Skunky.

Friends, I've gone over to the dark side.

The.

Dark.


Side.

I've given up cloth diapers.

(Short moment of silence whilst I hang my head in shame and defeat.  Please feel free to use this time to point, laugh, judge, and scoff.  Better yet, if you know me in "real" life, DO remember that it was I, who only a month ago, was enthusiastically detailing my LOVE for cloth and attempting to make you feel like a miserable failure at life for your unwillingness to save the earth and your precious baby's tiny bum from the known and even worse, unknown evils of disposable diapers.  That was me.  I'm an asshole.  Can we move on now, please?)

The tagline for my blog is "mastering the universe, one cloth diaper at a time."  Dammit.  Somehow, "mastering the universe, one chlorine-laden diaper at a time" just doesn't have the same ring.

(I'm not really sure that I'm going to use chlorine-laden diapers, but the dramatic effect of toying with the idea is one I can't pass up.  Truth is, I spent all of my precious-few research-ready brain cells figuring out the PERFECT cloth diapering system, and since that has failed me, I find myself in Target feeling like Alice in Wonderland and staring hopelessly at piles and piles of shiny plastic packages covered in adorably swaddled baby bums knowing not what to do.)

Going through infertility, I had these symbols of motherhood in my head, things I needed to experience to make this life a full one: baby wearing (check), breastfeeding (check), cloth diapering (check)...

I had not planned to give up cloth until the babies were successfully destroying Cheerios with streams of urine in the big-boy potty.  But then our diapers got skunky.

I tried stripping them.  Spent a week with the babies in disposables running back and forth to the washer every hour to set another hot water rinse.  I tried Dawn.  I tried Bac-Out.  I tried leaving them in the sun for three days.  I tried Borax, bleach, washing soda, new detergent, no detergent, a wet pail, a dry pail, and standing on my head in front of the washing machine chanting ancient diaper-cleansing chants.

And finally, they were clean.

Relief.

I transitioned the babies out of disposables and back into cloth.  We went through our full supply, and I washed them using my new sure-fire method.  The next morning, I brought the babies into our room to nurse. I lay in bed with them, thinking about the day, and smelling...something.  I nudged Kyle.  "Our house was sprayed by a skunk.  Do you smell that?"  He hadn't even opened his eyes before I realized my mistake.  I looked down at my two sweet babies in their adorably massive cloth diapers.  Damn.

I've recently decided to test my limits and sanity by taking on some new projects around the house.  In an insane moment of overestimating the hours in any given day, I gave up buying cereal, cookies, hummus, bread, and yogurt to make my own healthier, cheaper, organic versions.  Add to that, I've been making the babies food from scratch all along, which isn't difficult or incredibly time consuming.  It is, however, something that is not particularly optional.  "Sorry guys.  Mommy didn't make any steel cut oats today.  Would you rather have a beer?"  I've started a garden.   Blah, blah, blah.  I'm busy, and I take on too much.  And I usually balance "too much" just fine, because I don't usually mind teetering on the steep edge of total insanity.

But I'm a smell person.  A laundry person.  I don't like skunky.

So last week, in a crazy and wild moment of letting something go, I gave up on cloth.

Because washing each load of diapers six times in scalding hot water is at best questionable in environmental-friendliness.

Because I don't have time any more.

Because I'm not a martyr, and I'm not perfect, and I'm working on being softer with myself.

Farewell, cloth.

Sunday Morning Story (told on a Monday)

Demise of the sexy sweatpants.

Fish oil is amazing.

Rather than treat my PPD with antidepressants, I talked to my doctor and we agreed to try high doses of fish oil first. It's working.

Considering the sleep deprivation I'm dealing with, I really feel fantastic. In fact, I've been feeling so good that I've started to think about drinking the whole damn bottle of the stuff.

Because if some is good, more must be better.

I bought liquid fish oil. I'm not sure why. It was probably cheaper. I do not recommend liquid fish oil.

I bought peach flavor. It tastes like peach. And fish. And it's oily.

But even so, the effects were so good, I kept thinking about how I'd probably feel like Oprah if I drank the whole bottle.

And then one Saturday my sweet husband got up early with the babies and I was able to sleep until the luxurious hour of 8am. Feeling rested, I staggered out into the kitchen and was taken by the peachy smell my house had taken on. A little sleep, and you wake up to a world that's just peachy fresh.

