What do they put into diapers these days?
Yes, I know that, but there must be more. Since my daughter and almost two year old granddaughter have come to live with us the weight of our weekly garbage output has doubled. I swear it. The most notable addition is a steady output of disposable diapers.
I’m no neophyte. I helped raise the toddler’s mother after all, and her two aunts. I assure you they knew what to do with those squares of white fabric we (well, my wife) wrapped around their butts. Back then we had a semi-weekly laundry service pick up the contents of a sizeable white pail: wash, fold, bundle, return. I always pitied the service’s delivery van drivers. Theirs were the only vehicles coursing winter’s sub-zero streets with all windows wide open. And if a diaper van unexpectedly cut you off on a hot, still, August by-way it simply meant the driver was too teary-eyed from ammonia fumes to see. You had to make allowances, but still the service disappeared.
So the modern generation uses disposables, but I don’t remember diapers being so heavy. The midget poop factory now stomping our grounds must put out her own weight weekly. Can that be right? Can it be natural? Or are disposable diaper manufacturers pumping their products full of heavy chemicals and assorted weight adding whiz-bangs to fulfill the promises of their happy-land commercials? If so, if this carries on, our little girl will have Arnie Schwarzenegger’s legs before she’s three.
The problem is that, coincident with our increased output, our city is working to divert more garbage from landfill to other assorted projects. They’ll only take one container of non-recyclable garbage, 23kg. max, and apparently nobody is making new and exciting products from what my granddaughter and her colleagues put into their diapers. That’s a shame as this might be humanity’s most dependable natural resource. Nevertheless, ecological concerns don’t slow our mini-pooper down, so we’ve something of a disposal dilemma and it’s up to us to deal with it.
It’s amazing how the introduction of one small child into a home messes with household routines. I am a lucky guy. My daughter is a trained chef, willing and able to incorporate the Canadian Diabetes Association’s healthy eating guidelines into the family diet. I appreciate her support, but declined her offer. It is easy, for me anyway, to let someone else take responsibility and blame them when things don’t work out because something else comes up.
That’s not just unfair, it doesn’t work. I’m the one who must decide when to have a rare slice of chocolate cake, a banana or to skip desert. When other priorities arise, I’m the one must create the time and space for my balanced meal instead of partaking from the thick, cheesy, ordered pizza. I’m the one who compromised my health, and I’m the one committed to dealing with the consequences. Otherwise I may not have the strength to put out the garbage.
