I need to say this out loud because every time I do, people look at me like I’m describing something out of a haunted house instead of my childhood.
When I was growing up, my mother didn’t have disposable diapers. There were no fancy wipes, no overnight delivery, no “eco” labels or parenting hacks. What she had was cloth diapers, a sink, and a kind of strength I didn’t understand until years later.
I can still see it clearly.
She’d stand in the bathroom, sleeves rolled up, rinsing those diapers directly in the toilet. No gloves. No hesitation. Just her hands, the water, and a routine she repeated day after day without drama or complaint. She’d wring them out with a force that came from somewhere deeper than muscle, drop them into a pail, and move on to the next task waiting for her.
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