Julie Jay: We have all experienced our own '17 diapers' moment
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This week, a Utah mother called Hannah, went TikTok viral for a video where she documented herself picking up the many used disposable diapers — or nappies — lying around her home, following 24 hours spent solo parenting.
In the end, Hannah accumulated 17 soiled diapers, which she had folded neatly like little chicken fillet wraps. Despite quickly amassing 96,000 likes, the comments were initially overwhelmingly negative, Hannah informed the American publication magazine.
And then something interesting happened. Women in their droves started posting their own ‘17 diapers’ moments, moments that had led to guilt, even shame in themselves as mothers. Women began sharing the moments they felt they had failed as parents, and I’m sure I’m not the only one feeling a sense of relief in response to this trend. Reading about these mothers’ moments of perceived failure, I couldn’t help but think how empowering it would be if we were all a little more honest about our failures and triumphs.
Of course, 17 nappies is a considerable amount of nappies to leave lying around, but I am no-one to talk, given I was once caught short minus a nappy bag somewhere between Barack Obama Plaza and the Red Cow Inn and ended up leaving a soiled nappy under my driver’s seat for a good fortnight before finally locating the odour source.
Before anybody questions how it took me so long to find my parcel of poo, in my defence, it was silage season. I was convinced the odour emanated from agricultural endeavours rather than inches from my bottom.
Admittedly I should have probably copped the call was coming from ‘inside the house’ when the smell worsened when I closed the window, but hindsight is 20/20. We all have moments of dropping the ball (or the nappy), but most of us wouldn’t have the digital transparency to document it for millions of viewers to react to.
The truth is, even when it comes to my friends whose parenting skills I most admire, it is in the moments we admit to making mistakes that I feel truly connected to them. Sometimes, I will test the waters, dipping my toe into pools of truth in the hope I can offload my guilt in a safe space where we are all being real with one another.
“I was so exhausted after solo parenting five days in a row last December, I played three times in one day,” I once told a friend, who barely blinked before scoffing at my amateur attempt at lifting the veil.
“That’s nothing. I once played five times for my fellas in one day when the baby had colic,” she informed me, stirring her flat white — the petrol of millennial parents up and down the land.
After a moment of internal negging, I came clean: “Maybe it was four times watching , And it might have been July.”
Again, this friend didn’t bat an eyelid as she said: “Well, if we’re being honest here, it may have been six viewings of , but who’s counting?”
The main difference between guilt and shame is the depth of feeling. Guilt pertains to knowing we could have done something better — we could have spent more time playing Hot Wheels or been less exasperated when we discovered our make-up bag ransacked for the third week in a row.
But shame is something something deeper. Shame tells us that not only did we do something bad, but we are bad. It is a dangerous thought to take hold in the mind of any woman post-partum because no matter how terrible somebody else makes us feel about something, you can be guaranteed we have already been even harder on ourselves.
Needless to say, gender plays a huge part here. When was the last time we heard of dad guilt or dad shaming? Though many fathers spend less time with their kids, mothers are still expected to share the emotional weight of maintaining what has to be as close as possible to domestic perfection.
Unsurprisingly, Hannah’s next video showed her cleaning up, baby in hand. But what caught my attention, as with many commentators, was her husband lying on the couch as she vacuumed around him. In the follow-up People magazine interview, Hannah was quick to absolve her husband of blame when it came to the 17 diaper situation, explaining he had gone on an overnight hunting trip that had been a long time in the planning.
And with this, the picture of what had unfolded became clearer: while her husband was playing Bear Grylls trying to catch turkeys, she was changing nappies — 17 times. She was feeding a baby and caring for their needs in each and every one of those moments, and maybe that was enough.
If any husband-hunter types are out there, may I suggest a new hobby you can do from the comfort of your home: hide and seek and it basically involves seeking the nappies hiding in plain sight. Or maybe nappy-ball — a game I recently introduced to my other half, where the goal is to throw a (sealed) nappy into the bin from a safe distance. Surely, the thrill of the kill can be no bigger than the thrill of tying a sailor’s knot in a nappy bag after a particularly loose number-two. Fewer guns, more runs, I say.
It is surely only a matter of time before nappy-ball becomes an Olympic sport, so it’s best to stay home and get shooting those hoops in time for LA 2028 if any of us is to stand a chance of bringing home gold for diaper disposal.
Better still, it will make your wife’s life a little easier in the process, with less nappy and more happiness. For all these tips and more, you are welcome.