Apparently I'm Starving My Child

Summer turned nine months today. Can you believe she has survived? I'm such a slacker that I am very impressed with myself. People thought I was nuts for being super paranoid when she was younger. I guess I should have explained to them that I knew I was going to slack off later, and I figured that when you average super paranoid with totally too relaxed you get just about right. But I probably wasn't paranoid enough.

I still have toxic poison in the cupboard below the sink. I really don't know where else to put it, but if I just started thinking about it instead of writing about it I'm sure I could find a solution. I felt pretty guilty about that until I read that the French are totally relaxed about child-proofing, and since I pretty much want to be French, I figure I'm doing all right.

And that's not all. Not all the outlets are covered, we have lamps that are just waiting to be shook and then toppled over, I have no idea what's on our floors, and the bathroom is basically a toxic waste dump. Oh, and I really have no idea when I feed Summer.

I nurse her when she wakes up and when she goes to bed, and then pretty much anything goes from there. I think, maybe, I sort of nurse her four times a day and feed her twice a day. As far as the times of these "meals," I have no idea. If she's hungry, I nurse her, unless I've nursed her recently, and then I give her solids. She seems happy.

Earlier today, I realized that Summer is just getting pickier and I'm going to have to plan meals for her the same way I plan meals for us. Which is rarely, but I have really good intentions to do so. And right now, I have the ingredients for a dozen different meals, so I feel prepared.

Anyway, the point of this post, aside from celebrating Summer's amazing survival skills, is to say that at her 9-month check-up, the doctor was worried about Summer's weight.

Oh, my goodness, the m key is sticking and of course I have a daughter with not one but two ms in her name! Let's just call her little one.

Her weight has gone from the 10th percentile to the 35th percentile to the 47th percentile to the 53rd percentile to the 27th percentile and now to the 10th percentile again. The curve does not look like it's supposed to.

Apparently, the rolls on her legs and her massive cheeks don't mean much.

So I get interrogated about how often I feed my child. I am not good with interrogations. I get nervous and confused and I always look guilty. If I ever get framed for murder, I'm screwed.

I felt so awkward about not knowing how much I give this child to eat. I just feed her until she seems okay. How much water do I give her? As much as she wants. Little babies know how much they need, right?

Ugh. So, I'm going back in for a weight check in a month, and I'm supposed to feed her three square meals a day, give her snacks, and be careful not to overdo the water.

But seriously, does this baby look like she's deprived to you?



P.S. I love being a mom. I love playing hide and seek with this girl. I love watching her gobble up her food after she smushes it in her hands. I love the way she absolutely refuses to allow the doctor to examine her mouth. I love the way her eyes light up when she sees her daddy. I love the way she will play with her book for minutes on end. I love Summer.