Little Miss is a peanut. I call her Little Miss for a reason. Although she’s tall, the girl has bird bones. She’s 75th to 90th percentile in height, but we’ve only recently made it from the 3rd to the 10th percentile in weight.
At five years old, she weighs 34 pounds. And no, that isn’t a typo. I joke that she’ll be in a carseat (Illinois law is that you’re in a carseat until 40 pounds, and I’m not about to risk her safety anyway) when she goes to prom. She’ll head off to college still in a booster seat (8 years and 80 pounds – even Mister Man will be hard pressed to hit the weight requirement by next year).
She’s also my last child, so it’s possible that the combination of her being the baby of the family and her slight frame means that I baby her more than I did Mister Man – in some ways. I still carry her around, because I can. And she still uses a booster seat at the table, although I know Mister Man had given his up when he was a year younger than she is now. I’m just not quite ready to admit that my last child is really a big girl.
The other day, Little Miss looked at me. Someday, I’ll weigh forty pounds, Mommy.
You’re right, sweetie. Someday you will!
And when I am, Mommy, I won’t need my carseat anymore. I’ll have booster seat instead.
Yep, won’t that be nice that you can sit anywhere in the car – due to carpool, I have five carseats/booster seats in my car at all times – and buckle yourself in?
Uh-huh. And when I’m forty pounds, I won’t sit in a booster seat at the table. I’ll sit just in a regular chair, just like Mister Man.
Oh. Yeah. That. Eh, if she’s not asking to get rid of it…. Hey, at least I don’t make her wear a bib still!