read the acceptance, I strutted around The Shack pointing and winking at everything.

Then I looked at Ruthie and she gave me her ‘I can see through you and you’re not as cool as you think’ look. Oh yeah, Ruth? Well, for your information I’m now a hip mama. Eat it. So she did. And after 15 minutes gave me the look again.

Whatever. I’ll show you.

But before I walk through this nerdy wardrobe into the Chronicles of Hipness, let’s take a look at my past life. My past awkward life.

Like how I forced R to participate in Thrill The World with me and another couple. It was a bid to try and have the most number of people dance the Thriller at the same time. People all over the world did it. See? I’m not alone. We showed up for the practice and were swarmed by 14 year olds.

If you want to watch the video, here it is. Don’t hate. We spent the day leading up to this at an Oktoberfest festival. It took me nano seconds into the first lager to forget the steps. My friend, J, and I are on the left side (I’m in the black dress and she is in front of me in pants and small jacket.) T & R are on the right, (T wearing a tuxedo shirt and R right behind him.) R’s favorite part is the high-five they did at the very end.

Or what about the time I slipped on stairs in college, landed on my back, and laid there as a high school tour walked by? That will never happen again. Because I’m hip now, ya’all. (maybe I should quit saying ya’all, then.)

If you’re interested in getting a glimpse into my disturbing psyche, in which I obsess over a graceful girl all through class and then try to emulate her, click on the photo. It will take you to the post.

And talk about disturbing. Me, in the woods, with a Jane Austen book. What would Jane think? And why would she be walking around with a copy of her own book? I don’t know, but she was cool… why couldn’t me reenacting mesmerizing looks not be? Well, that’s in the past now. I’ll only be throwing around hip looks from now on, which means I may or may not acknowledge you now that I’m several notches higher.

Click on the photo if you’re into the neuroses of a jane-aholic and would like to be hypnotized by my captivating stares. You’re getting very sleepy….

Upon being accepted into this group, I started looking around at the various meet-ups and found one that would fit Ruthie’s age. I remembered R’s word of advice: “don’t just throw all your cards out there at once, Carrie. Let people know you’re nice and then drop the weird jokes on them.”  So I RSVP’d for an event, and told myself to write something short and sweet. Don’t always try to go for the laugh, Carolyn. They’ll get to know you soon enough.

I’m screwed.

Me, me, me

I had a really nice birthday. Even little Ruth slept well the night before. Wait, no, I take that back. No she didn’t.

I remember thinking, “Happy Birthday to me” at 3am and wondering if little miss fussiness would settle down so I could get some sleep. Those days are gone.. not the staying up late apparently, but definitely the crashing until lunch.

It was a hard night.

But around 7:30, I stumbled into the living room to lay on the couch for any zzz’s I could get and realized that R was fixing me breakfast. He had only a few minutes before going to work, so I grappled for some toothpicks to keep my eyelids open and shuffled to the table.

This is R’s dream breakfast. No color. I grabbed my nearest fake plant, blew off the dust, and took a shot. I cannot not have color on (or near, at least) my plate.

And then I saw the card that had “Yo necesito un Caroline” on it. This harkens back to my days working in the insurance industry, having file incoming claims. I was on the spanish-speaking queue. Remember when I made a complete and utter fool of myself on that queue with the spanish language, as well as telling my class in college how delicious penis pasta is? No? Read my blog post on it, here.

Well, I joined the company as they were just implementing that group of employees (side note: I accidentally wrote ‘groupo’), meaning there weren’t very many of us. Anyway, I was on a call with a nice older lady and we got disconnected. Later, a co-worker came up and said that he finished the claim, but she kept asking for ‘Caroline’. That she needed Caroline. I was the only Carolyn that spoke spanish there, so he figured it was me.

After telling R this, he starting saying it every now and then. He added ‘un’ which doesn’t really make sense, but I never corrected him because I thought it was cute.

Long story short, the card made me smile.

We made plans to meet up for lunch that afternoon. He originally offered to bring food home, but I reminded him of our pact. Our “we will not be prisoners of Ruth” pact, and decided to go out.

I have to get used to taking her places. I don’t want to be scared or anxious or stressed out. Just go with the flow and take your time, is what I tell myself. So far it’s worked pretty well.

We had a nice lunch and showed her off to his coworkers that were meeting at the local coffee shop. We didn’t stay long, because I needed to get home and clean. We were having company that night!

R , T and their two little ones came over with food (and drinks and plates and utensils and napkins – everything!) in hand.

I was taught how to use the Moby wrap and little S helped me blow out the candles. This wasn’t the last we’d see of his mom, though…

Because she was starring in the local production of ‘Little Shop of Horrors” that following night!

Again, I took a deep breath and said “I am not a prisoner. I am not a prisoner.” Now, this was a tricky decision for us. It’s almost like bringing a baby to the movie theatre (don’t worry, that won’t be us) and I won’t be hauling Ruth to a major production of Hair anytime soon, but I felt like this venture wasn’t going to leave me crying & depleted from disgruntled patron’s dirty looks.

We sat literally right next to the door for a quick exit and I made sure to leave (only twice!) before she started to get fussy. Success was had, my friends.

I did miss the first scene that R was in because Ruth was hungry, but caught the rest. The production was very funny and I was so proud of our little theatre.

Afterwards, Ruthie and I attacked the actors (mostly R) and got our photos with her. Ruth was really impressed as you can tell. She was just trying to act cool, I think. Don’t let this photo lie, though. Literally as soon as we got into the car, the cries started and only stopped after ten minutes of a particular Weezer song on repeat.

Saturday we slept on and off, forgoing the Apple Festival in favor of rest and relaxation. Next year, Ruth. Apples galore.

My brother-in-law and his wife asked us over Saturday night along with another couple to play dominoes. Lots, and I mean lots, of singing was sung, laughing was laughed, and jokes were joked.

A cake was brought out, and let’s all take a moment to see how bright that darn cake was. Seriously, how old am I??

I managed to blow them all out though. I attribute that ability to my labor breathing practice. I knew those 12 hours would come in handy!

Thank you all for a really nice birthday. Hopefully my wish will come true: getting a good night’s sleep.