I fell in love with a bag long before we started down the road to Babyville, when I investigated a friend’s $50 TJ Maxx find I had originally scoffed at. But, oh, the compartments. The zip-down, fold-out changing pad. The switchable strap locations. I needed a Petunia Pickle Bottom Boxy Backpack of my very own.
After discovering PB&J, I tossed aside my PPB dreams, sure I’d need a duffel bag. With the confidence of some other triplet-PPB moms, though, I decided to get my own Boxy Backpack.
What was intended to be a diaper bag became the perfect NICU bag. For just over two months, that bag was my constant companion. It carried pump parts, my on-the-go pumping log, my wallet, phone, iPod, iPod charger, flip camera, point-and-shoot camera, batteries, keys, books, a change of clothes, deodorant, ibuprofen, a hairbrush, discarded Soothie pacifiers, baby hats and various other things I can no longer recall.
With our NICU days behind us, we headed out to our first doctor’s appointment days after leaving the hospital. I scratched my head at my bag and filled it with suggestions from the Internet – double the diapers I think I might need (6+1 just in case), a change of clothes for each baby, a bottle for each baby, bibs, burp cloths, camera, wallet, phone, blah, blah, blah.
It. Was. FULL. I could barely Velcro the foldover flap, and forget zipping it. I don’t know what I did wrong, but something wasn’t working. I shrugged, shoved stuff down, and off we went. I’d figure it out later, or we’d add a second bag to our load.
RSV season had us on lockdown, and the bag remained packed with the same bulging load for each outing. When I needed something, most of its contents had to come out to find What Was Needed. A pain, but I wasn’t ready for the duffel bag.
Then, before RSV season ended, a glorious e-mail landed in my inbox. PPB released a new version of the Boxy Backpack, the Abundance Boxy Backpack, made just for moms of multiples.
Hallelujah.
This bag is the bomb dot com. From the outside in, it’s perfect for moms who have their hands full.
Spills on the outside wipe down as easy as the old-school vinyl tablecloths you remember from your great aunt’s house. The inside is something like what I imagine Mary Poppins’ bag to look like – there are pockets galore and a main area so large that it would probably throw back an echo if you yelled into it.
You won’t have to yell to look for what’s buried, though, because there’s enough room that things aren’t piled and stacked on top of each other, making it impossible to quickly find the last diaper while covering your son’s fire hose with your other hand. There are a bunch of pockets for your phone, bottles and other small things, a clip for your keys at the top on the inside, and a detachable bag intended for dirty diapers.
I can pack all I need for a few hours out with my triplets and still have room at the top for whatever nonsense we may accumulate along the way. I imagine this will come in the form of pretty rocks and leaves once they start toddling around.
It’s fairly ginormous, but because it’s so pretty, it doesn’t feel like a burden to carry. It fits nicely under shopping carts and my double snap-n-go stroller, and we’ll be testing out the stroller straps when we use our double jogging stroller in this weekend’s March for Babies.
Moms of more than one small fry – you definitely want to consider getting your own Abundance Boxy Backpack to stay organized and feeling fancy, all at the same time. It’s multi-tasking at its best!
My two Petunia Pickle Bottom Boxy Backpacks – the original up front, the Abundance in back
On the left, the original overflows with what I tote around. At right, the Abundance has lots of room to spare.
The average contents of my diaper bag
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Disclaimer: Petunia Pickle Bottom sponsored this review by sending me a free Abundance Boxy Backpack to review, but the opinions I’ve expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest viewpoint.
I watched the scales shift among my friends as woman after woman crossed the line in the sand from Never Given Birth to Been There, Done That.
The war stories they told always reached some point of, “And then all dignity flew out the window,” as labor peaked or plateaued or changed courses.
My understanding was that, until that Point of No Return, I would continue my standard operating procedure when visiting my “girly doctor.” You know the drill – shower, groom, make sure you don’t partake in sweaty activities, etc., prior to climbing onto the exam table and into the stirrups. And if it was that “special time of the month?” HA! Forget it! That is GROSS, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in those stirrups during that time!
