When I was pregnant, I watched A Baby Story with fervor bordering on obsession. My interest was mostly research-based: I learned of all the different events and difficulties that can accompany labor and send a woman's "birth plan" (a misnomer if not an oxymoron) ricocheting in a new, unexpected direction. I observed how women behaved while in labor and made promises to myself about what I would and would not do when my turn came. (As arrogant and foolish as it was to judge some of these women without having been in their shoes. . .er, stirrups, I can honestly report that I made good on all of these promises. I did not hit anyone, screech like something out of The Exorcist, or tell Brian that I hated him.) I'll admit, I also enjoyed the show as a sort of confidence boost: no matter how terribly my labor went, at least I wouldn't cope as badly as that woman did. Ah, schadenfreude.
There was one episode, however, that came back to me vividly after Xander was born and his true, gargantuan size revealed. An excited new dad runs out to the waiting room to announce the happy news of his son's birth to waiting family, and delivers the news in approximately these words: ". . .and he's seven pounds three ounces--a big boy!" A big boy?! Perhaps if you are from a family of jockeys or gymnasts seven three qualifies as big. But in the larger world with the rest of us, big, small and in between, seven three is pretty average. Sorry, Dad.
I readily admit that size is relative, or, more accurately, that perceptions of size are relative. (That baby was seven pounds three ounces no matter how you sliced it (like Solomon? Poor choice of words, Anna), but if that baby is perceived as big or small depends on a lot on who is doing the perceiving.) Most immediately, size and our perception depends a lot on the baby's mom; an eight-pound baby is huge for a very petite woman to deliver but not so noteworthy for a mom who's 6'1". Once baby is out in the world, I know that "big" still operates on a sliding scale calibrated by past experience. In the interest of clarity on my blog, though, I would like to assert some objective standards for "big."
Most specifically, when I say "big," I mean HUGE. I mean a baby who is off the charts, whose plotted height and weight float like a constellation above the smooth curve of normal babies. These babies interest me because they experience the dilemmas and joys of abnormal size most acutely. Of course, I also favor these babies because their experience mirrors my own. Naturally, I am partial to these big babies because I have one. Before any moms get their prefolds in a bunch, I am in no way claiming that big babies are better, only that I have a soft spot for them because I understand their journey. I feel fondly for big babies the same way I do for any little boy close to my son's age, or a child with blue eyes or dimples; it is because they remind me of my precious little one.
In a broader sense, I think many of the "truisms" I relate here are true for any larger-than-average baby. Anytime you start skidding down the far slope of the bell curve, you will experience what life is like outside the majority. A 70th percentile baby may not run up against all of the issues I discuss here, but certainly some of them will be familiar. Any time I can shed some light on what seems like a frustrating or exclusionary childhood experience ("What do you mean I can't play on the playplace?" Oh my heavens, someone needs to pay for my therapy), I'm happy to have offered some advice or at least the solace of camaraderie: you are big, but you are not big and alone.
The one thing I do not mean by "big" is "overweight" or "obese." I know that childhood obesity is a growing and troubling problem in our country, and while I feel for those families struggling with it, I am afraid I can't offer much help. The sort of embarrassment and teasing that accompanies being taller than average is worlds different from the harassment and bullying that overweight children endure. I have no experience in the latter arena and the issue is serious enough that I'm not even sure I'd feel comfortable dealing with it. Obesity is life-threatening and requires medical intervention. Being tall or off-the-charts is not a health problem. It is not fixable (nor should it be) and therefore children must learn to cope with and accept it. Also, being "big" in the sense of tall and strong has decided advantages, a light-at-the-end of the tunnel promise that kids being teased for their weight can't hold on to for reassurance.
I suppose I have to take issue with my own choice of terminology. Growing up, I hated being called "big." I felt it was a euphemism for "fat." In fact, as a mid-elementary school student, I thought that I had been overly chubby as a toddler and preschooler because everyone commented on how "big" I was. Imagine my surprise and confusion when a careful perusal of pictures of me romping in the pool at age four revealed that I was actually slim and trim. What on earth had those people been talking about? Even in high school, when adults would comment, "Oh, you're a big girl," I would usually hasten to correct them. "You mean tall?" I would suggest.
I knew "tall" didn't cover it; tall refers to height, and as we all know from observing the many sizes and shapes of people around us, some tall people are willowy or gangly and others are sturdily built, strapping, solid without being "fat" or overweight. In other words, they are. . .big. Even though I chafed at the term, I have to confess that I don't have a better one to describe those people simply built on a different scale. My son isn't just tall. He's big. When he stands beside other children his age, yes, he stands a head or more above them, but he's also broader across the shoulders, thicker through the chest, and sturdier in his arms and legs. He looks as though he rolled off the Nordic baby factory's conveyor belt, assembled to specs vastly different from those used in other locales. (Is the Nordic baby factory. . .Ikea?)
So larger-than-average babies, I call you big. Wear the mantle proudly (though it's likely too small) and get used to it: "big" will be the first word out of many people's mouths when they meet you. The world was not made to accomodate your size, but you also have some decided advantages. My sister often bemoans the world is not built for left-handed people and big babies can identify; the world wasn't made for them either. But I discovered early on that doing and being what people expected was dull and unfulfilling. Being big is unexpected and sets you on the path for doing different, unexpected, exciting, and interesting things.
All while wearing pants that are too short.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
"Don't hurt the baby!" "He's not a baby."
The first friend Alexander made on purpose was at the playground. The friend's name was Marshall.
His name alone was portentious, the sort of thing one might expect in a novel, and we didn't even discover it until his mom called him to go home for snack. Marshall also happens to be the name of the man who determinedly introduced me to my husband (Brian declined to meet me on several occasions) and is Xander's godfather. Obviously, Marshalls play no small role in our life. In fact, the homily at our wedding was even about Marshall and his plan. I'm not sure, but Marshall may have been compared to God. . .
