Diaper Bag of Tricks

For some reason, we've often received diaper bags from work acquaintances. Really nice ones, ones much better than we'd ever get ourselves. We don't know from bags, even diaper bags, we're not bag people. Although that photo essay in the NYT styles section comparing the look of hand bags to various dog breeds was in my opinion brilliant reporting. Radar magazine online ran a similar photo essay comparing bags to various cultural icons, for instance, there was one that looked like Yoda.

A writer and bag officionado once gave my husband a really special diaper bag, and because I'm a simpleton I can't remember what breed it was, but my husband reminds me it was by Fred Segal. We left it sitting on the passenger seat when we were parked in front of Mary Van Vleet's house on Stratford St. in Ditmas/Prospect Park South when she was having a trunk show. When we came back to the car, someone had broken the window and snagged the bag. Whoever perpetrated this crime didn't get anything but diapers, unfortunately not dirty ones, but they were probably more than pleased with the swankiness of the bag. I'm sure they appreciated it more than I could have.

Even so, the diaper bag I have now is one I should wish someone would steal from me, because it's so tricky. But I like this bag. It was given to me by someone I used to work with at ABC Carpet and Home, Susan Perl, also a fellow in mommy hood. It was swag she scored from Domino Magazine, and like a domino, strictly black and white. It has a striking pattern, intersecting staircases, or perhaps you could call them tessellated Andean crosses. It is wonderfully roomy, which means I can find things in the bag I tend to over pack. It is waterproof, I can wipe out all the nasty things that have fallen into it, like ginger ale.

The problem with the bag is that whatever you put in the inner pocket slips down to the bottom of the bag because of the faulty lining, and even knowing this, I still lose things. At Robert Moses beach, my husband's wallet and keys disappeared when it was time to hit the road and head back to Brooklyn. We looked everywhere. I even checked the tricky diaper bag. We left in a cloud of unknowing. Later on, at home, once we'd recovered from exposure, my husband checked the bag more thoroughly and there they were, laying between the bag's two thick layers of vinyl. We forgave the bag. Why? We forgave ourselves. Why?

And my mother forgives us. Last night she took our 3 kids to Chuck E. Cheese outside of Portland. I volunteered she take the domino bag, only packing it with a few things she would need if the little one had an accident. At home, after my husband and I had enjoyed the extremely rare night out (dinner at Local 188 on Congress Street, then Bourne Ultimatum at the (scary) Windham Mall,) my mother tells me they had a bit of a scare. The kids had played for an hour, and when it was time to pay for the pizza they ordered, lo and behold, no money in bag. Where's the wad of cash? No keys in bag. She had transferred important personal items into the trick pocket of the tricky diaper bag of tricks. They searched the entire Chuck E. Cheese, emptied trash cans, walked around whole thing, interviewed workers. No keys. AAA and security were summoned. When security checked the bag, one more time, just in case, they found the car keys and the cash wad.

It makes a nice lost and found story. Reminiscent of those tales where someone searches their entire life for treasure that lay in their pocket the whole time. What was preceived to be lost was right there the whole time. Such a nice feeling. But I think I'm enjoying it more than my mother.