This is what my changing bag looks like at the end of the day. It’s not pretty (even Instagram can’t work that miracle). Is it a reflection of my day? Chaotic. Disorganised. Overfilled. Probably. Am I proud of it. Most definitely. My theory is like a messy kitchen is the sign of a great party, an unruly changing bag is a sign of a great day out.
That’s not to say I don’t get bag envy. I read blog posts where more organised mummies share the neatly packed contents of their changing bags and crave their carefully considered and minimalist approach. Just enough wipes decanted into nifty plastic travel containers. A carefully calculated number of nappies folded to perfection so they fit discretely in a precisely allocated inner compartment (can someone share this nappy equation with me please?) A neat container of snacks. Not a snotty tissue or banana skin in sight. It’s all very pretty. Very aspirational. But oh so unachievable for me.
In my bag there are nappies crammed into every crevice (far too many due to my OCD-like habit of always grabbing an extra couple every time I leave the house.) There are half empty packs of wipes lurking in its cavernous depths (I have an annoying tendency to restock early and then favour the new pack before the last pack is empty.) There’s guaranteed to be a few tissues spilling out of pockets, tubes of hand sanitiser I thought I’d lost, bottles of every potion conceivable (for the girls and me), snacks of the nutritious and bribery-friendly variety (some a little past their best) and more embarrassing personal items that are guaranteed to get a little too outwardly visible at the worst possible moment. But these are the items I can’t leave the house without. It’s not streamlined but it’s reassuring. I never know what treasures I might find when I need them most – a tube of Savlon in the event of a fall, a second (and usually wholly unnecessary) spare outfit that saves the day when there’s an exceedingly unlucky second poop explosion during an outing… you get the idea.
So rather than get hung up about the shameful state of my bag inners (and what it may or may not say about my state of mind), I’m embracing its bulging contents. You see, pre-children I was just the same. The badge on my shoulder-wear may have said Mulberry and my bags may have been chosen purely to accessorise outfits to perfection but within the gloriously soft leather it wasn’t remotely stylish. Inside lurked a clutter of lipsticks, mini mascaras, small change and hair grips. And tissues. There are always tissues. There are some things not even children can change about you.
This post was inspired by (and is an entry for) Pink Lining’s Ambassador Search, because I’m always on the lookout for a new designer bag to conceal the chaos within.