The Marshall at the playground, however, was energetic, kind, and four years old. Alexander thought he hung the moon. Xander watched from afar as Marshall led a wild band of preschoolers up and down the playground equipment, each child brandishing a branch as a weapon. Once the older children left, Marshall sought Alexander's company. Alexander, ever socially savvy, did not betray how starstruck he was to have this big kid's attention. (I'm more than a little worried that Alexander's social smoothness predicts future school popularity, a sticky web of drama, betrayal, and heartbreak that I thoroughly opted out of for my entire educational career and thus for which I have no parenting preparation.)
While Marshall chatted with me, he also lovingly minded Alexander: holding his hand while he went up a step, bracing his back as he was in danger of pitching backward, showing him how to crawl through an especially long and scary tunnel. Alexander, for his part, ran after Marshall excitedly, watched eagerly as he jumped, ducked, and swung--all things Xander can't wait to accomplish--and babbled incoherently but pleasantly about what a nice time he was having.
Even though Alexander offered no meaningful conversation or physical challenge to the interaction, an endearing if fleeting friendship had clearly sprung up between the two boys. Alexander marveled at everything the bigger boy could do; Marshall, I can only imagine, enjoyed having someone so obviously in awe of his accomplishments and for whom he could care. (Everyone likes a protege, after all.) This temporary, afternoon-at-the-playground friendship is a hallmark of childhood and I quietly celebrated it as heralding the dawn of Xander's social consciousness. I am also relieved that he has any sort of social consciousness; I was the child who hoped desperately that no one would come to play with me and if some foolhardy child tried, I was apt to smack them. (I in all honesty walloped a classmate upside the head (with a toy pot!) in kindergarten for her brazen assumption that she could join me in the play kitchen. She later went to a school for gifted children, so I take comfort in knowing I caused no lasting damage.)
But back to my son. (The blog really is about him, I swear.) He apparently was such a good playmate that before leaving, Marshall gave him a sweet kiss on the head. Alexander squealed in excitement. (Once Marshall was out of earshot, naturally. I told you: socially savvy.) A similar situation played itself out this afternoon on a playplace at Midwestern mall: Alexander, despite a complete lack of linguistic skills, became fast friends with a three-and-a-half year old boy who was there with his grandmother. Interestingly, this little boy had a younger sister much closer to Xander's age; she was eleven months. Alexander ignored her like one might a crack in the wall.
He has a history of turning a blind eye to children his own age. One of my dear friends has a son a mere three weeks younger than Xander. While Xander is well enough acquainted with this little boy to play with him on occasion, he also consistently treats him as he does much younger children, patting him on the head and pushing him thoughtlessly aside. Already, Alexander has expressed a clear qualification for his playmates: size. He wants a playmate that he can match, stride for stride, who won't fall over when Xander gives him a push--who even may push back or use words to protest. Alexander wants someone with similar energy (boundless) who will challenge him. As a very active and very physically advanced thirteen-month-old, Xander has to look to a higher age bracket.
Big Baby Truism #3: A good playmate his hard to find.
Might Alexander have similar taste in playmates if he weren't so big? Possibly. Would older kids give him the time of day if he were of typical size? I venture to say no. Even though preschoolers can clearly tell that Xander is, in their words, a baby, the fact that he can and wants to do many of the things they do makes him more appealing. Plus, kids this age love to try to teach others what they already know. Alexander is a willing student and the older ones don't feel as worried about hurting him. Even though I have heard many moms of these older kids warning, "Watch out for the baby!" when play gets rough, the kids all pragmatically assess that Xander is not nearly as breakable as the smaller (though similarly aged) babies crawling and toddling about. The big baby dilemma is that other children of the same age are not necessarily a good physical match for a big baby--especially a coordinated and gregarious big baby.
I am on constant alert when Xander is socializing with kids his own age. Even a gentle nudge such as the other children give each other constantly is much more powerful and devastating, even when all Xander means is a nonverbal, "I want to get through here." His size also connotes aggression and anger to the other moms. (A whole separate truism, to be sure.) Bigger, older kids remove Alexander's physical advantage.
The downside, of course, is that Xander can only offer so much to a playmate two or three years older than himself. He can't talk. He has no concept of imaginative play. He is not going to teach the child anything new. And playing with his own peer group is, of course, important; children his own age are going to be his primary source of friendship and company for most of his childhood, so he needs to know how to interact with them. Parents pose another interesting obstacle. Many are hesitant to allow their children to play with a child of Xander's size because they fear for their child's safety. Also, they are often put off by Xander's appearance--he looks like a one-year-old but he's so. . .BIG. They aren't sure how to categorize him and it makes them nervous. I can't tell you how many twitchy mothers have asked me, "So. . .how old is he?" as though nervous about how I might answer. ("Six months!" I imagine myself saying, cruelly, just to watch her eyes bug out.)
And I feel for Xander. Play is work for children, we are always told (though pleasurable work, to be sure). Play with children his age is an extra measure of work for Alexander because he has to use extra caution: don't move too fast, touch too hard, or raise a hand (even in triumph--other mothers faint. That Godzilla of a child is going to TKO my son!). I think at least one reason he enjoys older kids is that so many restrictions are removed. For once, the other child is the one taking an extra measure of care.
All children can benefit from a variety of playmates, but big babies need them without question. Since a larger-than-average child is a curiosity, hopefully potential friends will abound. Thankfully for me and for Alexander, kids are much less critical and suspicious than their parents. The title of this entry occurred in the church nursery, where a toddler, realistically assessing Xander's size, declared he was not a baby. But she didn't mind. It's a good example to follow.
His name alone was portentious, the sort of thing one might expect in a novel, and we didn't even discover it until his mom called him to go home for snack. Marshall also happens to be the name of the man who determinedly introduced me to my husband (Brian declined to meet me on several occasions) and is Xander's godfather. Obviously, Marshalls play no small role in our life. In fact, the homily at our wedding was even about Marshall and his plan. I'm not sure, but Marshall may have been compared to God. . .
The Marshall at the playground, however, was energetic, kind, and four years old. Alexander thought he hung the moon. Xander watched from afar as Marshall led a wild band of preschoolers up and down the playground equipment, each child brandishing a branch as a weapon. Once the older children left, Marshall sought Alexander's company. Alexander, ever socially savvy, did not betray how starstruck he was to have this big kid's attention. (I'm more than a little worried that Alexander's social smoothness predicts future school popularity, a sticky web of drama, betrayal, and heartbreak that I thoroughly opted out of for my entire educational career and thus for which I have no parenting preparation.)