Then infertility happened.
As I prepared for my first baseline examination, the visit to the reproductive endocrinologist that usually takes place on Cycle Day 3 (that’s three days after Aunt Flo has shown up uninvited), I reached out to my online community with a super embarrassing question. It went something like this:
“Um. They’re going to do a transvaginal ultrasound tomorrow. I’m still bleeding. I wear tampons. Won’t that get in the way?”
The response: “You take it out, silly.”
That’s when I stopped publicly embarrassing myself and worked through my immature insecurities while staring at that response with eyes as big as saucers.
So, I have to go without a tampon. And they’re going to go in there, investigating … stuff. On CD 3. With that mess. Oh my dear Lord, they’re going to see my MESS. Down THERE. That sacred spot, in this sacred time. How embarrassing! How am I ever going to get through this without turning bright red and requiring antiperspirant for my sweaty palms?
See, when that dignity flies out the window during birth – as the stories go – it happens in the heat of battle. There are drugs, there is excitement, there is pain – all distractions that kill whatever cares for dignity preservation.
There, on that exam table on CD 3 that first cycle, it was quiet. It was 7:30 a.m. I was bleary eyed and scared out of my mind, disgusted with what was about to happen and angry that I had to endure such humiliation.
And then I went back the next cycle. And the next. And the next. Eventually, those early-morning CD 3 visits became old hat. Even the other, less messy days requiring transvaginal ultrasounds lost their elements of fear and embarrassment.
My dignity down there was gone. I saw six different REs over the course of my treatment and spread my legs several times during each cycle. Sometimes my husband was present, sometimes it was just me, a doctor and a nurse. Gone were the days of preparation for the dreaded annual exam. Infertility introduced me to the fact that my privates could become just as public as any other part on me.
Infertility killed my dignity, but it empowered my acceptance of my body. Even at those 7 a.m. exams when grooming was the last task I could possibly complete.
I busted this myth in honor of National Infertility Awareness Week. I chose to hit a lighter side of infertility, but that doesn’t mean I take it lightly, nor should you. Visit RESOLVE for more information on what infertility is and who it affects.
Tobias, aka Toby, aka Buddy, aka Stinker, aka You Little Shit (that was when he refused to finish 3 oz. of his bottle, forcing me to dump breastmilk down the drain) – whatever you call him at the moment, you can always call him cute.
The stare, the tease, the grin
Toby is a charmer, a total ham. He cracks a grin while refusing to drink from his bottle, making an otherwise frustrating event absolutely hilarious.
He has a sweet little raspy voice, and he’s currently learning to use it in different volumes and tones. Just two days ago, he learned to mimic a buzzer. His once-full head of brown hair dwindled to fuzz with a cute coif at the front, giving him a look that only big boys should have. Since last week, though, his hair has become full again, but the coif remains. My boy has style.
Toby often wakes like his daddy – cranky and angry at the world. But once he opens those big brown eyes, he can’t help but grin, and then the world is a lovely place.
Currently the biggest of our trio, Toby just recently got the oomf behind his baby pushups and flipped from tummy to back. He was surprised at first, then he was happy. The world is much more full of things to look at when viewed from one’s back!
And boy, can this kid look. And watch. And study. For as long as Toby’s been on the outside, he’s been incredibly interested in his world. We used to have to pull the blanket over his isolette in his NICU days, closing out the world so he would give up his investigation and get some sleep. To this day, if something – anything – catches Toby’s eyes, he’d much rather stare than sleep.
He usually does his investigating peacefully. In fact, he can fool less experienced folks into thinking he isn’t tired. He’ll yawn and yawn and yawn but won’t fuss (usually). He’ll just continue watching his world. I’m pretty sure he’s already got us all figured out.
He has dimples hidden in his now-chubby cheeks and long, curly eyelashes that frame his huge brown eyes. This kid is going to use his cute to get out of all sorts of shenanigans, I can see it already.
