My Little

My grandmother gave me a poem by Ethel Barnett de Vito, entitled "Calamity": "The terrible news goes round and round:/Veronica Lou has lost a pound,/And the family's plotting what to do/To get it back on Veronica Lou./On anyone else you'd never know it,/But Veronica Lou's the type to show it./She's lost her curves and she's lost her bloom,/She frets all day in her pretty room,/And nothing appeases, nothing charms,/Not even a cry in mother's arms,/Not even the gift of mother's chain/That once she ogled in vain, in vain./And the family fusses, quick to pounce/On anything said to build an ounce,/For a pound to one so very new/Is one whole tenth of Veronica Lou!"

When my sister weighed five pounds at full-term, my mother called her a "little sack o' sugar." When my now 16-month-old daughter, Claire was only a gleam in my eye, I used to pick up a sack of sugar when at the store, just to feel what it was like for my mother to hold my minikin sister.

My husband and I realized soon after Claire's birth our "Little" was an unusually petite baby. Although beginning at the 50th percentile in weight, she had descended to the 10th by her four-month checkup. As I explained to Thumbelina: "Dis mean 90 puwcent of uddeh babies youw age aw bigguw dan you!" She didn't actually lose weight like Veronica Lou, but gained very slowly.

I frequently meet other parents who ask wee Claire's age. When I tell them, they invariably look accusingly at either their perfectly average-sized offspring, as though Junior has eaten more than his share these many months, or at me, as though I have been willfully starving my child. Claire herself never seems to notice her tiny stature, calling much older and larger children "babies."

Being pint-sized does have its advantages. Claire is quite portable, for one thing. She never bumps her head while mincingly toddling around. I can hold her for long periods of time without tiring. Best of all, she outgrows her miniature clothes slowly, which saves money. I have even wondered whether our diminutive might do something extraordinary, such as become an Olympic gymnast, or better yet, an Alabama cheerleader. (Claire is unafraid of heights, after all. Just last week, she threw herself off our bed with complete abandon.) At the very least (no pun intended), perhaps the respected nonprofit, Little People of America, would allow her to become an honorary member. Although Claire can't help being impossibly small, I can still tease her. I routinely sing Randy Newman's "Short People Got No Reason To Live" in her presence. "They got little baby legs/That stand so low/You got to pick 'em up/Just to say hello/They got little cars/That go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices/Goin' peep, peep, peep..."

I worried excessively during Claire's first year of life, much as my mother fretted over my sister. Even though the pediatrician kept insisting Claire was healthy (and Claire herself kept eating like a voracious shoat), I continued to stress, reading childcare books, torturing myself with descriptions of "failure to thrive" babies, and tempting Claire with sweetmeats (which she obligingly devoured). Over time, however, my dainty ankle-biter's constant activity, bright alertness, and continuous weight gain have allayed my fears. I have come to accept Claire as she is: my "Little."