While Marshall chatted with me, he also lovingly minded Alexander: holding his hand while he went up a step, bracing his back as he was in danger of pitching backward, showing him how to crawl through an especially long and scary tunnel. Alexander, for his part, ran after Marshall excitedly, watched eagerly as he jumped, ducked, and swung--all things Xander can't wait to accomplish--and babbled incoherently but pleasantly about what a nice time he was having.
Even though Alexander offered no meaningful conversation or physical challenge to the interaction, an endearing if fleeting friendship had clearly sprung up between the two boys. Alexander marveled at everything the bigger boy could do; Marshall, I can only imagine, enjoyed having someone so obviously in awe of his accomplishments and for whom he could care. (Everyone likes a protege, after all.) This temporary, afternoon-at-the-playground friendship is a hallmark of childhood and I quietly celebrated it as heralding the dawn of Xander's social consciousness. I am also relieved that he has any sort of social consciousness; I was the child who hoped desperately that no one would come to play with me and if some foolhardy child tried, I was apt to smack them. (I in all honesty walloped a classmate upside the head (with a toy pot!) in kindergarten for her brazen assumption that she could join me in the play kitchen. She later went to a school for gifted children, so I take comfort in knowing I caused no lasting damage.)
But back to my son. (The blog really is about him, I swear.) He apparently was such a good playmate that before leaving, Marshall gave him a sweet kiss on the head. Alexander squealed in excitement. (Once Marshall was out of earshot, naturally. I told you: socially savvy.) A similar situation played itself out this afternoon on a playplace at Midwestern mall: Alexander, despite a complete lack of linguistic skills, became fast friends with a three-and-a-half year old boy who was there with his grandmother. Interestingly, this little boy had a younger sister much closer to Xander's age; she was eleven months. Alexander ignored her like one might a crack in the wall.
He has a history of turning a blind eye to children his own age. One of my dear friends has a son a mere three weeks younger than Xander. While Xander is well enough acquainted with this little boy to play with him on occasion, he also consistently treats him as he does much younger children, patting him on the head and pushing him thoughtlessly aside. Already, Alexander has expressed a clear qualification for his playmates: size. He wants a playmate that he can match, stride for stride, who won't fall over when Xander gives him a push--who even may push back or use words to protest. Alexander wants someone with similar energy (boundless) who will challenge him. As a very active and very physically advanced thirteen-month-old, Xander has to look to a higher age bracket.
Big Baby Truism #3: A good playmate his hard to find.
Might Alexander have similar taste in playmates if he weren't so big? Possibly. Would older kids give him the time of day if he were of typical size? I venture to say no. Even though preschoolers can clearly tell that Xander is, in their words, a baby, the fact that he can and wants to do many of the things they do makes him more appealing. Plus, kids this age love to try to teach others what they already know. Alexander is a willing student and the older ones don't feel as worried about hurting him. Even though I have heard many moms of these older kids warning, "Watch out for the baby!" when play gets rough, the kids all pragmatically assess that Xander is not nearly as breakable as the smaller (though similarly aged) babies crawling and toddling about. The big baby dilemma is that other children of the same age are not necessarily a good physical match for a big baby--especially a coordinated and gregarious big baby.
I am on constant alert when Xander is socializing with kids his own age. Even a gentle nudge such as the other children give each other constantly is much more powerful and devastating, even when all Xander means is a nonverbal, "I want to get through here." His size also connotes aggression and anger to the other moms. (A whole separate truism, to be sure.) Bigger, older kids remove Alexander's physical advantage.
The downside, of course, is that Xander can only offer so much to a playmate two or three years older than himself. He can't talk. He has no concept of imaginative play. He is not going to teach the child anything new. And playing with his own peer group is, of course, important; children his own age are going to be his primary source of friendship and company for most of his childhood, so he needs to know how to interact with them. Parents pose another interesting obstacle. Many are hesitant to allow their children to play with a child of Xander's size because they fear for their child's safety. Also, they are often put off by Xander's appearance--he looks like a one-year-old but he's so. . .BIG. They aren't sure how to categorize him and it makes them nervous. I can't tell you how many twitchy mothers have asked me, "So. . .how old is he?" as though nervous about how I might answer. ("Six months!" I imagine myself saying, cruelly, just to watch her eyes bug out.)
And I feel for Xander. Play is work for children, we are always told (though pleasurable work, to be sure). Play with children his age is an extra measure of work for Alexander because he has to use extra caution: don't move too fast, touch too hard, or raise a hand (even in triumph--other mothers faint. That Godzilla of a child is going to TKO my son!). I think at least one reason he enjoys older kids is that so many restrictions are removed. For once, the other child is the one taking an extra measure of care.
All children can benefit from a variety of playmates, but big babies need them without question. Since a larger-than-average child is a curiosity, hopefully potential friends will abound. Thankfully for me and for Alexander, kids are much less critical and suspicious than their parents. The title of this entry occurred in the church nursery, where a toddler, realistically assessing Xander's size, declared he was not a baby. But she didn't mind. It's a good example to follow.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
I wonder if the warranty covers weight gain.
The array was so dizzying I nearly had to sit down.
I'm barely on the brink of the Exersaucer/Jumperoo aisle at Babies'R'Us and already the colors and patterns are so overwhelming I'm wishing for some dramamine. Determinedly, I push the cart into this sensory attack and try to begin to sort out which cloth-and-plastic contraption will best amuse my baby.
Choosing toys for an infant is worse than picking out a gift for a relative you have never met. At least with a relative, the person has a history of likes and dislikes and could even (if necessary) provide a cogent summary of needs and desires. (If, I suppose, you are the type of person who assigns short-answer questions to relatives, which, as an English teacher, I happen to be.) An infant is more like a Martian than a human relative. I imagine myself having to choose a gift for an alien visitor and having far more luck choosing something appropriate for his spaceship than having any accuracy picking something that will delight my son. For one thing, he is fickle. For another, novelty is its own present, which every toy has. . .and loses.
