I bought a diaper bag in the weeks leading up to my son’s birth. It was a sensible black bag with quilted fabric, an inner lining, multiple zippered partitions, a special compartment for a changing pad, and straps that were just long enough, but not too long. As I researched diaper bags all those years ago, I remember thinking that this bag will go with everything.
And it has done just that. This diaper bag has been on every single outing our family has gone on for the past seven years. It was at the hospital the day my son was born, sparkly and new and full of hope and anticipation for the days ahead. It was at my sister’s wedding a few months later, and then at my father’s funeral in the fall of that same year, and my grandmother’s funeral the next year.
3.5 years after my son was born, it was with me again in the hospital as my daughter was born, this time not so shiny and new, but with plenty of miles left to go. It attended my brother’s wedding later that year, and just last year, it sat in the pew beside me as we laid my father-in-law to rest.
It has been as far as Texas and back, a few times. It’s been strewn across gas station changing tables, on counters at restaurants, on the field at soccer practice, and too many other places to name. It’s one of the few things I can think of, besides my kids themselves, that has always been with us all these years.
The bag eventually started to show its age, and I’ll admit I considered trading it in for a newer, shinier model. But something always stopped me.
When I look at that bag, I don’t see the faded fabric, or the frayed edges, or the misshapen pockets. I see myself as a brand new mom, digging my pumping supplies out of that bag with one hand while balancing my baby in the other. I see myself tenderly folding extra changes of tiny clothes and placing them neatly inside. I see my husband pulling out wipes for a snotty nose, or balancing the bag in the back of the car as he conducts an emergency diaper change in a random parking lot. I see burp cloths and bottles, now long gone. I see snacks and sunscreen and crayons and toys all stuffed inside. I see tiny little newborn diapers, then larger and larger diapers, then pull-ups and extra underwear, and now, finally…nothing.
Besides the occasional night-time pull-up, we are officially out of the diaper stage. And, while it’s a huge relief and something we’ve been striving for all along, the reality of it takes my breath away. I still carry the bag with me most places, even though we don’t really need it anymore. “It has the snacks!,” I say, desperate for an excuse. “We might need a change of clothes!,” I reason.
