"Well, I think his heart sounds okay." That's what his pediatrician told me at the basher's 9-month well-check yesterday after three failed attempts at listening to his chest; he just would not sit still long enough for her to hear anything, even with both of us holding him down. It was at this appointment that we learned that my busy boy's weight has decreased from the 70th percentile to the 5th. That's zero-five, as in my baby's knobby knees are wider than his thighs. His height hasn't suffered. He is not underfed. It's just that Mr. Squirmypants burns through every single calorie he ingests.
This morning I listened to him babble in his crib for a little while before I finally extricated myself from my warm covers. As I grabbed my glasses from my nightstand, I heard a loud bump and a big cry, so I quickened my pace to his room. I figured he had been standing in his crib and fallen over, bumping his head on the bars. It wouldn't be the first time. But when I opened his bedroom door, his cry wasn't coming from inside the crib. I looked down to find him sitting on the floor in between the crib and the rocking chair. He had pulled his wiry body up and over the crib wall! I should scratch the stocking stuffers and just get him a pull-up bar for Christmas. His older brother was in a crib for two years and in that time, he never even thought about escaping. Needless to say, 20 minutes later, my man had lowered the crib bed so that won't happen again. We've been watching him for signs of concussion this morning, but he's too busy climbing stairs and pulling toys out of all the drawers to bother slowing down for a head injury.