I should mention, at this point, that this episode happened when Xander was nigh four months old. He was not, as you might imagine, riding in his infant seat in the shopping cart, blissfully asleep. He was not doing this because he was already longer than his car seat and and too big to fit inside the harness. Yes, the seat he is supposed to ride in, rear-facing, until a year. (Or how 'bout two? Clearly, the AAP has not met my son.) No, he was dangling rather uncomfortably from his front-carrier, trying to simultaneously punch me in the face and kick me in the pelvis. But this is not a post about car seats--that will take at least two or three entries. This post is about my unrequited love for Jumperoos.
Xander has been kicking his legs since well before he was born. In the early weeks of his life, he had trouble sleeping because those legs just. . .wouldn't. . .stop. . .KICKING. By four months, with excellent trunk and neck control, I thought he was ready for a Jumperoo. He could kick and kick to his heart's content, get some exercise, and spend some time not breaking my back: a win for everyone! So I found a (small) window in his eating schedule and staggered into the retina-assaulting baby exercise aisle.
So many models! So many colors! So many toys! What theme did I enjoy? Which garish assortment of colors would be least offensive in my living room? Did I want one that played music when he jumped? One with friendly forest animal friends? As I studied the placards with the specs of each Jumperoo, I made a disheartening discovery.
The weight limit.
The weight limit on every Jumperoo was 24 or 25 pounds. At his four month check-up, Alexander was 21 and change. At his average rate of three pounds per month, I could expect him to be done with the Jumperoo in. . .three weeks. Not worth $100, certainly. Not even worth the $60 I could spend on Amazon or at the consignment store. My heart fell. No Jumperoo for Alexander.
The Jumperoo is not the only thing he has done without, but the list would be long and laborious. More telling are the things he has outgrown far too early: his bassinet, his bouncy seat, his infant car seat, his front carrier, his Exersaucer. . .Each one sent to the baby toy graveyard (our storage unit) long before Alexander had left the developmental stage the item was meant to service.
Baby Truism #2: Always check weight limits.
I'll admit that one of my keys to success and, simultaneously, my fatal flaw is my undying commitment to following the rules. (I'm the person who nearly has an attack when someone doesn't take a number at the deli. . .even when no one is waiting. The sign says, "Take a number"!) Still, I don't honestly believe that a baby item will fall to bits of kindling (or whatever the plastic equivalent is) the moment my child is an ounce over the weight limit. I realize that these limits are very likely low-balled as part of the manufacturer's bid not to get sued senseless. However, I'm no fool either: I know how much downward force my son would exert on a Jumperoo, and I know that force only gets greater as he gets heavier. I'm not really interested in making him a test subject/crash dummy to find out exactly what the "smashed to bits" limit is on baby stuff.
The good news is that at this point Alexander has no idea that he has missed out on anything. He is not, as far as I can tell, emotionally scarred by being moved to a crib at six weeks. (My emotional scarring, on the other hand. . .) However, the day will come. My day of reckoning as a big kid was when I no longer fit on the Playplace at McDonald's. However, like car seats, that is a post unto itself. (I'll need tissues. It was a tough day.)
A few weeks ago, Brian and I picked out a riding toy for Xander's first birthday. Our main qualification? Not colors, not features, not obnoxiousness level--weight limit. We got one good to fifty pounds. Since Alexander is somewhere in the 33 range, I think we're good for a month. Or two.
I'm barely on the brink of the Exersaucer/Jumperoo aisle at Babies'R'Us and already the colors and patterns are so overwhelming I'm wishing for some dramamine. Determinedly, I push the cart into this sensory attack and try to begin to sort out which cloth-and-plastic contraption will best amuse my baby.
Choosing toys for an infant is worse than picking out a gift for a relative you have never met. At least with a relative, the person has a history of likes and dislikes and could even (if necessary) provide a cogent summary of needs and desires. (If, I suppose, you are the type of person who assigns short-answer questions to relatives, which, as an English teacher, I happen to be.) An infant is more like a Martian than a human relative. I imagine myself having to choose a gift for an alien visitor and having far more luck choosing something appropriate for his spaceship than having any accuracy picking something that will delight my son. For one thing, he is fickle. For another, novelty is its own present, which every toy has. . .and loses.
I should mention, at this point, that this episode happened when Xander was nigh four months old. He was not, as you might imagine, riding in his infant seat in the shopping cart, blissfully asleep. He was not doing this because he was already longer than his car seat and and too big to fit inside the harness. Yes, the seat he is supposed to ride in, rear-facing, until a year. (Or how 'bout two? Clearly, the AAP has not met my son.) No, he was dangling rather uncomfortably from his front-carrier, trying to simultaneously punch me in the face and kick me in the pelvis. But this is not a post about car seats--that will take at least two or three entries. This post is about my unrequited love for Jumperoos.
Xander has been kicking his legs since well before he was born. In the early weeks of his life, he had trouble sleeping because those legs just. . .wouldn't. . .stop. . .KICKING. By four months, with excellent trunk and neck control, I thought he was ready for a Jumperoo. He could kick and kick to his heart's content, get some exercise, and spend some time not breaking my back: a win for everyone! So I found a (small) window in his eating schedule and staggered into the retina-assaulting baby exercise aisle.
So many models! So many colors! So many toys! What theme did I enjoy? Which garish assortment of colors would be least offensive in my living room? Did I want one that played music when he jumped? One with friendly forest animal friends? As I studied the placards with the specs of each Jumperoo, I made a disheartening discovery.
The weight limit.
The weight limit on every Jumperoo was 24 or 25 pounds. At his four month check-up, Alexander was 21 and change. At his average rate of three pounds per month, I could expect him to be done with the Jumperoo in. . .three weeks. Not worth $100, certainly. Not even worth the $60 I could spend on Amazon or at the consignment store. My heart fell. No Jumperoo for Alexander.
