But Im also big on this idea of not overtaxing the planet. So when my husband and I entered into that now-or-never discussion about having kids, I wanted to get the diaper issue right out onto the table. I could not bring a child into the world knowing his dirty diapers would outlive him. Either we go with cloth, I said, or we go childless.

Acquaintances gently scoffed at my fervor, reminding me of my abiding talent for disorganization. I retaliated with fuzzy numbers on how much landfill would be composed of dirty diapers by 2000, how many forests would have fallen to baby poop. No plastic in these swaddling clothes, I vowed. My husband, perhaps not wanting to acknowledge that stinky diapers would be a byproduct of our bundle of joy, left this decision to me.

And that is how Hamish came into our lives. No, Hamish is not our son. He was our fey, some might say gay, diaper man. And he was to become an important part of that memory-rich period that surrounds a babys entry into Life.

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They knew I could never change. No matter how hard I have tried to look stony-faced and composed, I am reduced to a doubled-over, mascara-running heap at the merest hint of a poop joke. And if someone cuts one in public, forget it. I barely survive the experience. My family feared that my beloved would never change, either. And they were right. He's very good at the stony-faced thing when there's bathroom humor in the air and many years into our marriage, I still admire him for this.

When our son was born, I vowed that things would be different. Motherhood would force me to grow up. We all want better lives for our children: Instinct told me my son's life would be smoother if he did not find bodily functions cripplingly funny. At the very least, thought I, Mom must keep hidden this soiled Achilles heel in her own sense of humor.

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