the one where I confess I only see pediatricians that look like Mel Gibson

Allow me to explain.

Ella is 5 months and 1 week old. She weighs 20.8 pounds. She's fee-at. ( Can you say Hulk Baby?). She's also te-all. I don't know how tall because she won't be still long enough for me to find out.

She does things: She rolls over (prolly case she's fee-at). She holds toys and examines them carefully (trying to figure out if they're edible). In both hands (because when you move it from hand to hand it changes). She grabs food from my plate (She wants to eat. Bad. But we are waiting until she can sit. Which might be forever. More on that later.) She plays with her tongue, sticking it out and sucking on it (also because I presume she thinks it's food). She drools (profusely). She screeches (loudly). She nurses (frequently). She sleeps (occasionally).

She tries to sit up.


She can't (that's why this is blurry, because her punkin head drags the rest of her body over).

The grabby hands.

Fully functioning (Grab. Grab. Grab.).

Rolly poly. Rolling. Over.
Note: Bib. Excessive drool. And by excessive I mean the front of her shirt was so wet with drool I could have squeezed it out then washed the load of laundry with it.


Anyway. There's Ella Bella (her middle name is Grace. For the record.). She's made of butter. And sugar.

And she's on a personal mission to make sure I accomplish absolutely nothing.

And she is awesome in every way.

And she hasn't seen a pediatrician since she was one day old.

When she was one day old we took her to a great doc in a city nearyby to be checked over for any shoulder/clavicle issues she may have had left over from her, shall we say, tight fit. Since then we haven't even considered taking her. People may wonder why.

There are a few reasons for this:

1. She's clearly healthy. I have at least enough medical training as a RN to recognize this. But more importantly, she is my fourth child. I've been there done that.
2. I don't give a rip what the growth chart says (it would say she's fee-at).
3. We aren't fully vaccinating. In fact, presently, we aren't vaccinating at all. Until I've done enough research to know what is going into her and why. And when we do it'll be on our own schedule. Three injections in one day is not happening (don't call CPS).
4. He doesn't look like Mel Gibson (FTR I think Mel Gibson is a jerk. But in 1995 I felt otherwise. Read on.)

When I had my first baby I was 21 years old. Young by most standards. And I took her to the pediatrician for every. single. age. appropriate. visit. She had every physician recommended vaccine right on time. And I did precisely everything he told me to do. For two reasons: A. Because he was smart and kind and the closest thing to a holistic doc I'd ever met (it was he who said the varicella vax was overrated). I trusted him and listened to him. He gave great advice like limit sugar and air your house out when your kids are sick. He told me to get her out of daycare when she was plagued with repeated ear infections to the point that I could no longer remember a time she wasn't taking antibiotics and I was buying echinacea by the gallon. And when it became clear she might need tubes he was willing to wait it out. Good thing because she escaped without them. Oh and B. He was KEY-UTE (Mel Gibson. First Lethal Weapon. That kind of cute. Now stop judging me it was 1995. That look was in. Sheesh.)

Anyway time marched on. More kids were born. And they got sick. And we went to the doc. And I found out that every time we went to the doc they seemed to get sick from being AT THE DOC. And it was Hell. Capital H. Plus the doc was mean. And he didn't look ANYTHING like Mel Gibson. The nerve. Eventually their super duper superhero immune systems kicked in pretty dern good and they stopped getting so sick I thought someone might die (most likely me) (now that I've said that they're all going to get the plague. Tomorrow.) SO we stopped going entirely. And they're healthy. Aside from the occasional emergency thing or incurable skin rash we just don't go. (ask my kids, I've been known to try to use breastmilk to cure everything from an earache to skin rash to eye infection {also, I'm not crazy, it actually works.})

This baffles people.

I still love my children. I swear. If the ped looked like Hugh Jackman I still wouldn't go.

Now I have to go get absolutely nothing done because Ella is drooling all over the keyboard.

Ella Bella

Ok it's not Ella's turn for a blog post featuring her but I. Am. Dying. Here.

Last week my friend Staci and I got together (as we do on Tuesdays because it's the only day she's not in nursing school and I'm not running kids all over creation) and we took some pictures of Ella. She is 4 months and 1 week old which is in no way a milestone but you know I have four kids so whatever. Don't you judge me for not even having a baby book.

Please.

Anyway can I just say. Oh. My. God. Staci is great with the camera but how could you go wrong with this subject matter.

Without further adieu, I present to you, my readers, the. Cutest. Baby. Ever.

I swear to god she's made of butter. And sugar.

Yup. She's in a basket.

And just as this was being taken she actually rolled over for the first time. I'm sure she could have rolled over before but frankly she's never on the floor long enough.

I took this while Staci made goofy sounds.