The Jumperoo is not the only thing he has done without, but the list would be long and laborious. More telling are the things he has outgrown far too early: his bassinet, his bouncy seat, his infant car seat, his front carrier, his Exersaucer. . .Each one sent to the baby toy graveyard (our storage unit) long before Alexander had left the developmental stage the item was meant to service.
Baby Truism #2: Always check weight limits.
I'll admit that one of my keys to success and, simultaneously, my fatal flaw is my undying commitment to following the rules. (I'm the person who nearly has an attack when someone doesn't take a number at the deli. . .even when no one is waiting. The sign says, "Take a number"!) Still, I don't honestly believe that a baby item will fall to bits of kindling (or whatever the plastic equivalent is) the moment my child is an ounce over the weight limit. I realize that these limits are very likely low-balled as part of the manufacturer's bid not to get sued senseless. However, I'm no fool either: I know how much downward force my son would exert on a Jumperoo, and I know that force only gets greater as he gets heavier. I'm not really interested in making him a test subject/crash dummy to find out exactly what the "smashed to bits" limit is on baby stuff.
The good news is that at this point Alexander has no idea that he has missed out on anything. He is not, as far as I can tell, emotionally scarred by being moved to a crib at six weeks. (My emotional scarring, on the other hand. . .) However, the day will come. My day of reckoning as a big kid was when I no longer fit on the Playplace at McDonald's. However, like car seats, that is a post unto itself. (I'll need tissues. It was a tough day.)
A few weeks ago, Brian and I picked out a riding toy for Xander's first birthday. Our main qualification? Not colors, not features, not obnoxiousness level--weight limit. We got one good to fifty pounds. Since Alexander is somewhere in the 33 range, I think we're good for a month. Or two.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The internet does not lie very well. I would love to be able to make this post and have it dated sometime in January to hide the fact that I clearly and negligently fell off the blogging wagon. I would happily lie to myself about when this entry was posted, the way I would "forget" to make entries in my diary in elementary school (really, I put it off because I had resolved to write in it but found it boring. I don't subscribe to the theory that writing must have an audience in order to be complete, but an audience sure does help) and would then write three or four entries in a sitting, back-dating each one.
Alas, the internet will create no such alibi for me, so I enter my plea: teething. Alexander has been teething. Just when our lives had reached a bit of equilibrium--he even had a tentative schedule, of all things!--that lower incisor started pressing into his gum and just like that our tenuous world fell apart. Amazing how such a tiny and temporary tooth wields so much power over two fully-grown, professional adults. (That is, we are professionals. Not that we went pro in the sport of adult, which sounds both fun and very racy.) In the parenting circles of hell, teething is nowhere near as far down as dating and driving but is certainly below middle-of-the-night feedings. At least in the middle of the night, your baby is happy to see you. When he is teething, he is not happy to see you or his favorite toy or really anything at all except the inside of his bright pink eyelids as he screams. I am not so novice a parent as to declare this first-tooth nightmare to be finished (one good day today provides no portent for tomorrow), but we are at least enjoying a respite.
At three months, Xander is on the early side of teething. Pretty much every parenting book or magazine I have read puts the initial tooth eruption at four to seven months. (Although, like all parenting books, they contain the "every child has his own timeline blah blah blah" caveat, which makes me wonder why anyone even bothers.) However, I am astoundingly unsurprised at Xander's haste to teeth. He has done almost everything early. At birth, his neck was as strong as most two-month-olds; he was holding it up and looking from side to side the day after he was born. He has tracked objects, reached, grabbed, and smiled well ahead of the curve. Now, I'm not claiming genius on his part (though of course I am very proud) because I have heard anecdotally from the mothers of other big babies that their children were also early-achievers, especially in the area of physical (usually gross motor) milestones. Why is this? I have no reliable information, except for a quasi-medical hunch that the hasty physical development of big babies is a biological necessity; if you are big, you have to be able to move yourself around. Small babies need less strength to move their own bodies and can even reliably count on others to move them with ease; big babies recognize that some extra strength and effort, on their part and their parents', is necessary.
Perhaps a doctor could shed more light on the matter. I'm not particularly worried about the reasons, because no matter the cause, Alexander's prediction-defying habits are something that must be dealt with. Hence, we come upon Big Baby Truism #1: The rules don't apply.
At six weeks, I took Alexander back to the lactation consultant because I was worried he wasn't getting enough to eat. Now, the lactation consultant could easily have laughed me out of the hospital: when she weighed Alexander before his feeding, he weighed in at over 15 pounds. I would imagine it is pretty difficult to look at a fifteen-pound six-week-old and have a straight-faced conversation about whether he is going hungry or getting enough. I recognize this. But in the claustrophobic new-baby days, I couldn't see beyond my baby and what I saw was a baby who was never satisfied. Luckily for me, the lactation consultant was kind, knowledgeable, and best of all, took me seriously. She was also the first to show me how thoroughly big babies break the rules. Before weighing Xander after his feeding, she told me that a baby his age takes in an average of three ounces at a feeding. Xander took in six. I knew this was on the small side for him, since I had personally seen him take in and keep down nine. A few weeks later, I asked the pediatrician (going to the doctor is something of a hobby for us) how much formula to give Alexander at a feeding. (He spent one week on a "cleanse" of hypoallergenic formula when his milk protein allergy was diagnosed. Since he is usually breastfed, I had no idea exactly how much he should eat on a regular basis.) The doctor said 2-4 ounces. Now, I'd given Xander enough bottles of pumped breastmilk to know he would be insulted to be offered just two ounces. So for the first few days I offered him four ounces. Invariably, I had to fix him a second four-ounce bottle in order to satiate him. In the five days Xander was on formula, he consumed four eight-ounce powder formula containers, drinking a total of 50 ounces a day. Any baby book will assure you that babies "top out" at forty a day, usually near six months. Ha.
I am not relating this to amaze or impress you with my baby's might. All of these examples are meant to be illustrative of the first big baby truism. The rules do not apply. Now, I know the rules don't apply to many babies for many reasons, the foremost of which is that no actually ever birthed the Standard Baby that books and magazines base their information on. Babies often fall into other exceptional groups--preemies, developmentally delayed, multiple allergy--that defy the bell curve. A main difference for these babies (as opposed to big babies) is that much ink has been spilled on trying to define and quantify what is "normal" for them. Has anyone spent a serious, concerted effort detailing what is different about big babies? If they have, they have hidden their research very, very effectively.
