My son, Henry, has been a rather robust fella ever since he was born. Weighing nearly 8 pounds and stretching out at nearly 22", he was considered larger than average. I can't imagine what his mass would have been had he stayed in the womb the remaining 4 weeks. He was an early bird, I suppose. At a wee week old, he gulped down milk much like a baby calf would. In fact he would drink so much, filling his tummy, that oftentimes he would vomit his meal back up (á la projectile style). Oh those were the days.
At a mere 9 months, he weighed in at a whopping twenty-eight pounds. TWENTY-EIGHT POUNDS! (Please let me add that at this point he was only 2 pounds lighter than thirty-two month old Allie). Now I'm sure you're imagining a fat baby, a little gordito. But no! He wore his weight well. He has always been an ACTIVE baby, so I suppose food continues to fuel his constant activity and movement.
Last night, just as Allie filled her belly on 2 whole ounces of air, Henry chowed down THREE HOTDOGS. THREE. Hank jokes that he'll be the first toddler to win Nathan's Hotdog Eating Contest. I tell ya that Takeru Kobayashi has got nothin' on Henry. Nothin'. And this morning for breakfast? 4 waffles. Count 'em. ONETWOTHREEFOUR. All sitting compactly in Henry's belly.
There are days when I'll walk into the kitchen for, say a glass of water, and Henry will immediately follow me inquiring, "Eat, Mama? Me eat?" And then there are those moments, you know the ones that you'd like to forget about. The times when Henry opens the trash can to find a treasure of leftover food scraps. Yum, old taquitos never tasted so scrumptious.