If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill, as God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!

That line is from Gone with the Wind. I'm not that dramatic.

Okay, you caught me. I really am that dramatic. But the fact is that I don't think we've gone to a single doctor in months. Can you believe it? MONTHS. Bumble is still small, but she eats almost like a regular 23-month-old now. That is, if a typical 23-month-old wishes to subsist solely on french fries, Coke, and red Jell-O, but instead is forced to eat a lot of turkey, applesauce, and pasta.

Actually, I think that *IS* pretty typical. You know what's not typical? Her amazing good looks that far outstrip ANY OTHER KID EVER ON THE PLANET (OR EXTRATERRESTRIAL). Oh yeah, baby.



It's amazing when I think about it. A year has gone by since I last updated this blog, and in that year our lives have changed 180 degrees for the better. We didn't get a feeding tube. Instead, we got our lives back when we realized Bumble had allergies and changed her diet. That was it. All the heartache, all the fear: It's a memory now. A horrible memory that still haunts me when I pick up someone else's two-month old and realize they weigh the same amount Bumble did at one year old. When I admit that I will never again trust a doctor enough to take their advice at face value. When I evaluate what the havoc that the stress wreaked on Bumble's Dad and I and our bond. One day, I'll write a book.

But until then, I'd like to take a minute to thank God and to share some of the amazing memories that NOT living that way has allowed us to create with Bumble in the last year.



June 2008


July 2008


August 2008


September 2008



October 2008


November 2008


December 2008


January 2009


February 2009


March 2009


April 2009


May 2009


June 2009

Doc Rockstar

That's right, we're talking "ALTERNATIVE" medicine. *guitar riff* If I were a doctor, I'd totally go into an alternative field. There is just something so deliciously unbalanced about someone who goes through about twenty years of rigorous scientific schooling only to decide, "You know what, screw it, I really think hot rocks and seaweed are the penicillin of the future."

My mother-in-law called today and began the conversation with, "I did something for Bumble, and you can kill me later." That has one of the less desirable ways to start a conversation with your mother-in-law. It turns out her only transgression was taking the liberty of making Bumble a chiropractic appointment without asking me first. And offering to pay for it. The woman is a monster, I tell you!

No problems here. A close friend of my family's is a chiropractor so I'm very comfortable with it. That said, some of them are a little kooky, which is why I love to tease her about the hot rocks. The last one I went to see told me, among other sage advice, that "Sugar is a breeding ground for all disease. If people stopped eating sugar there would be no illness." What, none? And to think I had been under the impression that illness was caused by things like genes, and germs, and viruses. No, ladies and gentlemen, it's sugar. So the next time you catch cancer, you will be cursing the brownie that did you in with its evil fudgy temptation.

In any case, this chiropractor apparently says he has had some success with children that don't eat by adjusting them. Bumble's surgery is scheduled to place her feeding tube, so I am working hard on accepting this rather than torturing myself envisioning possible 11th hour "miracle cures". I don't have high expectations for the visit, but I'm also willing to try it. It won't kill her. Although, you know when you get adjusted and the doctor cracks your neck at the end by giving your head a sharp twist to each side? I totally envision that killing me every time.

The Land of Nod

This morning I was busy in the kitchen because, you know, I'm all domestic and stuff, when I heard Bumble start to whimper in the other room. I looked at the clock and determined it was about time for her morning nap, but for the next five minutes I continued baking my apple pie and stenciling the pastel flower border ... Okay, you got me. I finished eating my bowl of Frosted Flakes, breakfast of champions, before I went in to get her.

She had fallen asleep right on the floor. At first I felt a twinge of Mommy guilt, which was quickly replaced by the thought, "OMGZ YESSS SHE WENT TO SLEEP ON HER OWN!" I have recently been struck by the fearful realization that my 9 month old still needs a mouthful of boob every time she goes to sleep. It must be so hard to be a baby, huh? Someone even helps you sleep. I started wondering if I would still be chained to this bedtime routine when she was two ... or twelve. Luckily it looks like there is still hope. Plus, she's so cute when she's sleeping.



Awww ...



Awww ...



"HAHA TRICKD U, I IZ WIDE AWAKE!"

You Down with Mashed Peas Peas?

We just got back from our yellow brick road trip to the GI. After making a big deal about how he always runs on time, I was late. Bumble threw up in her car seat and I forgot that the pieces were still disassembled in the dryer until it was time to go. Even as I was struggling to align the little plastic buckle pieces and cursing the one long strap that must be fed through twenty-six openings in under sixty seconds, I had to admit: it really is ingenious how simply it's made. I guess that's why it was available for $60 at Evil Sprawl-Mart. Should I worry about that?

Actually, I have enough to worry about. Oz is pushing for the feeding tube, but will wait to consult with the Speech Therapist, the Notorious Kay, ST. I feel she has earned her honorary rap title (although I'm not sure why *I* would be qualified to bestow it) by making a career out of singing and entertaining babies to encourage them to eat. I know she does other things, but at our appointments, that's basically the job.

You down with mashed peas peas?
We down with mashed peas peas!

Errrbody in the club drinkin' sippy!

Those are extrapolations. But still, you get the gist. Anyway, I'm not too thrilled about this prospect of a feeding tube. I've been avoiding it for the past few months since the first time it was mentioned. I want more tests done. I want SOMEONE to give me a freaking answer for why Bumble is so unenthusiastic about eating. An anorexic baby is simply not normal. But Oz says that sometimes these kids (those who have few issues except a mysterious aversion to food) have every test in the book, and they NEVER figure out the problem. I'm not sure what to do.

The Great and Powerful Oz

Yes, that's what I'm going to start calling Bumble's GI. We have been granted a special audience the day after tomorrow.

Now, the doctor has never been anything but polite and professional with me. In fact, the way that he runs his practice should stand as a gleaming paradigm for medical offices everywhere: ON TIME. He's always busy. His staff scurries around: quick, knowledgeable and efficient. They are slavishly attentive; why, they return phone calls within the hour! Overseeing the operation of his gastroentestinal Emerald City is Dr. Oz! (No, not Oprah's lap dog in blue scrubs.)

Actually, I dreamed up this whole thing because a few of Bumble's other specialists have mentioned his name in a sort of "Uh-oh, Dr. Oz is not going to like that" way, which makes me wonder if he is a difficult guy to work with behind the scenes. My brother-in-law is actually doing his clinicals there at the hospital this quarter for nursing school, but he hasn't worked with Dr. Oz so my wild speculations remained unconstrained.

Seriously? I get to see the Man Behind the Curtain because Bumble hasn't gained weight in a month and a half. I've had to wait over a month to get an appointment, so the fact that the secretary nearly insisted I come in on Thursday makes me a little apprehensive of what he will say. We were at the Pediatrician today, who ordered a few labs to be repeated and suggested we try soy formula.

Poor little Munchkin! (Sorry, I couldn't help myself.)

The Infant's Palate

"Hack Splutter Cough!"

I race from the kitchen to discover what delectable crumb or irresistible speck of paper 8-month-old Bumble has decided to choke on this time. Every day I can look forward to jamming my finger into her mouth to fish around for refuse a good six thousand times or so. Dust bunnies, wrappers, thread: scrumptious! Hair balls, price tags, cat food: delicacies!

No matter how often I vacuum, Bumble fills her days with elaborate military reconnaissance missions to search and destroy the one forgotten, fuzzy cheerio from under the edge of the sofa. It's funny that my anorexic baby can't seem to find the time or inclination to eat an actual meal, but she's so very eager to put everything in her mouth.

On a positive note, she did maul a strawberry to death this afternoon. That's progress, right?