Kids and the City

Size Doesn’t Matter: Raising a Child on the High End of the Growth Charts

When I found myself pregnant with our second child (our first are 18 months apart), I knew I felt different.

Having only been pregnant once before, I just thought all that pressure was normal.  I thought that was the price you had to pay for having babies so close in age.  I thought my poor old (25-year-old) uterus was, simply, tired.

When I caught a glimpse of my profile in a store window, I laughed out loud.  It literally looked like I had a basketball stuffed up my shirt.  The effect was even more exaggerated when I was holding my son, which was often.  He would sling one leg up over my large belly.  The sight was, I believe, comical.

When I wasn’t smiling at people who cast me sideways glances (what was she thinking, getting pregnant when she still has a baby?), I was trying to deal with the general uncomfortableness in my pelvic area.  I relayed my concerns to my OB/GYN, who assured me that I was measuring only slightly above my gestational timeline.  Since my first baby was small (6 pounds, 5 ounces), he had no reason to believe that I’d deliver the gigantic child that I thought I would.

 Boy was he wrong!

9 pounds and 8 ounces wrong.

No, I am not kidding.

The clothes we had brought to the hospital to bring our new baby home in barely fit on his big toe.  He skipped the newborn sizes altogether and went straight to the 3-6 month sizes.  Yet, he was as newborn as they come.  He barely opened his eyes during those first few weeks, he ate and he messed his diapers.  He smelled like a newborn, he acted like a newborn, he was a newborn.  But everywhere I went, people (you know, those people who like to fling their opinions left and right to total strangers?) would tell me how cute my little 6-month old was.

Eventually, I would just smile at them, knowing that I didn’t want to get into a long, drawn-out conversation about the sizes of my children and what I ate while pregnant to yield such results.

I knew then, that this would be something we would be battling throughout his childhood.

By the time Wyatt was a year old, he was wearing the same size clothing as his brother, who was two and a half.  I’d load the boys up in my double stroller and people would ask me if they were twins.  Again, this smiling technique (and a fast gait) worked to my advantage as I’d reply, “No, they aren’t they’re 18-months apart,” and I’d keep on moving.

When Wyatt was a toddler, barely fitting into his size 5 diapers, people would say, “Isn’t he potty trained yet?”

“Um, no, he isn’t even 2!”  And I’d move right along. 

Wyatt was, in fact, potty trained at 2 and a half - quite an accomplishment, I think, for a boy.

Preschool was even worse for him.  Several times, he’d be asked to perform well above his age level.  While all of my kids are exceptionally smart (I’m a mom, don’t judge), I am a big supporter of letting them act their ages, even if they can spell their names and count to one hundred before the age of five.

Everywhere we went, people thought he was older than he was.  He was, and still is, the tallest boy in the back row of the school picture.  I can pick him out of a crowd because I look for the tall one.  His peers look up to him, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I fear that the high expectations put upon him due to his height do not allow him the same breaks as other kids.  His extreme sense of right and wrong also play into this, but that is another discussion for another time.

Even though he broke by back, I held him constantly as a baby and toddler.  He still climbs onto my lap and cuddles despite the fact that he weighs more than half of what I do.  When he gets upset, I give him hugs, just like anyone would do for any 3rd-grader. 

Sure, he hangs with the older kids - friends of his brother, and he hangs well - but he should be allowed to be 9.  He needs to be 9.  It is okay to be 9, or 10, or 11 - whatever age he is.  I just want him to know that it is okay.  I want him to know that being in the 95th percentile is fine.  And if people expect you to act a certain way, that’s their problem, not yours. 

Like all my children, I just want him to be himself.

And if he needs a hug, by all means, have one.  It’s okay, you’re only 9.

Carrie Blankenship is the mother of three (four, if you count her goofy puppy).  She writes her way through motherhood at Stop Screaming I’m Driving!  She accepts bribes of lattes (especially Starbucks) and offers of free babysitting.  If you’re really lucky, she may even do your laundry.  She can be contacted at carrieb-at-seattlemomblogs-dot-com.