You’re a bruiser, a solid unit; our little colossus.
As I hold you in my now, quivering arms, all 13lbs 7.5ozs of you; I wonder to myself whether after just six weeks, my little boy won’t be little for very much longer.
You’re already near topping the charts in the percentile tables. A view of an average, across the board look at boys aged six weeks in the UK currently ranks you in the 98th percentile. This means, on average, there are only two boys out of every 100 that are bigger than you. Sure these things are not necessarily constant – your sister went from 80 percentile down to below 20 percentile over the course of a year – but everyone still looks at her as though she is big for her age.
When you were born you nestled perfectly between elbow and hand, back flat along my forearm. You can still rest there, but with back creaking and strength of your neck and head leading to a more inquisitive outlook on life, you feel happier – more comfortable peering over a shoulder. Which is a great place to be – as you have a very kissable head; both my children have very kissable heads.
And still you grow – in proportion, at a healthy rate. Lauren calls you “Hungry Harry”. You’re no longer in new born nappies – outgrowing clothes quicker than we can bring the next age range down from the loft. You are drinking formula measurements for a three to five month old. You are still only six weeks.
I’m starting to think that one day my little boy may tower over me. We can’t be sure of that. Percentiles change – growth spurts, are just that. Now you may look like an ideal candidate to play middle blocker for the Great Britain Volleyball Team – tomorrow, well the rest of the world might have caught up with you.
In size, maybe – but then you and Lauren will always be off the charts in terms of the happiness you bring in to our lives.