Last Friday I had to take Sophie back for a follow up visit to the pediatrician. She's petite, my little bean, and that has the doctor worried. Me? I go back and forth. On your average day I can tell myself that she is healthy, happy and smart. She's meeting her milestones and is one energetic little thing. Plus, I was a small baby. Heck, I was a small kid. At 11 years old, I was five feet tall and 65 pounds. Think about that for a moment. That means I was just five inches shorter than I am now and roughly 1/3 the weight. (I don't actually weight 195 pounds, but I'm closer to that than to 130, which is double. HUGE sigh.)
But then I go to the doctor and I see the words: Failure To Thrive on Sophie's chart and I lose all my confidence. My eyes fill up and I have a hard time saying all of this to the doctor. The doctor says she just wants to run some tests to make sure there aren't any obvious problems because she has only gained 5 ounces in the last month and she should have gained more like a pound. She wants to make sure there isn't something wrong with her thyroid or anything. She says she would love to send her to a pediatric nutritionist but that the only one in the area is full of kids that are overweight and it would be six months before we could get her in for an appointment.
I hate this. I hate feeling like I need to shove food down my daughter's throat. I hate keeping a journal of everything she eats. I hate trying to find the most calorie-laden food to give her so she gets the biggest bang for her buck. I worry that all of this will have a greater effect on her, that she'll wind up with some sort of eating disorder because I was stuffing her like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.
Mostly, though, I pray that nothing really is wrong with her. That the bullet I feel like I dodged when she came out perfect won't catch me now.