I love big fat babies, with their chubby cheeks and rolls in their thighs and dimples on their hands. I’ve always wanted the Popple to be a big chunk of a baby.
Here’s the problem – the Popple is not fat.
In fact, she’s downright petite. Whenever people see her, they exclaim, “Aww, she’s so small!” I know they mean it in a isn’t-she-a-cute-little-thing kind of way, but it kind of makes me feel bad, like I’m not feeding her well enough to help her grow.
My rational mind knows this isn’t the case. She’s breastfed and eats on demand, usually every two hours during the day. If I try to feed her when she’s not hungry, she screams at my boob and pummels it. There’s no making this girl eat if she doesn’t want to.
The doctors and midwives that I’ve taken her to have commented on how alert and active she is. This, they have pointed out, is more important than chunky thighs.
“Look at you and your husband,” they say, referring to our hobbit-like stature. “You’re not going to have a big baby.”
I know that they’re right, and yet I look at how much smaller she is than other babies her age and feel like I should be doing more to make the Popple more Popple-like, all round and stuff.
I can’t help it. I want her to be the best at everything, including growing. I know it’s not a competition, but if it was, I’d think the Popple should win everything. I’m so proud of her, even though her greatest accomplishment to date is figuring out how to grab a muslin and stuff it in her gob.
That’s my girl.