All right, I’ve got a problem.
Well, at least both grandmothers think I have a problem. And when two grandmas think you have a problem, it does really become a problem in more ways than one, if you know what I mean.
I’ll cut right to the chase. My daughter, she is among the teeniest of Teeny Manolos.
She wasn’t born extremely small, a bit less than seven pounds, a week before her due date. She was breastfed exclusively until eight months, half formula and half breastmilk for the next month, and then formula exclusively. I’ll write about my adventures in pumping at another time.
Suffice it to say that girlfriend isn’t really toeing the line in the weight department. She actually lost weight from her 9 month well-baby to the 12 month well-baby exam. She rings in at an unimpressive 18 pounds. Which puts her in the 6th percentile for weight. She’s in the 14th for height, but she’s never been past the 20th percentile in any category since birth. Her doctor showed me her plot points on the growth chart, and she is advancing up the curve as she is supposed to. She’s just on the lower end of it.
Developmentally, she’s right on track in every other way. She began walking at 10.5 months, and can clap and wave and grasp small objects like nobody’s business. She’s not talking in words, but her brother pulled the same crap, and didn’t talk until almost 18 months. When he did, he spoke in perfectly formed sentences, so I’ll cut her a bit of slack on that one.
I would definitely describe her as a picky eater, and not a hearty eater, either. I think our main problem right now is that she refuses to eat anything she can’t pick up herself. She is so NOT ready to feed herself with a spoon, though. I’ve tried and it just ends up in lots of wailing and teeth-gnashing and food on the floor. She’s much too fond of flinging things onto the floor at this point.
I will add that my husband and myself, we are not small people. Not in height, or at this stage in our lives, girth. I’ve always been, ahem, “big-boned” and my husband is a former defensive lineman. Which is to say, you would never pick a fight with either of us in a bar. As for the Munchkin, he was always in the 90th percentile or above for height and weight as a baby. He is now very tall and very, very slim. However, both sets of gradparents, and great-grandparents, for that matter, are all quite small. My husband and I are familial aberrations, if you will.
So, it has come to the point where one grandmother is offering to pay for specialists to run tests on baby girl, while the other keeps clucking and making noises about “failure to thrive” and that kind of annoying talk that implicates I am a bad, bad, mother. Never mind that the child is as loud and rambunctious as any group of drunk bikers.
Should I worry? Should I call and order some specialists like my MIL wants me to? Is it a grandma thing?
What say you, dear readers? The readers of the Manolosphere are well-known to be the sharpest crayons in the box, so I await your advice.