As a parent, you can never know what to expect, but you always want at least a modicum of reassurance that at least some things can be expected. If this weren't true, there wouldn't be two aisles at Barnes and Noble dedicated to books about when baby will potty train, sleep through the night, do the Thriller dance, etc. When you have a baby who regularly does not follow the rules, you enter uncharted territory.
Our most anxiety-inducing uncharted territory revolved around solid food. At about eleven weeks, Alexander's appetite became insatiable. He has always been a big eater (clearly), but at eleven weeks he simply would not stop eating. We spent four days on the couch, eating, taking a ten minute break, screaming as though days had passed since the last meal, and then eating again. By day five I was about to lose my mind. I could not piece together thirty minutes to shower, eat a meal, or simply not be under a baby and his Boppy. Any piece of literature on babies and solids echoes the booming words of the AAP: no solids before four months. Of course, this recommendation is based on normal-size babies with normal-size appetites. At not-quite three months, Xander was the size of an average six-month-old. Six-month-olds, incidentally, eat solid food. I worried and studied and worried some more about his digestive maturity (the other piece of the solids puzzle) but my need for sanity and a well-fed baby won out and Xander ate rice cereal. I'm sure this decision would give some doctors heart attacks. (Mine may be included; I'll have to 'fess up at his next checkup.) But I will respond, "How do you meet the caloric demands of a twenty-pound three-month-old when breast milk is clearly not enough?" The problem is, no one has the answer because three-month-olds are not, as a rule, twenty pounds.
Now for the rub. When I taught high school English, I told my students that their thesis had to have a "so what?" Big babies break the rules. So what? So parents have to be persistent. The rules may not apply to your baby. People (including doctors) will try to make the rules apply. This insistence puts you in a place that resembles insanity: if what you are told is true is not manifested as truth in your life, what do you do? Ostensible reality and actual reality are out of synch: your baby is supposed to eat two ounces but instead eats six. Is something wrong with you? With your baby? Be persistent. Big baby parents will quickly learn that the standard advice is not helpful. Every parent knows their baby better than anyone else in the world does, and this is even truer for big baby parents. You will learn what is normal for your baby. Insist that those who matter--particularly doctors--use your baby's normal as his reference point. For example, Alexander has consistently gained three pounds each month of his life. The "standard" weight gain is one to one and a half pounds. If next month Xander only gains one pound, that is considered normal. Is it normal for him? Not at all. Will I be concerned about this change in his growth? Absolutely. Is medical literature concerned about this change? Not particularly. Be persistent. The best question I have learned to ask is, "What is normal for his size?" Obviously this question doesn't matter for milestones such as smiling which have nothing to do with weight or height. But this question has been a game-changer for other baby care issues; I've stopped several doctors mid-standard-lecture. "Oh," they'll say. "I guess that's different."
Peering into the dimly shrouded future, I foresee a number of size-related dilemmas. Will he outgrow his car seat long before he is legally allowed to be out of it? What do we do when he is ten months old and tall enough to crawl out of his crib? Parenting magazines and books will not address those issues because he isn't supposed to be having such problems. In the grand scheme of life, these problems are relatively minor, especially when viewed in perspective with all of the tragedies and illnesses that could (but God willing, won't) befall my baby. Yet in parenting many small obstacles can transform into a seeming mountain, so a little reassurance and camaraderie is never out of place. Big baby parents, unite! We will define a "big normal" for our babies.
Alas, the internet will create no such alibi for me, so I enter my plea: teething. Alexander has been teething. Just when our lives had reached a bit of equilibrium--he even had a tentative schedule, of all things!--that lower incisor started pressing into his gum and just like that our tenuous world fell apart. Amazing how such a tiny and temporary tooth wields so much power over two fully-grown, professional adults. (That is, we are professionals. Not that we went pro in the sport of adult, which sounds both fun and very racy.) In the parenting circles of hell, teething is nowhere near as far down as dating and driving but is certainly below middle-of-the-night feedings. At least in the middle of the night, your baby is happy to see you. When he is teething, he is not happy to see you or his favorite toy or really anything at all except the inside of his bright pink eyelids as he screams. I am not so novice a parent as to declare this first-tooth nightmare to be finished (one good day today provides no portent for tomorrow), but we are at least enjoying a respite.
At three months, Xander is on the early side of teething. Pretty much every parenting book or magazine I have read puts the initial tooth eruption at four to seven months. (Although, like all parenting books, they contain the "every child has his own timeline blah blah blah" caveat, which makes me wonder why anyone even bothers.) However, I am astoundingly unsurprised at Xander's haste to teeth. He has done almost everything early. At birth, his neck was as strong as most two-month-olds; he was holding it up and looking from side to side the day after he was born. He has tracked objects, reached, grabbed, and smiled well ahead of the curve. Now, I'm not claiming genius on his part (though of course I am very proud) because I have heard anecdotally from the mothers of other big babies that their children were also early-achievers, especially in the area of physical (usually gross motor) milestones. Why is this? I have no reliable information, except for a quasi-medical hunch that the hasty physical development of big babies is a biological necessity; if you are big, you have to be able to move yourself around. Small babies need less strength to move their own bodies and can even reliably count on others to move them with ease; big babies recognize that some extra strength and effort, on their part and their parents', is necessary.
Perhaps a doctor could shed more light on the matter. I'm not particularly worried about the reasons, because no matter the cause, Alexander's prediction-defying habits are something that must be dealt with. Hence, we come upon Big Baby Truism #1: The rules don't apply.
