If someone were filming the story of my life, the current scene would begin with a tight shot of a pair of training underpants hanging from shower rod. Slowly, the camera pans to a tiny pair of dungarees, wet at the crotch. Then another pair of sodden undies, then some mini-khakis, brown rivulets along the inseam. The camera pulls back to reveal a wide shot of a small bathroom, wet clothes hanging just about anywhere--towel rods, bathtub spigots, ends of toilet plungers. Like that scene at the Atlanta train station in "Gone With the Wind," except instead of Confederate wounded there'd be acres of be-piddled clothes, reaching out in anguish for the laundering they so desperately need.
I admit we were spoiled by Robert, who one day just up and decided he'd had enough of diapers. But TwoBert's road has been a little rockier; for every pee that makes it down the toilet, there's another that ... doesn't. TwoBert, you know we love you. We stand as one, resolved to weather these setbacks and see you through to Diapers' End. We are in for a penny and in for a pound, and we're showing our commitment by not buying any more diapers. Take note, though, that the casualties are mounting. We are renters who own no laundering equipment. Our policy is to let the dirty clothes pile up until the hampers buckle, then saddle up the stroller and head to the laundromat. But now you're wetting everything in sight, and it's not like we're made of underpants. Something has to give, or pretty soon you'll head to the playground wearing Saran wrap and an apron.
