When it comes to height, I measure in at almost exactly average for an American woman. Tedd, among American men, is even a bit taller. And yet somehow we have ended up with two fun size children.
Now to me they seem to be of a perfectly normal height and weight. Mainly because there's no one to compare them to in our household. It's only when folks pick up either P. or Bo - or I pick up their kids - that I can't help but realize that no, I guess they are not normal when it comes to either height or weight.
Why do I say that?
The 2t Kenneth Cole skinny jeans I just pulled out of Bo's things are too big on P.'s waist.
People assume P. must be going on four years old when she turned five months ago.
Which kind of makes sense considering I was just wearing P. As in today.
Meanwhile Bo at nineteen months old hardly weighs more than one friend's four month old.
And probably isn't much taller - I dressed him in a nine month snap t-shirt without realizing.
I can carry one kid on each hip and walk; I can carry P. at least a quarter of a mile while pushing the stroller.
The stroller that rides like it's empty with my one and a half year old baby in it.
P. sat rear-facing until her fourth birthday and at this rate she'll be in a 5-point harness seat forever.
Plus today this happened:
And it never occurred to me to say "Don't sit in the doll stroller" because she's not going to break it.
This is all fine. Someone has to be in the 2nd percentile, after all, and when I think about all the hullabaloo over childhood obesity I guess I can't complain about having truly little little ones. But truthfully, it is a little weird sometimes to have people mistake P. for the world's most composed and erudite three-year-old and to watch babies much younger than Bo (preemies even) outgrow him by leaps and bounds.
Nearly everyone in my family and the mister's family falls squarely in the territory of average. Why, then, are both my children so small?