Don't be fooled, she can't sit up. Also she peed on my bed.

Super baby.

This flower is bigger than her head. Ella, I apologize. It's too cute.

Biological clocks engage.

If you thought you were done having children, I apologize. This baby might make you want another one.

the eyes have it

This is a story about not getting what you want. And why that's a good thing sometimes.

1986. Legwarmers were in fashion. Hairspray was all the rage. Kids used to breakdance on cardboard. There was a thing called a "boombox".

It was a dark time.

I lost the district spelling bee. The word was exon. It's not spelled with two X's. Please see definition here. Please note: Spell check does NOT even recognize that as a word. Also if I had asked them to use it in a sentence I would have known they didn't mean the oil corporation. I'm bitter about it. But one good thing did come out of that humbling loss. The boy that would grow into a man and become my husband some 24 years later won... the bee, and my heart.

It was these that got me:

The eyes. The breathtaking eyes.

I said to my friend, "Friend, did you see that guy with the blue eyes? Who is he? He is SOOOOO cute." (This is a paraphrase. I was 11, my memory isn't that good.)

I was intrigued by the Gulf of Mexico Pacific ocean blue. Probably because I'd been looking in a mirror at these:

Brown. Or some shade of it.

(This was taken at our wedding by the way. Please note: Wrinkles. Many.)

Fast forward...

24 years later we got married.

And here we are. Blue. Brown.

There is nothing wrong with brown eyes. Not. A. Thing. I got mine from my dad.

This is him:

And me. I'm the pregnant one.

I always wanted blue though. Which is probably why I picked a blue eyed man. Genetics be damned.

Now, I don't know how much you know about Mendel. But in the event you don't have time to re-learn eight grade biology, let me just tell you the odds of me having a blue eyed baby aren't great. Given that my grandmothers both have blue eyes but both my parents have brown. Not too good at all.

I got pregnant. We went to see the midwife and she asked me, "Did you put in your order for those blue eyes?"

Yes. Yes I did thank you very much.

This wasn't the first or last time the topic would come up during the pregnancy. Though the Man never said anything but he hoped she looked just like me, the overwhelming public opinion was that she ought to get her dad's eyes. And when Ella was born the first question I'd usually get (after the person heard she was born in the kitchen and weighed 10 and a half pounds and after they had fully recovered from the cardiac arrest I'd just given them with that news) was, "Are her eyes blue like her dad's?"

The short answer. No.

They started out that way, but I had my doubts from the beginning. In fact every baby I've given birth to has STARTED that way. I've got a hazel (my eldest). A brown that is just like mine (my middle, who looks just like me too). And a color that is hard to describe. A kind of two toned blue and brown (that's little Owen, who isn't little at all anymore). And there's Ella.

They aren't brown. Yet. But they are going to be. I'm like 99.97% sure. (Also I'm pretty sure she has her dad's eyebrows.)

The day I figured this out was the day I looked at her eyes and realized that they weren't getting any more blue. And I was sad, I'll admit. I said sullenly to the Man, "Man, the baby is going to have brown eyes." And I apologized to the baby for being genetically dominant. "Baby, I'm sorry your mommy made it nearly impossible for you to get your dad's awesome eyes."

I felt bad for being sullen about it.

The Man said to me, "Don't you apologize to her for getting your beautiful brown eyes."

Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Not everyone thinks blue is better than brown.

Also he loves my ears. The ears I was endlessly tormented for those as a kid. Whaddya know? I married someone who thinks they are cute. Adorable even.

Crazy.

In a way I'm grateful that Ella's eyes are going to probably end up brown. When I look at her and I see my own eyes looking back at me, it makes it a little easier to love the brown. And the ears. The fact is, odds are, she's got those too.

Lucky kid.

And I hope she's lucky (and smart) enough to end up with a Man who loves her brown eyes too.

Tuesdays with Ella... or Ellawearing

Recently my dear, sweet husband went back to work. I should amend this to say he went back to work AWAY from home. See, he is a programmer (At least that's what he says he is, as far as I can tell he just types all day. No I'm kidding. He works.... I think.). Essentially all of his work could be done from the sofa. Nice, right? Nice. Nice for a couple of reasons (here I go with the numbered lists again). 1. I love him and I get to see him all day 2. He cooks (really well. Honey, if you're reading this can we have chicken chow mein?) and 3. Our DD (that's short for dumb dog not dear daughter) would probably starve if he was gone everyday.

