While the BFF and I (because you know, I’m actually 12 and I have to use the term BFF) were letting the kids play outside, I was pushing her friend’s daughter on the swing. A little girl, a month older than LG, and yet, a whole whopping 8 pounds lighter than her. She was this dainty little thing. When I picked her up, I felt as if I might toss her up to Mars. I could carry her around for days on end.
I made a comment about how delicate she was, compared to my own daughter:
“You know, this is what I pictured when I found out I was having a girl. This dainty, delicate little thing, with little wrists and ankles. Instead, I gave birth to a linebacker.”
And she laughed, because it’s true. At 13 months, my 25½ pound “Little Girl” is only 2 pounds lighter than her 18 month old son. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m more than OK with the size of my kids. I give birth to beefy kids. I love the rolls and delicious meaty chubby legs. That’s the way babies are supposed to be. But sometimes, I look at my bruteish baby girl, who is fitting into 24 month clothing, and wish that I could see her wrists without having to pull back the fat folds.