A few weeks ago I had Hayden’s nine month wellness check up with her pediatrician. Some Mommys I know actually look forward to these visits. They can’t wait to see how much their baby has gained, how tall they have grown and to drill the poor doctor on every miniscule thing their child has done (insert crazy Mom voice here: “This morning my little darling pooped orange- Now I know she ate carrots last night but I have this nagging feeling there’s something more to it…”) I, on the other hand, have learned to detest these visits more than anything in the world. See, I had made a deal with God before she was born. I promised Him that if he gave me a well behaved child with no issues, I would be the best Mommy and never drink… except on weekends and holidays that fell during the week. Needless to say, I am writing this with a glass of Cabernet in hand.
It didn’t take long to learn that Hayden wasn’t like the other babies. She was very vocal from the start. While other babies cooed, Hayden screeched. While the sound of other babies crying was sweet, Hayden’s was the equivalent of a fire truck and a train passing by at the same time… and then colliding. It wasn’t long until our pediatrician mumbled the words I had been dreading… colicky baby. And why wouldn’t she be? It’s not like I had an easy pregnancy (gestational diabetes… nothing like being on a horrible diet while you’re pregnant), then a failed induction (I love getting violated 100s time in a day then told “c-section time!”) followed by a bout with the very rare (of course) post-partum pre-eclampsia… but that’s a story for another time. Why wouldn’t I have a colicky baby? Because I had made a deal with God? I had learned to dread these pediatrician visits.
Today was no exception. After waiting 25 minutes in the waiting area while Hayden flirted with every boy over four years old that walked by, we were led into the patient room. The usual occurred, she was weighed, measured her body, then her head. Then the nurse looks up and says “That can’t be right.” I didn’t even know what she was talking about but there’s one thing I was sure of, it was right. She comes over again with measuring tape in hand. “How can that be?”- Oh, I thought, it can be. Then she turns to me and says “Your daughters head is so large that it is off the charts. I’m going to write that it’s half a centimeter smaller so it can be in the 100th percentile”. Now, I thought, that is reassuring.
So, the kid has an abnormally sized head. Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? I waited patiently for our doctor to come in. Trying not to sound crazy, I asked if I should be concerned with the fact that my daughter has a watermelon sized noggin. In my head, I was thinking that perhaps she would tell me that her head was so big because she was a genius. That would be the reason why she was such a difficult baby! Because she was an exceptionally gifted and desperately needed to be stimulated! The doctor looked at me and said “Well, you have a big head, it’s probably hereditary.” Sigh… Did I mention I hate going there?
I blocked out everything else she said. Then I went home and told everyone that she has a big head because she’s most likely going to be a very advanced child. I rest assured that you will all keep my secret.
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