Dear !@$#%! Baby,
As is tradition, we had your 18-month check up shortly after your 19-month of being alive anniversary. Because, clearly, we weren’t going to take you in on Christmas Day, which is your extremely awesome half birthday.
Lovin’ life and his banana chocolate malt. The grilled cheese and turkey? Not so much.
Three months ago, there was starting to be some concern about your growth. Mainly that you weren’t really growing. We weren’t expecting you to go from the bottom of those percentile charts to the tippy top, but we needed you to not totally FALL OUT THE BOTTOM either. So for the past 12 weeks we’ve been shoving the most caloric and the fattiest of foods into your gullet. You want a big fat Five Guys burger? OK! You want mac and cheese? You got it! You want french fries? Super Size ’em! You want shakes and peanut butter and ice cream and cookies? Done.
You had a few good runs with veggies, including a month long obsession with broccoli. You chug milk like a frat boy with beer. ALL OF THE Goldfish Crackers are not enough Goldfish Crackers. And then you started doing the frustrating toddler games. Love something one day, hate it the next. Then I spend a week figuring out what you like now. And you love it for a week and throw it on the floor. All the while, you still aren’t gaining weight because you burn it off running around like the mofo tornado you are.
THE CAT STILL OUTWEIGHED YOU. It was a joke when you were born but now it’s getting sort of sad.
Teaching each other the Art of the Selfie
You grew upwards almost as little as you grew outwards. I was finally able to pack away your 9-month sized clothes. Twelve month pants are bordering on too short, but I’ll have to roll the 18-month ones up for a looooong time. Not to mention the pants that your non-existent belly can’t hold up, turning you into a Thug Life type pants sagger. HASHTAG HILARIOUS.
All that said, you only gained a pound so now you weigh the same as the cat. You grew half an inch so you’re gonna continue to be short like me. BUT apparently your height-to-weight ratio doo-daddy puts you in the 20th percentile for THAT so while you’re off the charts everywhere else, that is supposed to put my mind at ease and you’re totally fine.
You still aren’t saying much, aside from Dada, baba ba (bubble bath) and the occasional and frustratingly whiny mamaaaaa. You still spend way too much time with those stupid caveman grunts but you’ve at least expanded your auditory vocabulary to include what are meant to be car sounds, dog barks, vacuum noises and cat purrs. While your growth was a major concern, your lack of speech was a close second. And again, supposedly quelling my fears, I was told it was fine and not to worry unless you didn’t say a few new words within the next three months.
We didn’t tell him we were there to get shots. And not the boozy-type.
Here’s the deal. Your first pediatrician was a young doc, fresh out of school, no kids of his own yet, and a little worrywortish, as it turns out. I liked him, he was nice (and pretty cute) and being a first-timer myself, I was fine with worrying. I was doing it on my own already. He had me concerned about your lack of growth and your “speech delay”. He ordered hearing tests and blood draws, told me to butter everything and left copious notes in your file. He left the office right after your 12-month check-up. Like RIGHT after. Like you were his last patient there, ever. A few weeks later, we were assigned to another pediatrician in the practice. This one was older, a woman, with children, and much more seasoned (read: less worrywortish). She all but deleted all of the notes left by Dr. Young Dude and told me on our first visit to not worry about any of it.
Which is basically what she did to me yesterday, too. Your weight is fine, your speech is slow to happen but not “delayed”, everything is fine. I don’t have to worry. FINE. But look, Dr. Youlady, I’ve been worrying for 19 months, thanks to Dr. Thatguy, I can’t just turn it off! So now I’m just worrying about not worrying enough.
Basically what it all boils down to is you’re doing awesome. I love your animated “conversations” when you decide to turn the grunts off; I love your bulldog kisses and your fist bumps. I love that Dada taught you the sign for poop in five minutes and you thought it was hilarious and that you say please by viciously rubbing your tummy. You still drive me nuts but I suppose you always will.
Love you, Crazy Face.