Sam is 3 months old now, actually more than that, but I don’t do weeks—it’s too number intensive. All things baby tend to be number intensive. He’s 10 lbs. 3 oz. and 23 in. (well that was 2 weeks ago). He’s still a wee lad only in the 15th percentile for weight and 10th percentile for height which is proportionate: Wouldn't it be more anxiety producing to have a baby that was 15th percentile in weight and 90th percentile in height or vice versa? Even if the world of percentiles didn’t let me know how wee he is, there’s a whole kit and caboodle of women in the supermarket who let me know their child was THAT big at birth. Dave insists that I hear the emphasis in people’s speech where there isn’t any—“these pretzels are SALTY” (Seinfeld reference). The doctor is not worried about him so I’m not either; well today anyway…at 3am I worry about everything.
So even though Sam is wee, he is thriving. He does all the 3 mos. baby stuff—clasps his hands, giggles, smiles at his mum (that’s his best event), blows razberries, his head stays relatively steady (relative to whom? There are not other babies around his age so I say steady). His worst event is lying on his belly and pushing up. I blame this on the SIDS scare. He’s not allowed to sleep on his belly so he gets cranky when he’s belly-side down. Every healthy kid eventually learns to crawl, right? I just hope he doesn’t crawl into kindergarten.
At the movies the other night, Dave nudged me when a baby was shown and whispered, “Not as cute as Sam.” We hope you think he is a fraction of the cuteness we think he is…or a 90th percentile of cuteness. He’s definitely cuter than that baby in Matchpoint.
