'If only I'd put on a mere 3lbs in ONE year!' I grumbled to myself today in the pediatrician's office. Three pounds!
I was there with Cheeky and Monkey for Monkey's 3 yr check up. Him having just had a birthday 'n' all. And bless his very little cotton socks, it seems Mum/Mom's double cream added to the macaroni cheese, hasn't done much for his weight gain, but jeez-Louise, it's not done me any favours either.
I blame the kitchen.
No, I blame Him Downstairs.
For giving me the kitchen.
Ha! If he'd not surrendered to my incessant whinging about my crap-to-cook-in-former-kitchen, (perfect for opening up a bag of salad greens and tossing a baby carrot on top) then I wouldn't be in the Nigella mess I'm in with my waistline right now, would I?
Anyway, that's another beat-myself-up-about-my-crazy-lack-of-willpower where desserts are concerned dialogue, that, frankly, am closing my ears to right now. For the record, since the 3rd birthday party, and the last crumb of fattening ice cream cake I will taste for a while, (sigh) I've put the Nigella cookbook to the back of the cupboard and it's been fruit and salad overload for me. Yawn. I mean, yum! Raw food all the way. Does uncooked brownie mix count as diet food too?
But, back to the doctors. My pint size second born has gone from 23lbs to 26lbs in 12 months. He's also grown a 'whopping' 1 1/12 inches. I fear a future for him as a jockey and not a quarterback. And him, an American boy. Tiny Tim in a world of the supersized.
However, from the way he battles with his big brother, I think he'll be able to hold his own in the playground somehow.
"How does he eat?" asks the doctor.
"With his mouth and a fork!" Am tempted to quip back, but instead I plump for the more acceptive, " Well. For a toddler. He loves his meat, fruit and veggies." Was I reading a script?
I fail to mention his penchant for all things chocolate and candy related, as am not in the mood for a lecture of the cavity inducing nature. I've already been in the exam room for an hour and the boys are starting to climb the walls. Literally.
So, we proceed to let the doctor poke and prod him and Monkey is given a clean bill of health despite his total refusal to pee in a cup for the doctor. We have enough challenges trying to get him interested in peeing in the potty, let alone a tiny plastic recepticle, thank you very much.
"And you stopped the bottle a long time ago didn't you?" The doctor asks.
I avoid looking at him as I nod enthusiastically, whilst keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.
Oh! Another Suri Cruise I hear you cry. Always dragging that bottle around. But, no, we're not that bad. Quite. I did try and take the bottle away. Honestly. We did the whole 'Now you are three, the bottle fairy's come to take your bottles away to babies that really need them' routine. And he looked me in the eye and burst into tears. Well, being a total softie Mum/Mom, I couldn't take it and promptly told him the fairy said he could have his morning milk in it for a few more days, until they pop by for it at the weekend!
I know! How many good Mummy points did that cost me then?
You see, he's my baby and I guess and there's some little things I'm finding hard to let go of as he grows bigger. When he does perform on the potty, on the outside I'm cheering him. On the inside I am crying, 'Don't grow up yet!'
The fact he is so small and looks like a 2 year old doesn't help.
Again, I blame Him Downstairs. He's the one with the skinny genes/jeans afer all.
This is my last summer with Monkey by my side full-time. Pre-school and a whole world of other outside influences beckons. Plus, hopefully a few more pounds. So, what the heck if he's tiny and I baby him a leetle too much? I want to enjoy every last second I have with him cuddling me and cosing up together, before he goes all Darth Vadar on me. It's not going to last forever. He eats. He sleeps. He grows (a bit). He's fine.
After all, they say the best things come in small packages don't they?
