Dear Spike:
You turned two months old on Friday. We celebrated with a trip to the clinic, where a nice nurse weighed you (8 pounds, 3 ounces) before sticking four needles so deep into your thighs that I thought the tips might come out the other side.
You screamed. Your mother cried. And I watched in dumbfounded awe as you gasped for breath and your face turned three different shades of purple.
Your sheer delicacy still amazes me. You’ve nearly doubled in size since you were born, but most of the newborns we meet still dwarf you.
The doctor told us you’re in the fifth percentile for height and weight. Basically, that means that in a group of 20 babies your same age, you’d be the smallest. But she seemed rather pleased with your growth and — other than the fact that your right ear is slightly larger than your left — she gave you a clean bill of health.
That’s enough for me. You’re small, but you’re healthy. Tiny but tough.
And I still love you more than anything in the world.
Love,
dad
1 comment:
Those shots are heartbreaking, aren't they? And unfortunately, they don't get any easier. If there was ever a moment that you could put all the pain onto yourself, to take it away from them.
Good growing, Mia! Michael's no giant either, so you'll be a good match for one another. : )
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