At six weeks, I took Alexander back to the lactation consultant because I was worried he wasn't getting enough to eat. Now, the lactation consultant could easily have laughed me out of the hospital: when she weighed Alexander before his feeding, he weighed in at over 15 pounds. I would imagine it is pretty difficult to look at a fifteen-pound six-week-old and have a straight-faced conversation about whether he is going hungry or getting enough. I recognize this. But in the claustrophobic new-baby days, I couldn't see beyond my baby and what I saw was a baby who was never satisfied. Luckily for me, the lactation consultant was kind, knowledgeable, and best of all, took me seriously. She was also the first to show me how thoroughly big babies break the rules. Before weighing Xander after his feeding, she told me that a baby his age takes in an average of three ounces at a feeding. Xander took in six. I knew this was on the small side for him, since I had personally seen him take in and keep down nine. A few weeks later, I asked the pediatrician (going to the doctor is something of a hobby for us) how much formula to give Alexander at a feeding. (He spent one week on a "cleanse" of hypoallergenic formula when his milk protein allergy was diagnosed. Since he is usually breastfed, I had no idea exactly how much he should eat on a regular basis.) The doctor said 2-4 ounces. Now, I'd given Xander enough bottles of pumped breastmilk to know he would be insulted to be offered just two ounces. So for the first few days I offered him four ounces. Invariably, I had to fix him a second four-ounce bottle in order to satiate him. In the five days Xander was on formula, he consumed four eight-ounce powder formula containers, drinking a total of 50 ounces a day. Any baby book will assure you that babies "top out" at forty a day, usually near six months. Ha.
I am not relating this to amaze or impress you with my baby's might. All of these examples are meant to be illustrative of the first big baby truism. The rules do not apply. Now, I know the rules don't apply to many babies for many reasons, the foremost of which is that no actually ever birthed the Standard Baby that books and magazines base their information on. Babies often fall into other exceptional groups--preemies, developmentally delayed, multiple allergy--that defy the bell curve. A main difference for these babies (as opposed to big babies) is that much ink has been spilled on trying to define and quantify what is "normal" for them. Has anyone spent a serious, concerted effort detailing what is different about big babies? If they have, they have hidden their research very, very effectively.
As a parent, you can never know what to expect, but you always want at least a modicum of reassurance that at least some things can be expected. If this weren't true, there wouldn't be two aisles at Barnes and Noble dedicated to books about when baby will potty train, sleep through the night, do the Thriller dance, etc. When you have a baby who regularly does not follow the rules, you enter uncharted territory.
Our most anxiety-inducing uncharted territory revolved around solid food. At about eleven weeks, Alexander's appetite became insatiable. He has always been a big eater (clearly), but at eleven weeks he simply would not stop eating. We spent four days on the couch, eating, taking a ten minute break, screaming as though days had passed since the last meal, and then eating again. By day five I was about to lose my mind. I could not piece together thirty minutes to shower, eat a meal, or simply not be under a baby and his Boppy. Any piece of literature on babies and solids echoes the booming words of the AAP: no solids before four months. Of course, this recommendation is based on normal-size babies with normal-size appetites. At not-quite three months, Xander was the size of an average six-month-old. Six-month-olds, incidentally, eat solid food. I worried and studied and worried some more about his digestive maturity (the other piece of the solids puzzle) but my need for sanity and a well-fed baby won out and Xander ate rice cereal. I'm sure this decision would give some doctors heart attacks. (Mine may be included; I'll have to 'fess up at his next checkup.) But I will respond, "How do you meet the caloric demands of a twenty-pound three-month-old when breast milk is clearly not enough?" The problem is, no one has the answer because three-month-olds are not, as a rule, twenty pounds.
Now for the rub. When I taught high school English, I told my students that their thesis had to have a "so what?" Big babies break the rules. So what? So parents have to be persistent. The rules may not apply to your baby. People (including doctors) will try to make the rules apply. This insistence puts you in a place that resembles insanity: if what you are told is true is not manifested as truth in your life, what do you do? Ostensible reality and actual reality are out of synch: your baby is supposed to eat two ounces but instead eats six. Is something wrong with you? With your baby? Be persistent. Big baby parents will quickly learn that the standard advice is not helpful. Every parent knows their baby better than anyone else in the world does, and this is even truer for big baby parents. You will learn what is normal for your baby. Insist that those who matter--particularly doctors--use your baby's normal as his reference point. For example, Alexander has consistently gained three pounds each month of his life. The "standard" weight gain is one to one and a half pounds. If next month Xander only gains one pound, that is considered normal. Is it normal for him? Not at all. Will I be concerned about this change in his growth? Absolutely. Is medical literature concerned about this change? Not particularly. Be persistent. The best question I have learned to ask is, "What is normal for his size?" Obviously this question doesn't matter for milestones such as smiling which have nothing to do with weight or height. But this question has been a game-changer for other baby care issues; I've stopped several doctors mid-standard-lecture. "Oh," they'll say. "I guess that's different."
Peering into the dimly shrouded future, I foresee a number of size-related dilemmas. Will he outgrow his car seat long before he is legally allowed to be out of it? What do we do when he is ten months old and tall enough to crawl out of his crib? Parenting magazines and books will not address those issues because he isn't supposed to be having such problems. In the grand scheme of life, these problems are relatively minor, especially when viewed in perspective with all of the tragedies and illnesses that could (but God willing, won't) befall my baby. Yet in parenting many small obstacles can transform into a seeming mountain, so a little reassurance and camaraderie is never out of place. Big baby parents, unite! We will define a "big normal" for our babies.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Greetings from Big Baby Land
My name is Anna and I am the mother of a big baby.
The first inkling that our baby might be of extraordinary size came at our twenty-week sonogram. My husband (Brian) and I waited in breathless anticipation as the sonogram tech maneuvered the wand on my belly and searched the terrain of my uterus for its precious little (ha!) occupant. Suddenly he appeared like an apparition out of the mist, looking distinctly human and waving his hands as if greeting his gape-mouthed parents. Could this recognizable being truly be the same as the flickering heartbeat we'd squinted at fourteen weeks before?
While we were enveloped in selfish wonder at the everyday miracle of conception, the tech was matter-of-factly clicking and measuring as though she were a developer plotting out a subdivision. She pattered on about head circumference and kidneys while I tried to grasp that this fuzzy vision was a baby, not a ghost.
