My dear boy,
I knew I had been cheated out of my tiny baby when the doctor held you up and I saw, for the first time, what had made people assume I was 'due any day now' when I was seven months pregnant. I assumed I would eventually get used to how large you were, because even though you were large, you were really actually quite small.
But something happened. Someone sneaked in and injected my breasts with MiracleGro (which, apparently works not only on breasts but on babies drinking from the breasts). I woke up one morning to find my breasts huge and my baby huger.
Weren't you supposed to lose weight in the hospital? Six ounces don't really count, especially since you more than doubled that by your first week's check-up with the pediatrician.
And now here you are, a nine-month-old ox. I envy my mommy friends with their babies in a Mobys and Kozys, smiling delightedly as their tiny infant rides high and dry on their mommy's chest.
Oh, I do try. I tie the Moby tight enough that tucking you into it is an Olympic feat... and yet somehow you end up dangling around the region of my pelvis, chewing contentedly at the hem of my shirt. And it alarms me each time I tie you on with the Kozy, and the seams in the straps creak.
I will keep trying, my dear boy, in the hopes that the muscle spasms in my back can at least keep the pain level down around a tolerable five. After all, I managed to carry a backpack full of books in junior high; why not a small elephant now that I'm 27?
I do wish someone would invent anti-gravity diapers for toddlers, though.
With much love,