Walked in the door yesterday from a long winter's leadership retreat to the one invitation that would get me out of the house. Jill's husband was watching offspring one through four while she made the trek to the big Wal Mart and wondered if I would join her and baby Chachi for shopping and burritos. Since I had yet to meet little Chaz and our time together is fading (Jill and company are moving to Virginia in a few weeks), I went.
Jill has decided (and I say this with her blessing) to try out every crunchy granola parenting trick on this her last baby. She is using a sling with wee Chuck IV.
Chiz-arlie is a hilariously goregous boy. I tend to agree that babies tend to look like old men, and Carlos is no exception. He is unusually alert and expressive for 2.5 months. He also, and I say this also with permission, has the hair of a troll doll.
So Chachi does not nestle unseen into the sling, but sits up, alert to the human carnival that is Wal Mart. Hair and all.
Now of all the freaks in the Wal Mart, somehow Jill causes a ruckus with her sling encased baby. We we stopped or spoken of on every other aisle. "Look at that baby thing!" (Jill, they did not call Charles a baby thing, I am sure it was the sling.) "Hey! Can I get the phone number from your carrier!?". Jill was a rock star. A mother of five, cordoroy jacket and khaki baby sling rock star. And I was with the band.
I had just shared the rock star feeling with my bosom friend when another couple looked in shock and approached as if to comment. I smiled and nodded addressing a comment yet unmade. "Yes," I thought, "My friend has a sling. It encourages parent child bonding. You do know that Cindy Crawford has one, do you not?"
Then the couple drew just close enough for us to hear them say, "Boy, that baby sure has funny hair!".
"Please, when you blog of this, and I know you shall. Blog kindly."
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