Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
Diaper BagMarch 2007
Early on Jon and I decided that the gorgeous diaper bag we'd been given for Roxy's myriad needs-on-the-go was too packed with stuff to drag into every restaurant and on every outing. So we grabbed a baby boutique's half-gallon, re-usable shopping bag, threw in two diapers and some wipes, and named our creation the Derringer.
The word "derringer" used to conjure up a woman in a floor-length, early 20th century dress, a tiny pistol hidden in its folds. How this tiny pistol — surely a stand-in for the heavier fire power waiting just inside the saloon — jumped to mind when assembling our humble bag I'll never know. I suspect Jon, king of vocabulary, was the first to utter the term.
We felt so lithe, so modern with our snappy little bag! As other parents wrestled with the straps and pockets of their carry-on-sized totes, we simply stuck in a paw and whipped out the perfect item. If it wasn't in the Derringer, we didn't need it.
But we got lazy. Slowly other items were tossed into the Derringer: an extra bottle plus formula, a knit hat, a wooden star perfect for teething. When Roxy started eating solid food, a jar of Stage 1 pureed squash plus purple plastic spoon joined the party. Sides swelling, the Derringer soon became the de facto diaper bag. No longer could we fish for the spoon without unearthing a rattle or SpongeBob bib. And we suddenly looked a lot like those other parents.
Six months later, the bag's seams split.
"We need a new Derringer," I said to Jon.
Sad to say, it was hard to find a Derringer after so spontaneously creating the first one. Bags were too girly for Jon or too knapsacky for me. Too big. Too trendy. Too many buckles.
Several despairing weeks later, I walked into Twerps, an Eagle Rock new-plus-used baby stuff emporium, to hunt for a pair of Roxy-appropriate shoes. In the back room — the Cheapo Den — I spotted it. Imported from India, or maybe just Artesia, the bag — essentially a three-dimensional rectangle — sported stiff, stitched leather and a single external pocket. Its handles were long enough to throw over the shoulder in a feminine way or drag around by hand in a masculine way. The price: $1.50.
"It's Derringer 2!" I yelped. Forgotten were the shoes. I snatched the bag off the rack, paid in cash, and ran outside to find Rox and Jon.