Toby most often has a pinky or two sticking straight up while he eats – a true Southern (but still a Buckeye by heritage) gentleman. That’s when he lets you feed him by yourself, though. He’s more and more often trying to help hold the bottle.
He loves to sleep pressed against one side of his crib, his head stuck in the corner. He often has an arm (squeezed under the breathable bumper and) hanging over the edge.
He’s incredibly talkative and will chatter with anyone, including the toys that dangle from his rocking chair.
The only time Toby cries is when he’s hungry or has to burp in his sleep. He starts with squeaky wimpers and works himself up to red-faced, tearful wails. Unfortunately for our ears, our loudest crier is nearly impossible to console. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants results. Smart kid.
Of our trio, his were the first cries I heard, the first eyes I saw, and the first giggle I detected. He’s my boy, and he owns a gooey, melty piece of my heart.
I’m currently working through questions submitted by What the blog? readers. Want to know more about something you’ve seen here? Ask! I’m not shy – I just get too distracted coming up with my own topics lately.
click the photo for detailed notes on what’s what
As you can imagine, my brain is functioning on an entirely new level now that I’m a stay-at-home mama to infant triplets. I’m pretty sure I can only think as far ahead as the next feeding, which flies up on me in the blink of an eye sometimes.
I opened a can of worms when I asked what you wanted to know more about since I’ve done a shitastic job of elaborating on life with our trio. Thankfully, the can of worms has thus far been pleasant. I plan to respond to each question as time allows for what needs to go into it. Today, time allows for the down and dirty on triplets in cloth diapers.
The cloth diaper market has become all the rage lately, with a host of alien terms that can be as daunting as the idea of cleaning poop off of cloth.
Trust me. Neither is difficult to learn.
Along with the range of new lingo is a range of cloth diapers. You can diaper your kid’s butt in plain and simple or have them bopping around in high fashion.
We hover somewhere just above plain and simple.
I decided to cloth diaper our future babY (singlular, folks – we never imagined triplets) long ago when I realized the savings. Sure, the water bill may raise a bit, but those diapers can be used on the next kid (ha!).
I admit to balking and changing my mind for a split second when we learned we were having triplets, but a quick rundown of the math convinced me cloth was the only way to go.
We use your basic prefold diaper, which is the standard flat piece of cloth you picture when you think of old-fashioned diapers. Green Mountain Diapers makes their diapers much nicer than in ye olden days, though, and the diapers are quilted rectangles of poop- and pee-catching magic.
Prefolds are plain cloth, though, and need a cover to keep the ickies inside and away from clothes – both the babies’ and ours. Or our new couch.
Tangent – We’ve had one epic, out-of-the-clothes poop blowout. Guess what was covering the offending tush – not a cloth diaper, a disposable one. (The trio get disposables on doctor visits – more convenient when nurses help change dipes.) Of course, the Incident took place on our two-days-in-our-house love seat. Awesome. Or not.
The babies have worn size one Thirsties Duos since they came home.
A normal diaper change starts like any other. We unfasten the cover and leave it under the baby’s hiney to catch any stray sprinkles and because it’s just easier – covers are reused until they’re soiled (sometimes poop gets out of the diaper, but it always stays in the cover) or the babies get a bath.
Butts get wiped if they need it (we don’t wipe for every diaper change – it just isn’t necessary), and they usually get a blast from my newly repurposed hair dryer (because I don’t have time for that nonsense anymore). A friend passed along the tip she got from her pediatrician. Cloth-diapered hineys are often damp from the lack of moisture-wicking material, so a 10-second blast from the dryer cuts down the risk of diaper rash from always-damp skin.
The diaper is then laid flat under the baby booty, then folded up between the legs and to the waist, where we fasten all diapers with Snappis.
There are plenty of different folds, but with several hands changing diapers each day, we stick with the easy angel-wing fold. It’s a cinch to teach to new helpers, and it’s quick to whip together.