In any case, while he is home a few days a week (working on the couch, I'm really trying to work on my envy problem), his job necessitates some travel for a couple of days a week (Because otherwise the HUGE Internet Company he works for, I'm not naming names but it's HUGE. That's all.) might doubt that he actually exists in human form. So he drives some distance for a couple of days a week to show his face and do some social work (and by social work I mean it's not unheard of that there might be cake and champagne in the office. I can't tell you where he works because EVERYONE would want to work at a place that has this much fun). Anyway because Huge Internet Company isn't in the tiny valley town we live in when he works away from home he is actually AWAY from home. Now, because the children (aside from the one attached to me) are with their father right now (not him, duh.) Ella and I are left to our own devices for those days he is gone. Which gives me loads and loads of time to do... well... not much. This brings me to my point... (it look a long time to get there I acknowledge)

Ellawearing. Known to people with babies of other names as "______(insert your baby's name here) wearing". This is not a new or revolutionary concept I realize. Oh sure now we have companies that sell devices for mothers such as myself (you may find my favorites here and here) but I might share with you that this has been done for years. Probably millions of them. My great granny herself told stories of picking cotton with a baby strapped to here ala The Grapes of Wrath or to take it even further back to her Native American ancestors who wrapped their babies tightly and tied them to themselves for the purposes of hunting, gathering and trying to get away from the White Man (I can say this because though I am genetically mostly White (Wo)Men I am also Cherokee and Creek Indian). Moving on, what surprises me most about Ellawearing is not the loads of things I can get done but rather the number of people who look at me like I'm an enigma. It may be partly where I live. There aren't many hippies (or liberals) here. Homebirth is insane. People that tandem nurse are crazy. Families that ride their bikes instead of using their cars are weird. Mom's that babywear are rarely seen and therefore must be a. co-dependant b. a hippy c. insane or d. a liberal (not that we'd recognize one). We should probably move. Oh well anyway, another blog for another day. So it's partly where I live but I think it's mostly just that I kind of am an enigma. I told the cashier in Panera that I had my baby at home and she replied "Like, on purpose?" Yes. Indeed. Anyway.

Ella is 5 weeks old Sunday. We have been to 1. Panera Bread. 2. Whole Foods. 3. Trader Joe's. 4. Walmart (more than I'd care to admit) 5. Target 6. Out to dinner to various restaurants etc etc etc and I'm proud to say Ella's infant carrier carseat has never, not once even, left the car. Her stroller (I'm pretty sure we have one) is somewhere in the carhole (I didn't make that up, my husband says that's French for garage). I have worn Ella to eat, shop, vacuum, fold laundry, make the bed, make breakfast, lunch and dinner, clean, tidy, chase other children, attend back to school night and even go to the bathroom (that last one may be taking it a little far I realize but hey, a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do to facilitate use of the facility). Anyway, this is nothing new to me, I was a fan of Dr. Sears before I even knew Dr. Sears existed, before the internet and before there was a book that said you were... wait for it... supposed to wear your baby. I can't say when the concept of Attachement Parenting was first so aptly named but I can say I did it before I knew there were books to tell you how. Because it just seemed like what you were supposed to do.

Back to granny. She was born in 1908. She weighed 12 pounds and didn't get a name until she was 3 months old. My granny wasn't a touchy feely lady at all. She chewed tobacco and drank wine from a box (white zinfandel no less, she wouldn't have recognized a good Cabernet if it hit her int he face). She wore pants and used a circular saw. She pulled weeds until she lost her fingernails. She actually cooked food on a stove that used FIRE. Fire I tell you. She read the bible and she believed firmly in the use of a fly swatter for discipline if she couldn't get to you with her bare hand (see: Spare the Rod Spoil the Child) but she knew how to attachment parent. No one told her how. She nursed cause she had to, who else was going to feed them kids. She wore her babies because, hey that cotton wasn't picking itself. She responded to their needs because, well crying was kind of annoying. She was born at home and gave birth at home because it just "didn't make no sense" to go to the hospital, plus if she left who was going to behead and fry the chicken. Period.

It seems simple to me. You make a baby. You nurture it in your body. You do what you can to give him or her the best start. You birth it safely (you know at home [I'll admit I'm partial to that option] or the hospital or wherever you see fit). Then you love it. How do you love it? Well you keep it close to you. You co-sleep or adopt the family bed policy. You breastfeed. You respond to cries and needs, you know like changing diapers and stuff that moms and dads do (ok mostly moms I guess). So if you want to do all that, because you want your baby to have the best start, it seems pretty logical that you'd just put your baby on you.

So why do people look at me like I just stepped off the crazy train? Well I suspect because they don't know why I'm keeping my baby so close. So I tell them. And usually they say "Wow. That's neat. Where did you get that thing?" Or something like that. Hm. Neat. I like it. Granny would be proud. Except that I buy my chicken at the store. That would just tick her off.

This is Ella @ 2 weeks of age. Where she belongs :)