And fishy.

Apparently, he'd opened the refrigerator and the fish oil, eager to help, had jumped out at him, crashed to the floor, and suffered from a lacerated cap.

Peachy fishiness had permeated our home. His sexy sweatpants (which I swear are actually sexy) were drenched. One of the babies had a new sheen to his little head. My kitchen floor had a polish I'd never seen. It was everywhere.

The floor and baby were quite washable.

Less washable? The sexy sweatpants.

I politely instructed that the sweatpants go directly into the laundry.

MISTAKE.

Considering my laundry pile and the rate at which I address it, it is nothing less than wholly inappropriate to ever suggest the addition of anything that is wet, smelly, or generally disgusting to said pile.

By the time the sexy sweatpants were washed, they had permeated the laundry pile for no less than a sturdy week.

The entire load came out smelling. And friends? Peachy fish is a dream when compared to the rancid rot that came out of my dryer.

Fish oil is delicate stuff. Unstable, I'm told. Rots easily.

I threw the entire load back into the washer. Did not pass go. Stepped over the massive laundry pile, and washed the shit out of that laundry.

I Dawned it, twice. As in the same treatment they give the poor sea animals after Exxon spills copious amounts of oil into the oceans. I followed my Dawn treatment with the works: every laundry product that I have, in massive quantities. Twice. I ran three rinse cycles.

Hopeful, I held my breath and threw it all into the dryer with four super scented dryer sheets.

The result? A dryer that smells like rotten fish. A trashcan full of clothes.

Farewell, sexy sweatpants.

I've switched to capsules. And lemon flavored, this time.

Rolling, rolling, rolling

Up until very recently, I was under the grave misconception that babies are not "mobile" until they start to crawl. I felt luxuriously far away from the worries of baby-proofing and chasing my little loves around the house and NO! away from the stairs.

Here's the thing. Rolling. And bum up in the air like-it's-nobody's-business scooting.

Rhys rolled from belly to back for the first time at 13 weeks. Which, adjusted age-wise, is actually 6 weeks and makes him like the Michael Jordan of babies. Is Michael Jordan an outdated reference?

Anyway, Quin took the more leisurely lumpish baby pace and rolled over belly to back for the first time at 18 weeks.

I've been feeling quite proud of my babies' physical prowess in the rolling department.

I had no idea.

Rolling, apparently, is the tip of the mobility ice burg.

Suddenly both babies also roll belly to back. And they squirm. And wriggle. And arch. These little movements add up to a surprising amount of forward, backward, and sideways motion.

I've signed them up for a triathlon in August.

Running out of the room for a second to throw in a load of laundry has taken on new meaning. Cause sometimes I come back and they've scooted right off the safety of their little play blanket and are waiting for me under the couch.

This game is less fun at night when any scootage results in the smashing of heads into the bars of the bumper-less crib.

Everyone warns moms about rolling. And crawling. And walking. And I sort of wonder, isn't that the point of all of this? Forward motion.

Roll on, babies.

A few follow ups to recent posts because you're obviously hanging on the edge of your seat in wonder.

I finished the jar of frosting I was working on, although it took me a little longer than expected. Incidentally, I still have three Cherry Dr. Pepper's in the fridge.

I ran my 5K. Neither of my breasts dislodged from their home on my chest, and nobody got me confused with Pam Anderson. I held a solid 12 minute mile for a total time of 35 minutes and 26 seconds. I scowled at all of the 90 year old ballerina gazelles who beat me. The beer was smooth, malty, and really everything I'd hoped for.

My house has moved up from dump status. I'd now probably classify it as a pig sty. I did, however, throw away the box of used wipes containing the dried poop particles, and that felt pretty uplifting. On the downside, there is a bag of rotting shrimp (raw, mind you) in my garbage. Does. Not. Smell. Good. Yet do you see me taking out the trash? Or writing a post?

I miss my TV. I totally miss it. And probably called that one a bit early, since it had been gone for about two seconds when I erringly bragged about being all wholesome and not missing it.

The babies are even more beautiful every single day.

                                           

Priorities

Suddenly, folding the laundry hardly seems important.