Once the Snappi is in place, the cover gets refastened, the butt gets redressed, the diaper gets discarded, and away we go.
So how do we clean them?
All diapers go directly into our pail liner, which ironically doesn’t line anything. I intended to get a pail, but I never got around to it. I had heard that open-air bags and containers neutralize the smell better than if kept in a closed receptacle, but I never believed it until we started using the liner sans pail. The nursery hardly ever smells, and the only time it does is when the after shocks of a recently-dropped bomb linger in the air.
(That’s code for after one of the babies leaves a massive poop.)
Diapers containing pee only go straight into the bag. Deuced diapers get a spray down from a bottle containing a 50-50 mix of Biokleen Bac Out and water, which kills the nasty smell and is safe for the babies. Then they get dumped in the bag
On laundry day, which comes approximately every day and a half, I dump the bag of diapers (every other load, the bag gets added – otherwise, I hang it on our clothesline to air out while the diapers get washed) in our Maytag Bravos washing machine. It’s a high-efficiency top-load washer, so it uses less water but not too little water like a front-loading HE. When not washing diapers, that’s great, but diaper laundry requires enough water to swish the diapers, so Cycle 1 is a plain, no-detergent rinse and spin. Wetter diapers are heavier diapers, and heavier diapers mean my washer spits out more water.
For Cycle 2, I add half a tablespoon (which is about half a free, in-your-formula-can scoop) of homemade diaper detergent, which I found the recipe for on The Eco-Family Friendly. (The recipe makes enough to fill more than 3/4 a 5-gallon bucket and cost about $20.) This cycle is a warm wash, cold rinse cycle I do on medium soil with no spin.
Cycle 3 gets another half-scoop of detergent for a hot wash, cold rinse on light soil and max spin. After that, the diapers either get hung outside (if there’s time and no pollen in the air) or they tumble in the dryer for a bit.
Then comes the easy part. You know how it’s a pain to put away laundry? With prefold diapers, you stack the diapers and stash them. That’s it. No folding necessary.
Cue the chorus of heavenly angels.
Our water bill has risen some, but it’s no higher than it was last July, when we were watering our lawn.
The real savings comes with the diapers, though. We worked with 40 diapers on a day-and-a-half wash routine for our first two months home. Now, thanks to a friend who dropped off an extra dozen, we have 52 diapers and can stretch laundry to every two days.
For fun with numbers, that first size that lasted us two months cost $72 for the diapers alone. Averaging 180 diapers a week (based on 40 every day and a half-ish), that would have cost us about $44 a week for Pampers Swaddlers. Multiplied by eight weeks, which we all know is actually less time than two months, we would have spent $342 in just our first eight weeks home from the NICU.
THREE-FOUR-TWO. Versus $72.
But you spend money on the covers, you say. Sure, but we have six covers. That’s two covers per butt in our house. The covers cost about $12 each, so throw in another $72, and you still aren’t even at half of what eight weeks of disposable diapers would have cost us. Plus, we’re still using those same covers now that we’re on the next size diapers.
Lucky for us, we have an amazing network of friends and family. Our diapers and covers were all gifts thus far, so we’re paying for the water.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right? Let me know if I forgot to cover something – I wrote this entry over several nap times!
I’ve been drafting blog entry after blog entry in my head, but the amount of info I’m behind on covering is overwhelming. I can’t seem to finish a head draft without breaking off into a wild and crazy tangent. Then I just get even more overwhelmed with the prospect of weeding through the muck that is my writer’s brain.
I’ve been neglectful of this blog. Rightfully so, sure, but I want to keep up with it better – mainly for me, but also for you, dear readers.
What do you wonder about me? About the babies? About a triplet house? Want some cheerleading for your struggles with the breast pump? Or maybe with cloth diapers?
I want to cover so much, but I just can’t bring myself to weave together a concise update that hits on each point of awesome and not-so-awesome that we power through on the daily.
So, what say you? Hit me with your best shot.
