Baby Smashers
One of the good things about having young kids and living in North America is that just about everywhere you go nowadays, you can usually find a suitable place to change a baby.
There are lots of exceptions too, of course - but in general, most of the places you're likely to bring a small baby (malls, family-friendly restaurants, coffee shops, museums, libraries) will probably have a baby changing table in one or sometimes both of the public washrooms.
As an aside, it's kind of annoying that the norm is to find the changing table in the women's washroom, not in the men's. If you're the kind of Dad who enjoys trips out with the kids without their Mum from time to time, it can be very frustrating to head off to the loo in search of a changing table, only to discover this sticker:
...is only present on the door of the washroom you're not supposed to use. Changing stinky nappies is clearly still considered women's work by many restaurant and other business owners. Grrrr...
But that's not my real gripe here. You can always find somewhere to change junior in an emergency, even if it's nothing better than a clear patch of marble at the end of a row of sinks.
No; there's something else about these baby changing thingies that's bugging me today.
Most of the places that do, thoughtfully, provide a "diaper change station" will usually feature one or other of these fine products:
For obvious reasons, Charlie (6) and I habitually refer to these as "baby smashers" - a fact irrelevant to this story, but included here because it never fails to give him a chuckle.
Back to the point - we were in a nice downtown restaurant for lunch last weekend. Ruairi needed a change so I hitched him onto my hip and trucked off to the bog to do the necessary.
Pulling down the bed of the baby smasher, the first thing that struck me was the number of obvious cigarette burns scarring the grey ABS plastic - including one right next to where Ruairi's little head lay.
My brain did one of those full clarity rewind trips, and I realised that just about every single one of these tables I've used over the past six years of parenthood has had at least one prominent cigarette burn on it.
Since last weekend, I've made a point of checking the baby smashers in every public washroom I've been in. Every single one of them has had a cigarette burn. There's even a burn etched into the edge of the change table in the men's washroom at our local supermarket - an entirely smokefree building.
What the hell is going on with that, at all?
There are lots of exceptions too, of course - but in general, most of the places you're likely to bring a small baby (malls, family-friendly restaurants, coffee shops, museums, libraries) will probably have a baby changing table in one or sometimes both of the public washrooms.
As an aside, it's kind of annoying that the norm is to find the changing table in the women's washroom, not in the men's. If you're the kind of Dad who enjoys trips out with the kids without their Mum from time to time, it can be very frustrating to head off to the loo in search of a changing table, only to discover this sticker:
...is only present on the door of the washroom you're not supposed to use. Changing stinky nappies is clearly still considered women's work by many restaurant and other business owners. Grrrr...
But that's not my real gripe here. You can always find somewhere to change junior in an emergency, even if it's nothing better than a clear patch of marble at the end of a row of sinks.
No; there's something else about these baby changing thingies that's bugging me today.
Most of the places that do, thoughtfully, provide a "diaper change station" will usually feature one or other of these fine products:
For obvious reasons, Charlie (6) and I habitually refer to these as "baby smashers" - a fact irrelevant to this story, but included here because it never fails to give him a chuckle.
Back to the point - we were in a nice downtown restaurant for lunch last weekend. Ruairi needed a change so I hitched him onto my hip and trucked off to the bog to do the necessary.
Pulling down the bed of the baby smasher, the first thing that struck me was the number of obvious cigarette burns scarring the grey ABS plastic - including one right next to where Ruairi's little head lay.
My brain did one of those full clarity rewind trips, and I realised that just about every single one of these tables I've used over the past six years of parenthood has had at least one prominent cigarette burn on it.
Since last weekend, I've made a point of checking the baby smashers in every public washroom I've been in. Every single one of them has had a cigarette burn. There's even a burn etched into the edge of the change table in the men's washroom at our local supermarket - an entirely smokefree building.
What the hell is going on with that, at all?
