And while we're at it...

Why not offer frazzled parents a place to hold and comfort their babies? Like a chair in every restroom. I'm talking about for the sake of sanity. Many times, just leaving a noisy space was enough to calm my son during a crying jag. I'd take him to the restroom, and the relative quiet had a silencing effect on him. If he needed to nurse, he had a much easier time when the room was hushed. My dear husband could've used a quiet place to sit during the times he was on comfort-the-crying-kid duty, too.

Disclaimer: No, I'm not suggesting that breastfeeding, or feeding of any kind, be relegated to the toilet zone. I'm just saying that a break from the noise worked for us.

If I ruled the world

In the early days of new parenthood, things like leaking breast milk, diapers that quit, and a chronic state of sleep-deprived dishevelment are good for building humility. Once leaving the house is an appealing option, you don't have to go very far or look too hard for opportunities to exclaim, "There's no dignity in motherhood!"

Take, for instance, the need to change your precious child's diaper. In many cases, public restrooms provide a diaper deck for this purpose, and although it's often situated awkwardly in the way of swinging doors or hand dryers, the thing is a godsend when you consider the alternative: the floor.

For almost two years, I have been disappointed repeatedly by business establishments, and by this I mean restaurants most specifically, who do not provide even counter space, much less a full-fledged diaper changing station, in their restrooms. And let me specify further: I am not talking about upscale places where a child's presence would be an oddity. I am talking about restaurants with family-friendly appeal, like a buffet, affordable prices, and a children's menu. Or, how about the restroom in the community center where we ate buckwheat pancakes last weekend (and where a daycare—full of children, I'm guessing—resides during the week)?

So, on the one day I didn't have my trusty, portable changing pad with me, and forced to choose between the way-too-disgusting floor or the out-of-order radiator, I chose the latter, apologized profusely to my son, and gave thanks that his security blanket was available as a makeshift pillow. That was the last straw.

I went home, visited the website of my favorite presidential candidate, and raised my voice for parents and children everywhere who are forced into the dignity-free zone of the ill-equipped public restroom.

Now I'm on a campaign of my own, to address this issue whenever I face it.

Restaurant owners: If you know enough to offer my child a high chair or a booster seat so that he might eat your food in comfort, can you be forward-thinking enough to accommodate the eventual aftermath?

Presidential candidates: Want my vote next November? Mandate diaper decks.

Unhooked

Between pregnancy and my son's long-term commitment to breastfeeding, "the girls" had done hard time, serving a 28-month sentence, through thrush, mastitis and the indignities of flap-fronted nursing bras, with no time off for good behavior. Around August, at long last, freedom! To celebrate, last month we went on a new-bra shopping spree.

Nothing could have prepared me for the odyssey. Several hours into it, after I'd tried on every size combination in the first four letters of the alphabet, even the Wonder Bra wasn't so wonderful. Just as I was about to leave, saggy and empty-handed, a helpful sales associate took over. Within minutes, we found the perfect fit. HOORAY! The motherhood-ravaged remains of my former chest were hoisted high and I felt three inches taller. Talk about a mood elevator!

So now I'm left with a question: What to do with the nursing bras? Sure, I'm sick of the sight of them and no longer need their help. They're a little too used for the consignment store, but they still have some play in them. Do I throw them in with the rest of the maternity clothes waiting to recirculate, should my sisters or I go for "one more?" Yes, their "ick factor" is high, as I acknowledged in our pregnancy blog. But an emotional bond has formed.

I can't just throw them away.

Spilled milk

I love Whole Foods . Once a month, the kiddo and I head to that side of town and shop with gusto. Usually, it's a pleasant experience and we have fun together. Yesterday, not so much.

Arriving after our big breakfast, I thought, was a stroke of maternal genius. Shopping on a full stomach would make our job easier, right? Fewer impulse purchases, and virtually no begging from my companion. We made it past the banana display with only a quick glance. Whew! By the time I hustled past the olive oil, my little monkey-boy had forgotten all about his favorite fruit. No threat of temptation for us!

Right.

At the dairy case, my child dislodged his beloved binky and smacked his lips. I put a carton of organic milk in the basket and on we rolled. Sure, it was on my list, but I think he thought he was in charge. "Tee! Tee!" came next as we skated past the cheese without stopping. When we passed the crackers, "Ca! Ca!" became his cry. And I do mean cry. I grabbed (and opened) a box and unleashed a monster. At first, I muffled his ample whines with grain. But not for long. As I did my best to fill our cart quickly, he nearly broke his back trying to grab his favorite items piling up behind him. His frustration grew frantic.

Somewhere in the cereal aisle, he lost his mind. I think the Cheerios put him over the edge. No one within 50 yards of us could miss his plaintive bleats of "O! O!" The waving arms? Also hard to miss. I threw a box in the cart and kept moving. The rest was a blur.

At the check-out counter, the cashier-in-training helped the shopper in front of me while my kid moved into meltdown formation. Suddenly, crackers, binky, even Angel Bear, offered no end to the wailing, but they made great projectiles. Arms outstretched, he gestured toward what I thought was the cooler of water. I grabbed a bottle, offered it up, and for a moment, the storm calmed. Then he choked on a big gulp, and the howling began.

At last, our turn to ring up. I had to quit the losing guessing game of "What would make my son happy?" to put my haphazard collection of food on the conveyor belt. Wait, what's this? Milk. Leaking from the carton. All over my groceries and the bags I'd brought with me.

There's a calm that supposedly overtakes drowning victims once they give up fighting for life. The same phenomenon washes over parents, I'm certain, at moments like this. The waves took me down. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't threaten, although I cajoled, but only twice. Oblivious to everything but the sound of my little he-banshee, I mopped up the milk, relinquished one of the sodden bags, and humbly accepted the cashier's kindness (and free replacement bag). Later I sent email to Whole Foods, acknowledging his help.

Not sure of how the other shoppers reacted to the memorable scene, but I'm guessing birth control sales climbed yesterday. And that cashier-in-training? He was probably promoted. Or maybe he quit.