We must also give credit to the universal equation of baby anything + chubs = adorable. But see, strip Ben of his moomoo, and it's revealed that he actually carries most of his weight in his chipmunk cheeks. Cue the furrowed brows and thinly disguised frowns. Perfect strangers questioning whether Ben is truly the age we claim he is. Comments such as, "Our Annie is about his size! And she's five months younger!" Let me tell you: calling someone's baby skinny has about the same pleasant effect as someone asking you if you've gained weight.
And now for the numbers game (our babies could care less what shape, size or color they or their friends are, and yet the rat race is tragically foisted upon them). Despite being born a month early, Ben weighed in at a respectable 5lbs 15oz. Nearly 6 pounds! That put him in the 8th percentile for weight. Again, keep in mind he missed out on those last few chunking up weeks. At birth he was 19" tall, which put him in the 14th percentile for height. After about a month of life, he held steady at the 8th percentile for weight, but had dropped down to the 1st percentile for height. Somewhere between his 2-month and 4-month check-ups, he dropped even further to the 1st percentile for weight, remaining at the 1st percentile for height. Still, his development was completely on track, he was social and smiley, and remember, those cheeks are deceptive. Everyone poo-pooed this neurotic mother when she mentioned he seemed underweight, even our new pediatrician on Bainbridge. They would politely point to my small frame and dwarf-like height. As well as DH's. I don't have any photo evidence of myself handy, as my dad shot all slide film when I was a baby, but I can assure you I was fat. Here, DH is about half Ben's age and just look at the belly on that kid. Some things never change:
And so, although our doc assured us there was no need for concern, I stubbornly refused to stop worrying. Feeding Ben had turned into an absolute nightmare (this kid does not like breastmilk. He does not like any of the major brands of formula. Rest assured, every option has been exhausted. New nipples. Various flows of nipples. New bottles. Distraction. Lack of distraction. Standing (him!), sitting, reclining, strapped into a baby carrier, all manner of positions. Indoors, al fresco. Naked, clothed. Cold, warm, tepid. Bright, dark. Food for thought: it seems there is no shortage of well-meaning advice for new moms, and thank you very much, but all we really want is one hour to ourselves or maybe to be able to sleep again one day. We're all full up on unsolicited advice around here.) Case in point: on a recent weekend, Ben stayed with some of my aunts while I attended a wedding. They loved having him, and he adored playing with them, but when I asked how many little 4-oz bottles they thought he had, the number was a shocking 2 the first day and 3 the next. This, people, is not even enough to keep his eyeballs wet, but that was the result of "letting him tell us when he's hungry." Even DH can barely feed Ben; really, it seems the only two people in the world capable of giving Ben a bottle are myself and my sister. That is, unless you're driving, or it's the middle of the night and you're cozy in bed. As long as it is somewhat inconvenient to you, typically, Ben will take a bottle quickly and quietly, without issue.
As if there wasn't already enough guilt* that he arrived early, I now felt the weight of an underfed baby on my shoulders. Where most healthy babies were requesting multiple milk bongs, there was nothing I could do to make this kid take down anything even closely resembling a normal amount of breastmilk or formula. Sure, if I had nursed him, I wouldn't have known how much he was getting. Yet, his weight checks would have likely raised a red flag and La Leche Leaguers would have been called in on a bullhorn. Since I pumped initially and then moved on to formula, I knew—know—exactly how much nutrition this baby receives any given day. Not nearly enough. But if there is one thing I've learned, it's that you cannot force your child to eat (or to do anything, really). Pushing too hard has a deleterious effect not only on his relationship with food, but his relationship with you. Eating should be a pleasurable, nonchalant, everyday experience. In rational moments, I understand this. I am working really hard to let go of the fact that my kid is a little less than concerned with sustenance. Luckily, he does enjoy actual food much more than his liquid diet. And at his age, most babies are up to 3 meals/day and a couple of snacks - so essentially, 5 meals/day on top of their bottles/boobs.
However, the marching orders from our 9-month check-up yesterday (with our third pediatrician, this one here in Seattle, for the love of...) were somewhat disconcerting. Despite Ben's love of "food food," we're to stick to just a couple of meals a day, in hopes Ben will at least maintain his current level of formula consumption. We're to add butter and olive oil to everything he eats. We're to add whipping cream to each of his bottles. In short, someone finally listened to me, and the kid needs fattening up. While I'm completely on board with helping this kid gain some weight, DH and I have a new set of worries. Are babies really immune to artery-clogging? Will we permanently distort Ben's virgin palate, which heretofore gladly accepted kale, lentils, beets and the like—100% pure, unadulterated—into some sort of fat-lusting, butter-grubbing monster?
Oh friends, it's never easy, is it? And yet, I fully realize we have a happy, mostly healthy baby on our hands. He's hitting all his milestones, laughing more often than not, and he's put up with a fair amount of change and other BS since exiting his cozy womb. This recent story in the NYTimes really puts things in perspective (spoiler alert: if you cry easily, don't read it at work). Our problems are small (no pun intended), and life is good. We're off to another out of town wedding tomorrow, so have a good weekend. I'll see you guys back here next week.
*Oh, you haven't heard? Working 80-hour weeks is, apparently, not the most brilliant thing you can do in the third trimester. Standing for eight hours in a cramped and dirty ER, wondering if your dad is going to be ok has about the same marginal benefit. Attempting to sell your home, cleaning nooks and crannies of said home on hands and knees because the mop was already packed, and then moving into a new home in the dead of winter - somewhat less than ideal a month out from your due date. All you workaholic pregos, please take heed and for God's sake, kick those heels up once in a while.
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