"Babies at this stage are usually eight to ten ounces," I remember her telling me. I nodded. I had read this in one of the many baby books I had, at five months, already read and committed to memory. (In another life, I'd be a professor. Of literature. Not the baby kind, though.)
There was a pause, a nanosecond short of being worrisome.
"Your baby is a pound three."
Essentially, twice as big as expected.
Apparently mistaking my look of surprise for one of horror, the tech quickly explained, "Just because the baby is big at this stage doesn't mean he'll end up big."
I nodded dumbly as the tech peered at the screen, no doubt triple-checking this uncommon weight. Despite her reassurances, I knew. I knew we had a giant on our hands.
You can call it a mother's intuition if you like, but I don't take that much credit. I'm no geneticist, but I can use a tape measure and I come from tall people. At 5'10", I'm not a freak, but as a high-schooler in Ohio I could tell grown men if their parts were straight. (I am not a full head above the crowd in Texas, but that is another post for another day.) My husband is only slightly taller than average, but oh the genes we carry.
My father's family is mostly to blame. They come from solid Swedish farm stock, part of the European immigration of the early twentieth century. My father is 6'5" and his father only a few inches shorter before the weight of old age pressed down on him. My father's grandfather--my baby's great-great-grandfather--was also 6'5" in an era when the average man didn't top six feet even. My baby would be big. There was no turning back from this fact.
I did what any expectant mother would do--I went home and updated my baby registry. "If you would like to get clothes for Alexander," I wrote, now that the sonogram confirmed we should not name him Elena, "please pick out anything you think is cute. But please no newborn sizes. He is a big boy."
And then I waited.
At birth, Alexander was ten pounds, to the general astonishment of everyone in the room except my grandmother, who had looked at my belly at five months (many women have been smaller on delivery day) and predicted a scale-buster.
So why a blog about big babies? In the mediocre sea of mommy forums and unsubstantiated advice, why add my voice? Because I have quickly learned in Xander's first two months that no one talks much about big babies. Certainly, relatives marvel at them and strangers ogle them, but where is the advice about how to handle the challenges posed by larger-than-average babies? Where can a mom vent or share ideas about adapting standard baby advice for the decidedly nonstandard baby? And, most egotistically of all, where can a mom who talks exclusively to nonverbal beings (two cats and a baby) all day indulge her nearly-forgotten love of writing?
Here, my friends. Here, on The Big Baby Blog. Oh, I won't only talk about big babies. But I will focus quite a bit on some of the issues I have encountered and will certainly continue to encounter as far as Xander's size is concerned. Am I an expert? Certainly not. However, I think most moms will tell you that it is moms who have the truest, rawest insights about children. I would like to share some of those. And I hope you will enjoy.
The first inkling that our baby might be of extraordinary size came at our twenty-week sonogram. My husband (Brian) and I waited in breathless anticipation as the sonogram tech maneuvered the wand on my belly and searched the terrain of my uterus for its precious little (ha!) occupant. Suddenly he appeared like an apparition out of the mist, looking distinctly human and waving his hands as if greeting his gape-mouthed parents. Could this recognizable being truly be the same as the flickering heartbeat we'd squinted at fourteen weeks before?
While we were enveloped in selfish wonder at the everyday miracle of conception, the tech was matter-of-factly clicking and measuring as though she were a developer plotting out a subdivision. She pattered on about head circumference and kidneys while I tried to grasp that this fuzzy vision was a baby, not a ghost.
"Babies at this stage are usually eight to ten ounces," I remember her telling me. I nodded. I had read this in one of the many baby books I had, at five months, already read and committed to memory. (In another life, I'd be a professor. Of literature. Not the baby kind, though.)
There was a pause, a nanosecond short of being worrisome.
"Your baby is a pound three."
Essentially, twice as big as expected.
Apparently mistaking my look of surprise for one of horror, the tech quickly explained, "Just because the baby is big at this stage doesn't mean he'll end up big."
I nodded dumbly as the tech peered at the screen, no doubt triple-checking this uncommon weight. Despite her reassurances, I knew. I knew we had a giant on our hands.
You can call it a mother's intuition if you like, but I don't take that much credit. I'm no geneticist, but I can use a tape measure and I come from tall people. At 5'10", I'm not a freak, but as a high-schooler in Ohio I could tell grown men if their parts were straight. (I am not a full head above the crowd in Texas, but that is another post for another day.) My husband is only slightly taller than average, but oh the genes we carry.
My father's family is mostly to blame. They come from solid Swedish farm stock, part of the European immigration of the early twentieth century. My father is 6'5" and his father only a few inches shorter before the weight of old age pressed down on him. My father's grandfather--my baby's great-great-grandfather--was also 6'5" in an era when the average man didn't top six feet even. My baby would be big. There was no turning back from this fact.
I did what any expectant mother would do--I went home and updated my baby registry. "If you would like to get clothes for Alexander," I wrote, now that the sonogram confirmed we should not name him Elena, "please pick out anything you think is cute. But please no newborn sizes. He is a big boy."
And then I waited.
At birth, Alexander was ten pounds, to the general astonishment of everyone in the room except my grandmother, who had looked at my belly at five months (many women have been smaller on delivery day) and predicted a scale-buster.
So why a blog about big babies? In the mediocre sea of mommy forums and unsubstantiated advice, why add my voice? Because I have quickly learned in Xander's first two months that no one talks much about big babies. Certainly, relatives marvel at them and strangers ogle them, but where is the advice about how to handle the challenges posed by larger-than-average babies? Where can a mom vent or share ideas about adapting standard baby advice for the decidedly nonstandard baby? And, most egotistically of all, where can a mom who talks exclusively to nonverbal beings (two cats and a baby) all day indulge her nearly-forgotten love of writing?
Here, my friends. Here, on The Big Baby Blog. Oh, I won't only talk about big babies. But I will focus quite a bit on some of the issues I have encountered and will certainly continue to encounter as far as Xander's size is concerned. Am I an expert? Certainly not. However, I think most moms will tell you that it is moms who have the truest, rawest insights about children. I would like to share some of those. And I hope you will enjoy.
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