At Nathan’s six-month check-up, I told his doctor about the massive trench-rash going on in his diapers. She said, “See these red dots? That’s a sign of yeast.” Yeast? Lady, he’s a baby, not a sourdough loaf.
My son weighs 22 lbs 13 oz which is in the 98th percentile. He’s 28 inches long which fits in the 95th percentile. His 18 and a half-inch head? Off the charts. Also, a monkey jumped into the room and Nathan drop-kicked the hairy beast. The doc scanned her charts but couldn’t find a number. I told her I’d have to get him a spacesuit cause it’d be out of this world!
There haven’t been any teeth yet, but I can tell they’re coming. Lately during breastfeeding, he gnaws or clamps down and throws his head back like my nipple is a Stretch Armstrong doll and not a nerve-filled part of my body. He also says things like, “Mamamamama,” which does not translate to “mother” but rather “shake your laffy taffy, your laffy taffy.”
And about the diaper rash: what worked better than giving my son’s butt a kabuki facial with the doctor-suggested-clotrimazole was the oatmeal bath I learned via parenthacks. I also played Hall and Oates for good measure, but that’s because I prefer their version of “Maneater.” Yeah, I’m looking at you Nelly Furtado!
Nathan was first weighed on that scale when he was three days old. His tiny body sunk into the bucket seat and I never thought he would be any bigger than that. And now, he’s only a few ounces away from being beefy enough to take on a silverback. I’ll have to take him to those places off the freeway where they weigh 18-wheelers.