A stick of glitter glue, a handful of cracker crumbs, a wad of paper with some mysterious sticky blue substance inside. This is a partial list of what I found inside my bag today.
I was looking for a receipt to add to my scattered collection of expense reports when I made the mistake of reaching into the depths of the black hole I carry around with me daily, fondly known as my Mommy Bag.
Originally it was called a “diaper bag” but it has become so much more than that. It is the “diaper, wipes, extra set of clothes, activities for when boredom strikes, money-holder, snack and drink carrier, toddler exploration exhibit I sling on my shoulder and have at all times” bag.
It’s the third one I’ve been through in two years. The first one, so generously given to me as a new mom pity present as part of some other purchase, broke almost immediately. With its seperate “bottle cooler” section and “quick-clean diaper changing pad” it was destined for destruction right from the beginning.
Next came the Winnie the Pooh bag in a hopefully optimistic shade of cream. This bag quickly ended up looking more like the color dingy, but it was made of a tough canvas so I persevered. I patiently sewed together the seams as they buckled over and over again under the weight of the accoutrements hauled around during the infant year.
Then the zipper decided to abandon ship. The first two times I rescued its weakened body from the depths of the playroom carpet and the oasis of the department store’s linoleum, squeezing it back onto its doomed track. The third time it ran away, leaving my change-heavy wallet to fall out and scatter its contents all over, I knew it was time to let the old girl retire (after all, that bag had carried us through a good year at least).
Now, my bag is black. It’s a hand-me-down from my lovely pre-momma sister, so in my world, practically new. It’s held up for a good long time, but I don’t want to talk about it too much and jinx it. It might hear me.