Yesterday we took our little Pork Chop to the pediatrician. On the way there, bets were made in the taxi about how much he’d weigh at this visit — four weeks and one day after his birthday. Michael guessed he’d weigh 10 lbs, 2 oz. I felt that was extreme — I could still lift him, after all — and guessed a more conservative 9 lbs, 8 oz.

In the examination room, we stripped him down and covered him with a tiny burp cloth. Then, we laid him on the scale and the numbers rose and rose and ROSE … to a staggering 10 lbs, 12 oz. That’s about 80th percentile. Then we laid him out on the big, roll-out ruler and his length stretched and stretched and STRETCHED … to a staggering 23+ inches. To put that in perspective, that’s 93rd percentile.

So let me be clear: Our baby is B I G.

Is it possible that such a large child can have come from me? All five-foot-two-and-a-half of me? And Michael? All five-foot-nine of him?

Well, I guess miracles do happen. We’ll see how long August remains ahead of the pack in the height and weight department. You never know, there may be a basketball player in the family after all.