A Mother's Ingenuity: Day of the Diaper

Believe it or not, there was a time not so long ago when there was no such thing as a disposable diaper. In those days, parents relied on safety pins and cotton cloth to contain the dirty doings of young children. That, of course, made changing from one such cloth to the next rather onerous.

I remember once seeing dear old Dad make the change on one of my younger siblings, and he wasn’t too happy about it, either, bearing an expression that read, “I’d rather play from a deep trap with a pitching wedge” while completing a task that typically fell to dear old Mom, as a parent’s love can often take the form of humility.

Regardless of who did the change-out, one still had the remaining challenge of dealing with all of that filthy fabric. That’s where kindergarten came into play. One day, when I was no more than six years old and well past the diaper stage, my mom was taking me to join others my age at Alma Schrader Elementary School, no more than a half-mile from our house on Brookwood Drive. Once she turned the ignition, however, smoke began to billow from beneath the hood of her Country Squire station wagon, and soon, the car’s engine went kaput.

What were we to do? Already running late. Not enough time to walk the distance. And no car to get us there.

Then, as providence would have it, down our rustically tree-lined street, into our pebbled driveway, right up to where my mom and I stood, drove the Tidy Didy Diaper Man. He was a rather large, good-natured, uncommonly brave fellow who each week came to collect the dirties and a week later — miraculously, it seemed — brought them back again, clean, pristine, ready to see action.

While he was busy gathering a week’s worth, the lightbulb must’ve lit about my mom’s head; for as soon as he returned, a bundle dangling from his hand, she asked him straight up, “Would you do me a favor and drive my son to kindergarten?”

“Why, sure, I’d be happy to,” came the reply, since this man was, as previously noted, good-natured. “Climb up front there, young man,” he directed me, as he tossed his load into the truck’s rear.

Now, it is worth noting, there were two distinct and rather intense aromas associated with the Tidy Didy Diaper truck. No. 1 was No. 2, if you catch my drift. Soiled fabric in such magnitude simply refused to go unnoticed.

I encountered the second aroma upon entering the truck as my nostrils were stabbed by a thrust of ammonia, and I caught the double-whammy: poop on the one hand, ammonia on the other. Not exactly a win-win.

Another notable thing about that truck was that it had no passenger seat up front, since it was built for commuters of the cotton cloth variety, not six-year-old kindergarteners. I stood the whole way, and I don’t recall there being much in the way of conversation during our nearly half-mile journey.

The privilege was that, among my contemporaries who walked to school that day or were dropped off by moms of their own, I alone had the distinction of arriving in a big, smelly truck driven by the Tidy Didy Diaper Man, which did not go unnoticed. It made me into a celebrity for a day, and made for some pretty good talk during recess. And while much of my sixth year on earth has faded from memory, I’ll never forget that momentous day, how my mom stepped up when the chips were down, enlisted the aid of a kindly diaper enthusiast and got me to the school on time.

A mother’s love can transcend mere humility, and when duty calls, take the form of ingenuity to boot.

David Tlapek is a Missouri native, born and raised in Cape Girardeau. A formerly practicing attorney, he is now a writer and filmmaker living in California.