Dirty socks

When I was pregnant, I read an article full of simple suggestions to keep your life organized with a new baby around. One tip was to purchase two diaper bags and fill them both with all of the essentials, assuring that you'd always have one fully stocked diaper bag ready to go. I thought this was a brilliant idea and I even got as far as purchasing two identical diaper bags and filling them both with newborn-sized diapers and two tiny wipe boxes that conveniently fit into the pockets of my diaper bags. I put a tiny t-shirt, a pair of socks, two receiving blankets and a pacifier in each bag and proudly put my two diaper bags on hooks next to the door in my laundry room. I was pretty proud of myself. I had this mothering thing down pat.

Fast forward four months and the tiny newborn sized T-shirts (which were too small when he got home from the hospital) are the only things left in the bags. They sit empty on their assigned hooks, my token accessory as I leave the house. You'd think that I would learn my lesson and refill those still-new diaper bags, but that would not only take free hands, but it would also require finding clean onesies, blankets, and burp rags. Clean laundry is a luxury that a new mother does not have. My mom and I were at the mall shopping for a wedding present in an upscale department store when Joey decided to "let 'er rip". I heard it before I smelled it or saw it.

By the time I got him out of his stroller, yellow poo (for lack of a better word) was dripping out of the toes of his socks. I held him at arms length and pulled my diaper bag (which I had expediently remembered to put in the stroller that day) out from the basket. I pulled out my tiny box of wipes and got to work, only to find out that the easy-to-store sized box only held enough wipes to clean one of Joey's legs. Scrounging in our purses for leftover Kleenex and fast food napkins, my mom and I ran to the ladies room where we cleaned Joey the best we could with wet paper towels. I dug around in the diaper bag and found the tiny t-shirt and an old grocery receipt. No diapers. No receiving blanket. Not even a lonely burp rag that could be jerry rigged into a make-do diaper until we got home.

Left with no other option, I did the unthinkable and picked up my squirming, naked little boy and carried him through the mall in his birthday suit. Strangely, the little guy didn't seem to notice that his mom was near tears, feeling inadequate and unprepared while he cooed and laughed, happy to be free of those pesky tags that always seem to scratch his neck.