I am not the only one to wonder how such a large child was born of such average to small parents. At Jacob’s one-month well visit, the pediatrician looked at Jacob, looked at me, and presumed that John must be a big guy. At just five-ten and lean, he’s not really much larger than average.
During Jacob’s first year, it was humorous to me to share either his age or his birth weight with curious strangers. When I went to the nursing class at the hospital before we were discharged, I was the smallest woman in the room—and I had the largest baby. I remember telling someone that he was three weeks old when they guessed he was three months. By six months, the little man had fallen to the mid-range of his peers, but compared to me, he was still a big guy.
Check out our relative head sizes. Scary, no?
Since Jacob’s started walking, I’ve found there is at least one benefit to being a shorter mom. Because he’s about half as tall as I am (can you believe that?!), when I reach down to hold his hands and support him as he walks, I don’t have to bend over. John, on the other hand, rightfully complains of an aching back after ten or fifteen minutes of this.
While I do sometimes have to go on my tippy toes to lie the little guy in his crib at night, I don’t have to bend too far to pick him up when he’s on the ground, and if he’s about to fall, I’m that much closer to catching him.
Considering I’ve never really appreciated the freedom to wear any size heel I want—an inch is plenty for me, thank you—I’m glad I’ve finally found the beauty of being short. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I found it in motherhood!
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