To the diaper man, with love

Hamish was there for the thrills and the spills, a devoted d-man until the end.

By Carol Hall

Nov 22, 1999 | My mother has worked for Planned Parenthood for most of my life. Im sure thats part of the reason I put off having children until I was in my mid-30s.

But Im also big on this idea of not overtaxing the planet. So when my husband and I entered into that now-or-never discussion about having kids, I wanted to get the diaper issue right out onto the table. I could not bring a child into the world knowing his dirty diapers would outlive him. Either we go with cloth, I said, or we go childless. Acquaintances gently scoffed at my fervor, reminding me of my abiding talent for disorganization. I retaliated with fuzzy numbers on how much landfill would be composed of dirty diapers by 2000, how many forests would have fallen to baby poop. No plastic in these swaddling clothes, I vowed. My husband, perhaps not wanting to acknowledge that stinky diapers would be a byproduct of our bundle of joy, left this decision to me.

And that is how Hamish came into our lives. No, Hamish is not our son. He was our fey, some might say gay, diaper man. And he was to become an important part of that memory-rich period that surrounds a babys entry into Life.

I learned about Hamishs service, "Terries To You," in my North London birth class. I rang him for information and he suggested an in-person diaper consultation before the blessed event. I liked that: Hed taken on board the fact that the baby would be fully operational as soon as it came home and that he, Hamish, needed to be ready for action. He pulled up in a smartly painted minivan that discreetly announced the arrival of "Terries To You" in the neighborhood. He was quite the picture himself, in his starched white, double-breasted "uniform," which I suspected was a chefs outfit. He was young and handsome in that nonthreatening way preferred by new mothers. He was lithe and bouncy, friendly and chatty; it was soothing to be around him. And he arrived with sample (reusable) diapers and sample (reusable) diaper pants, ready to give me a confidence-inspiring demonstration.

I wanted him to move in with us.

Shortly before our son was born, Hamish returned to drop off a stack of neatly folded cloth nappies, as they are known in the UK. Hed added a supply of Velcro-closing diaper pants and a diaper pail. He was earnest, excited even. It turned out that I was one of his first, and only, customers. We were both about to give birth and were clearly in danger of being overwhelmed by the experience.

After a few final words of encouragement and a wee buss on my cheek for luck, Hamish was off. (He promised to establish a neat schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups after the baby was born.) Of course, when you give birth in a modern maternity hospital, disposables are de rigueur. Right off the bat, youre spoiled by the tidy convenience of those well-tailored waste catchers. It was a rude shock when I bade farewell to my army of eager English midwives and faced changing all those diapers by myself. I felt so alone.

Once home, I looked at the baby, looked at those diapers, smelled the baby and knew the moment of truth had arrived. My husband was there, strictly in his capacity as observer. The spirit of Hamish hovered near.

I tried to hide my uncertainty behind a barrage of "this is how its done" bluster. While the baby reeked on the changing mat, I demonstrated the various cloth-diaper folding techniques Hamish had showed me, accompanied by a sort of breezy "knit one, pearl two" patter. I cleaned my little so-and-so with a (nonreusable) baby wipe and placed him onto a perfectly folded diaper. Then I plopped the whole package into an unfolded diaper pant.

"Now, you just -- ooph -- whip this up quickly and -- errph -- get these Velcro tabs fastened and -- phew -- hes ready to roll."

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