Baby Bib Quotes

During the first break-in I grabbed a load of hangers and thought, 'Magic', I’ll be able to sell this stuff down the pub. But I’d forgotten to take a flashlight with me, and it turned out that the clothes I’d nicked were a bunch of babies’ bibs and toddlers’ underpants. I might as well have tried to sell a turd.

I got a P-touch labeler and labeled everything: places for diapers, bibs, onesies, pants, socks, crib sheets, binkies, pack ’n’ play sheets, baby wipes, changing table covers . . . Everything has a place, and that place was going to have a goddamn label on it.

My new apartment came with a Baby Shrine. In the closet of a second bedroom. Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" filling an entire shelf. Piles of rattles and dozens of bibs. Too much to describe in just six words. I invited a cute neighbor over to see. It wasn't a very good icebreaker. But young guys only get so smooth.

Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus For a rattle bag of broken Bach records Tack Della Francesca all over its crib Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

Babies! That’s all it’s about. Who ever knew the world would be all about babies?” Samantha shouts. “Every time I see a baby, I swear, I want to throw up,” Miranda says. “I did throw up once.” I nod eagerly. “I saw a filthy bib, and that was it.” “Why don’t these people just get cats and a litter box?” Samantha asks.

If you throw in Alviss, and the mist remains, who will you throw in next?” Balin pointed at a tall, burly man in bib-and-brace overalls. A farmer with a touch of the ’Walker. “You? Are you the cause for this? Let’s throw you in too, just to make sure.” He pointed at a woman, fat with a late baby. “Or you. Give the mist two sacrifices. What better offering than an unborn?” The woman wrapped her hands over her belly and took a step away. “Your most innocent and your most loved. That is what Hel wants, isn’t it? Nidhogg wants the tender flesh; let’s toss in your children.

As much as he influenced her, Bindi changed Steve, too. After our Florida trip, Bindi and I went home, while Steve flew off to the Indonesian island of Sumatra. We couldn’t accompany him because of the malaria risk, so we kept the home fires burning instead. At one point, Steve was filming with orangutans when his newfound fatherhood came in handy. A local park ranger who had worked with the national park’s orangutans for twenty-five years accompanied Steve into the rain forest, where they encountered a mother and baby orangutan. The rangers keep a close eye on the orangutans to prevent poaching, and the ranger recognized a lot of the animals by sight. “She reminds me of Bindi,” Steve exclaimed, seeing the infant ape. It was a mischievous, happy baby, clinging to her mother way up in the top branches of a tree. “This will be great to film,” Steve said. “I’ll climb into the tree, and then you can get me and the orangutans in the same shot.” The ranger waved his hands, heading Steve off. “You absolutely can’t do that,” the ranger said. “The mother orangutans are extremely protective. If you make a move anywhere near that tree, she’ll come down and pull your arms off.” Steve paused to listen. “They are very strong,” the ranger said. “She won’t tolerate you in her tree.” “I won’t climb very close to her,” Steve said. “I’ll just go a little way up. Then the camera can shoot up at me and get her in the background.” The ranger looked doubtful. “Okay, Steve,” he said. “But I promise you, she will come down out of that tree and pull your head off.” “Don’t worry, mate,” Steve said confidently, “she’ll be right.” He climbed into the tree. Down came the mother, just as the ranger had predicted. Tugging, pulling, and dragging her baby along behind her, she deftly made her way right over to Steve. He didn’t move. He sat on his tree limb and watched her come toward him. The crew filmed it all, and it became one of the most incredible shots in documentary filmmaking. Mama came close to Steve. She swung onto the same tree limb. Then she edged her way over until she sat right beside him. Everyone on the crew was nervous, except for Steve. Mama put her arm around Steve’s shoulders. I guess the ranger was right, Steve thought, wondering if he would be armless or headless in the very immediate future. While hanging on to her baby, Mama pulled Steve in tight with her other arm, looked him square in the face, and…started making kissy faces at him. The whole crew busted up laughing as Mama puckered up her lips and looked lovingly into Steve’s eyes. “You’ve got a beautiful little baby, sweetheart,” Steve said softly. The baby scrambled up the limb away from them, and without taking her eyes off Steve, the mother reached over, grabbed her baby, and dragged the tot back down. “You’re a good mum,” Steve cooed. “You take good care of that little bib-bib.” “I have never seen anything like that,” the park ranger said later. I had to believe that the encounter was further evidence of the uncanny connection Steve had with the wildlife he loved so much, as well as one proud parent recognizing another.

she asked me if I could autograph her baby’s bib. Since the baby was wearing it at the

But didn’t you love that ‘take off their bibs and buckle on their tool belts’ bit? Liz’d be great here because the AUUCC is such a wine-and-cheese-tasting society.” “I actually found that ‘tool belt’ business offensive,” said Adrian. “It implies that anyone who doesn’t volunteer is a baby who can’t feed herself. But some people wear a tool belt all week, and they come to church worn out, in need of spiritual replenishment.” “To call any church ‘a wine-and-cheese-tasting society’ is degrading,” said Charlotte. “For some single and older people, church is their social life—and that’s a very important function churches serve.

I was going to try making some bibs. I never realized how much babies spit up. She’s constantly leaking from one end or the other.” As he spoke, I noticed a telltale white stain on the front of his shirt. “Speaking of, you seem to have a little on your shirt.” He looked down at his chest, licked his thumb, and tried to wipe away the stain. “Ah well.” He shrugged, giving up and flashing me a cockeyed grin. “Spit-up happens.

When I visit Maggie's farm on Monday, she takes me from field to field in her pickup truck, showing me the fruit they just started harvesting for the summer markets: yellow Sentry peaches, white nectarines, red plums, baby apricots. We spin past patches of Chantenay carrots and orchards of Honeycrisp apples, both of which they'll pick later in the season, after the raspberries, the canes already bursting with ruby and gold fruit. Back in April, the peach trees bore masses of fluffy, sweet-smelling pink blossoms, but now dozens of fuzzy, round fruits hang from their branches like Christmas ornaments, the ripe ones so juicy you can't eat them without wearing a bib.

Through the course of my life, I’ve attended a lot of different churches. From time to time I would hear murmurings in some of those congregations, something along the lines of, “I’m just not being fed spiritually here.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard those exact words, no matter where I attended church. Such a strange concept to me. Whenever I heard it, I was always a little tempted to tie a bib around the person’s neck and twist open a jar of baby food. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It also struck me that the person making that statement was somehow implying he or she was just oh-so-much-more spiritual than the pastor of the church. Okay. I suppose that’s entirely possible. But let’s be honest. Is your spiritual health your pastor’s responsibility, or is it yours? Because I’ve always thought of the whole church and Sunday message experience as so much icing on the cake. But it’s my responsibility to make that cake. I’m responsible for my own spiritual growth, and so are you.