Warning: This post couldn’t have less to do with Hallowe’en if it tried.
I think I’ve cracked the whole motherhood conundrum. No, really. Raffles is fast approaching six months and she’s still here, alive and kicking, Especially kicking. And scratching. And punching. And head-butting. And eye-poking. And hair-pulling. But, hey, what are a few troublingly feral tendencies between friends? The main thing is that she has changed beyond all recognition from a puny little waif who spent her first week in an incubator to the fizzing bundle of vitality who now thrusts her beaming face at me first thing every morning. I am positively jubilant at the progress she’s made. So why, when I should be rhapsodising ad infinitum on developmental milestones met and surpassed, am I beset by nagging feelings of mild trepidation?
Because of this (The Times’s firewall deftly circumnavigated, I’m sure you’ll agree), my friends. Another day, another study to scare the bejesus out of the, already harried, child-owning population. Don’t get me wrong, any research that aims to further the advancement of prenatal care is a fundamentally very good thing. But, God, the last thing we need is yet *another* thing to worry about. (P.s. Copy-editors, Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones, really? Bit of a sweeping generalisation, there, don’t you think? We get that you need to create saleable copy but, come on, stop scaring us!)
There is good news: these new findings “may be the first step along a path to very early disease prevention in the womb.” All very promising but as Napoleon once said, “men are moved by two levers only: fear and self-interest.” I’m not a man but I reluctantly concede that the little fella may well have been on to something. What benefit is this new research to me, right now? Not much, I fear. Not as far as my beloved little Raffles is concerned.
Low birth weight is generally accepted to be 2.5kg (5lb 8oz) at birth. Raffles was 2.708kg at birth but dropped to 2.46kg in the subsequent weeks. For what seemed like an absolute age she surfed the line between the o.4th and 2nd percentiles. At one stage she hovered precariously below the 0.4th percentile. I shudder at the memory. Even now, while there’s no denying her petiteness, her strength is something that has to be seen to be believed. She’s like a tiny ox! And that is why I’ve decided to take all these findings (and these findings and these findings) with a very large pinch of salt.
I’m not disputing them, not for a second, nor am I going to steadfastly ignore them. I’d be foolish to, given my own history: low birth weight – gestational diabetes – heart valve disease. (Hmm, seems like I’m the very case study that corroborates the research). I had always intended to be militant with her diet and lifestyle (lucky Raffles!). I may not accept that her diminutiveness automatically relegates my daughter to a life of illness and disease but I firmly believe in mitigating the risk factors. But I would’ve done that anyway, even if she’d been a 9lb 8oz behemoth like her dad was.
It’s actually the scaremongering I take the most umbrage with: “Big babies grow up to be healthier than little ones” etc. In this instance, the fault lies squarely with the print media. Don’t generalise, don’t be so brusque. Consider your loyal readership, some of whom must include new mothers of smaller than average babies. They’re panicky enough as it is, they certainly don’t need it bellowed from up high that their tiny children are forever doomed. It doesn’t help anyone.
“Oi, who are you calling small?”
As for my Raffles, well, she continues to be hale and hearty. If this early robust vigour is anything to go by, she’s going to turn out just fine. Good goods, no scratch that, GREAT goods come in small parcels. Remember that when anyone tries to tell you otherwise.
Thanks for reading!
Maria x
Not Your Average Baby 
