On our weekly visit to the doctor/baby specialist Mrs. Blackwell and I got a comprehensive update on our little guy yesterday.
All is well. Our doctor was smiling and the nurses were too. Good vibes abounded.
The non-stress tests went perfectly. Ultrasounds look fantastic. His heart beat was great. Blood flow was right where it should be and he was as active as he should be.
On the outside, his head is a good size. Not too big, though not small. His legs are long but not excessively so.
Moving further down, his feet are very, very big. At 3 inches, I'm not sure what percentile that puts him, but the nurses seemed quite impressed.
I'd dwell on his feet longer but, there are literally bigger places to direct my attention.
|"Love me Daddy, for I am your son."|
Specifically, I am talking about his gigantic gut.
Through the haze of white, black and gray that make up ultrasounds, it can be difficult to determine just what you're looking at.
Mrs. Blackwell is particularly good at deciphering the blobs and smears and is frequently on the same page as the ultrasound nurse. Together, they identify feet, hands and a face where I see a deflated beachball, a Jackson Pollock painting and the scary old man from the 'Phantasm' movies.
So, it was particularly jarring then to notice on my own, that my son, our perfect little guy, is sporting a world class spare tire. I required no assistance to spot his prominent ponch.
It is, we were told, very, very large
95th percentile large as it turns out.
Mrs. Blackwell immediately flipped the guilt switch and wondered allowed if it was something she'd been eating. Upon further reflection, we determined that her insanely healthy high-fiber, fruit -and-vegetable laden diet was not to blame.
In fact there was no cause for blame as the nurse quickly allayed our fears, telling us all was well and he is still very much a work in progress. (So, keep up with the bananas, sprouts and greens Mrs. Blackwell, you're doing just fine.)
Babies bodies boast cartoonish proportions anyways so, we'll wait before letting our concerns turn into perpetual anxieties about his giant feet and how his career path is being narrowed to grape stomper at a regional winery.
|My niece's reaction to me suggesting "My head isn't that big."|
And, as someone with a large cranium (7 & 3/4 inch hat size) I know first hand that abnormalities aren't always a bad thing.
That said, we are now past the 34-week mark so I suppose it's natural to find new things to worry about.
But, lately I've noticed our causes for concern are expanding.
How many times do baby clothes need to be washed before they can be worn?
Do we need to bleach the kitchen counter to ensure it's sterile enough to prepare baby food? Perhaps we should just install a new counter.
Is my car clean enough to put car seat and then a baby in? (For what it's worth, my car is not. Guess what I'm doing this weekend?)
Perhaps these worries are just a way of helping us focus the energies of our unbridled anticipation. We can't wait for him to get here but, judging from his steady pulse he's content where he his.
For now, we'll just have to follow his lead.