The Size of Things to Come
When Meg was still pregnant, I'd joke about our baby's probable birth weight. Nine or 10 pounds sounded perfectly reasonable to me, and I had very little experience with gauging the relationship between an expectant mother's giant belly and the size of the baby within. If I'd been a little less conscious of Meg's feelings, I might have even suggested a much higher number. Is 13 pounds reasonable? Why are you crying?
Now, of course, I realize how truly idiotic that question would have been. A 10 pound baby is big. Really big. I might lose or gain two pounds of water weight on a long weekend run, but a two pound shift in a toddler's total size is no joke.
Suddenly, half of Asher's clothes don't fit. His Papa (that'd be Meg's Dad, for anyone keeping track of all the nicknames floating around) noticed earlier this week that we'd dressed Asher in an outfit that prevented the poor bean from fully extending his legs.
How did you get so long so fast, little guy?
Just a couple weeks ago, sack of potatoes was a viable mode of conveyance. It allowed Dad to make a pot of coffee with relative ease – which, by the way, is still the litmus test I use when choosing an infant hold. Now, sack of potatoes is one hell of a gamble. A newborn's freak-out is never more intense than a couple head jiggles and a deafening scream. Asher's core muscles are now seem more fully developed than my own, and when he suddenly arches his back, it feels something like a ten pound carp trying to fling itself from your shoulder.
I spent many hours those first couple weeks bobbing a tiny circuit around the center of our house – kitchen, living room, dining area, repeat – babbling repeated phrases.
"BAH buh buh duh. Bah DUH buh duh."
"CALM our selves. CALM our selves. CALM our selves. "
If a baby weighs somewhere south of eight pounds, no problem. You can do it for hours. Really. I don't pretend to be a particularly strong dude, but add a couple extra pounds, and all sorts of stuff starts to go haywire. The bobbing-march step is suddenly causing serious hip problems. Keeping an arm elevated to support his gargantuan cranium for more than 10 minutes is about as much as my spaghetti arms can take.
But listen to that! As I write this, Asher's bouncing in his Ikea-aping Svan, cooing for mom. What a good little plumper.