I knew about how tall she was because when we took her to the fair she could go on many of the rides that she wanted to go on, but I had no idea her weight was equal to her height. Sophia is in the ninety-sixth percentile for height and the ninetieth for weight. She is forty-two and three quarter inches tall and forty-two pounds. Our child who seems to survive on air and sunshine in an area without the sunshine is doing great. Who knew the air had so many calories? The boy, the child that seems to eat his weight in milk, baby food, and graham crackers, is in the eighty-fifth percentile for height and doesn’t even reach the chart for weight. I should have him checked for worms. Really.
Walking to the room to wait for the doctor, we approach the scale to weigh the girl. She, just like last year, refuses to stand on the scale. She had a meltdown and melted into puddle against the wall holding her bunny and backpack she insisted on bringing. “Do you want to weigh your bunny?” the nurse asks.
“No! No! No!” she cried. After several attempts at trying trick her into getting on the scale, I just picked her up, stood there with the sobbing child, and then weighed myself without her…just like last year. Last year she weighed thirty-two pounds and was thirty-nine inches tall.
She passed all the milestone questions. “Does she know at least three colors?” Yes, Sophia knows all of her colors and even in the order they appear in the rainbow. “Can she dress herself?” Yes. “Can she speak in full sentences?” Yes…technically. Half the time I don’t know what the heck she’s talking about, but full sentences do happen. Maybe someday I’ll be able to get her to tell me about her day at school. Even with prompting, she doesn’t say a word this year. Last year if I prompted her she would at least say that they sang songs or something. This year when I ask she responds with, “No! No! don’t ask me!” or “No! No! Don’t tell me!” when I try prompting. She does like school though. She often asks if she can go to school or if it’s time to get ready yet.
When it came time for shots the doctor described this bee they have that is a vibrating ice pack they put on the arms of kids Sophia’s age to numb the area so they don’t freak out about the shots as much. I just looked at him as he described it and said, “You saw her at the scale didn’t you?”
“Yes, ” he chuckled I saw.
“This will be interesting.”
“Yeah it might not work.”
We tried it and she fussed about even having the “bee” on her arm and then watched as the nurse put the shot in her arm and began to pull away. Yeah there really isn’t any tricking my child into things. It’ll ether happen or it won’t go well. Usually it’s the latter.
The nurse offered her a tiny toy lizard, a ring with a purple gemstone, and two princess stickers. “No! No! No! I don’t want it!” Yeah I’ll just take those. She’ll want them in the car.
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