Stats

For someone who spent a considerable number of years working in professional sports, statistics were an intergral part of my daily existence. At one point I could tell you what batting average someone who just went 7-for-39 over a 15 game hitting streak would have or how to calculate slugging percentage- which was fascinating, considering that I can't even make change for a dollar. Upon entering parenthood, I learned that parents are obsessed with a whole new set of stats - those relating to your child's growth rate.

When Molly was born, she wasn't exactly "on the charts." If an average newborn these days is around 8 lbs, then Molly was "about 47 miles under the chart, living in a nuclear bunker." Her 3 lbs 1 oz of birth weight made her smaller than most packages of chicken I defrost in the microwave (not that I ever really tried to compare this, as she was really snarky about it the one time I tried to put her in there. ha ha.) She was 15 1/2 inches long at birth - which actually was pretty long for a 31 week baby, and REALLY DAMN LONG if you are the person harboring a 15 1/2 inch long alien being in your uterus and you yourself are only 62 inches long.

Anyhow, in her early weeks of life, I was a wee bit obsessed with how she was doing on the "growth charts" that doctors and more importantly evil competing mommies follow to see how incredibly bad of a parent you must be if your child is not as high up on the charts as the most recent Fergie tune. My child was about as high up on the charts as "American Idol Presents: Bucky Covington with Special Guests 2 Live Crew - the Remix Album!"

At her two month checkup, Molly was still not "on the charts" but she could at least see them without the aid of a highpowered telescope. By four months (when she actually should have only been two months old) she was in the 1-2% range for weight, I think, and the 5th percentile for height. I could breathe a bit - I mean heck, I'm only in the 5% range for height myself without heels on, right?

As I chronicled intermittently on this blog, Molly was always a squirrely eater and with every meal I fretted that if she didn't eat that ONE LAST CHICKEN NUGGET, she was surely going to plummet off the charts again and someone would call CPS on me because my child looked like a 2 foot tall Brazilian runway model with a chain smoking habit.

And then, she started to eat a bit better. And we discovered the joys of Pediasure, caloric nectar of the gods. And she began drinking milk like the Dairy Council of America was bankrolling her. And I begat a new little monster to fret over, and stopped worrying so much about miss Molly, as she sure seemed to be burning through her clothing sizes with frightening speed.

Last week she had her 3 year checkup at the doctor, and she was 32.5 pounds and 38.75 inches. For those keeping score at home, that's roughly the 65th percentile for weight and the 80TH PERCENTILE for height!! At some point in the last 3 years, her genes realized that she is, in fact, daddy's girl after all. I no longer have a toddler - I have a what looks like a 6 year old who is going to start getting scouted for the WNBA or women's arena football. She comes up well past my WAIST now. It is actually painful for me to lug her around, although I do it anyway because despite an abundance of nearby parks and climbing structures and gymnastics lessons, mommy is still the BEST jungle gym. And I have the bruises to prove it.

While at the pediatrician, Molly's doctor who has been seeing her since she was literally palm-size for Dan asked her some questions to test her language and comprehension skills. HA HA HA. As Dan pointed out, perhaps he should have asked them in Spanish if she wanted a real challenge.

Dr. S: "What's your name?
M: "Molly!"
Dr. S: "Do you know your whole name?
M: "My name is MOLLY. MOO. CAFFRIN. HEARSCH!" (At some point, we have GOT to stop calling her "Mollymoo," as she really does think that is part of her given name. Oops)

Dr S: "OK Molly, if you were hungry, tell me, what would you want?"
M: (thinking about it for about .00000001 seconds) "CHICKEN."

Dr S: "If you were cold, what would you want?"
Answer he was probably looking for "coat!" Answer he got: (thoughtful pause)..."I would want to ZIP UP MY JACKET."

Dr S: "And if you were tired, what would you do?"
M: "Lay down and take a nap!"

He asked her if she could put her shoes on by herself - velcro sandals, which she usually can do. She struggled with getting her heel to go in correctly, but the doc was pleased with what he saw. He started talking to me about something else, and a few seconds later Molly stomps her foot down, flings off her shoe and says "Well I'm TRYING TO but these shoes are NOT COOPERATING!!!"

One day last week a car drove past us and she said "Mommy why that car has no roof on it?" I said "that kind of car is called a convertible, honey. It doesn't have a roof! So if it rains, you would get wet. You only drive a convertible when it's sunny out." She says "and if it snows, you would get SNOWFLAKES ALL OVER your seats!!"

Now, anytime she sees a topless car she yells out "HEY!!! DERE'S ANOTHER CONVERTIBLE MOMMY!!" with perfect enuciation. "