My baby is huge. There is no other way to describe him. Sure, one might say that he is adorable, or sweet, but those are never the first observations made by friends and family. “What a big boy!” is the exclamation of choice. He looks as though he ate another child at daycare. His leg fat hangs over his ankles like a pair of heavy cargo pants, and his tree trunk legs get stuck in his Bumbo seat. This kid is a giant, and we love it.
At a recent check-up appointment, our doctor informed us that Oliver is in the 90th percentile in weight, height, and head size. I still think that the “head size” category was made up by mean doctors that want to laugh at block-headed children, but still, it exists. I was shocked to hear that my child was so big, given that I weighed two and a half pounds at birth and have spent much of my existence as a scrawny dude. This is unfamiliar territory.
In the end, we were extremely happy to hear that our baby is healthy and developing well. The percentiles are fun to brag about, but I am quickly learning that they really aren’t of much importance. I recently spoke to a doctor with whom I work, and he informed me that the percentiles often mean nothing. Children in the 90th percentile will gradually move closer to 50% as time passes, especially if the parents are average height. This means that I have very little time to gloat. My baby is currently King Infant, and his reign will be a short one. I need to show off my giant baby while I can.
I have already done this with one friend in particular. My buddy is a 6’5” former college athlete, and we often joke about our differences in stature. Our children, however, look like Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire in their prime. Bash Brothers. Eventually, my friend’s child will be an NFL linebacker, and my child will be his scrawny, pale-skinned, smooth talking agent. Until then, I plan on bragging about my giant baby. Once he’s skinnier, I will find new things to brag about. I doubt that will be hard to do, given his giant brain.