Category: Mothering without a licence

Kids at play

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I may in fact be the most athletic person in my family. And then I’m going to wait for a minute until you stop rolling around on the floor laughing and sputtering and saying, “No, really?” before I justify myself. Because those of you that know me (I’m thinking of you in particular, Fryman) might be hesitant to classify me as anything but dexterously challenged. But I do go to the gym weekly, and I’ve played organized sports over the years with enthusiasm if not ability.

I worry about the boys and physical activity, and I worry that I’m doing them a disservice by not doing more to foster a sense of the fun of sport in them. Right now, they’re little perpetual-motion machines and I long for them to just SIT STILL for six minutes in a row, but I know the time will come when the lure of the TV and video games lull them into a sendentary stupor, and I want to make sure that being active is a regular part of their lifestyle, whether it’s organized sports or just running around like fools in the park across the street.

With all this in mind, I’ve been keenly watching a few stories percolating through the media lately. Did you see the story about the school in Attleboro, Massachusetts that banned tag in the school yard? The elementary school has forbidden tag, touch football and any other ‘chase’ game from the school yard at recess, citing concerns for the safety of the children. Tag, of all things. Can you imagine? You know what? Kids are going to get hurt – scrapes, bruises and contusions are part of growing up. Heck, I think my parents had a dedicated parking spot at the local ER when we were growing up, and we survived.

Less black-and-white is another issue locally. As there is every year around this time, there’s been an article in the paper about a family who got in trouble from the local bylaw enforcement office because they let their kids play hockey in the street. As happens every year, the article has been followed by a flurry of op-ed pieces and letters to the editor and radio call-in show debates on whether kids should be allowed to play road hockey (it’s Canada; it’s always about the hockey here) or whether the kids are a neighbourhood menace.

In this case, the family had been living in their new home on a quiet cul-de-sac for a whole month when a bylaw officer paid a visit because their four- and seven-year-old boys are apparently breaking the law by playing hockey in the street. The article says a neighbour called the bylaw officer to complain five times in a two-hour span one day.

This one, I can see two sides. I wouldn’t let my kids play on my street because while it’s a fairly quiet suburban street, it’s still a through-way and the traffic is steady if not constant. If we lived on a court or cul-de-sac, though, I’d probably be fine with the kids playing – as long as they were old enough to understand and respect the traffic, and the neighbours.

And yet, I can also see where some people might have a problem with the noise. My parents used to live next door to a family that had one of those huge basketball nets set up in the driveway, and they’d be out dribbling the ball (thwack, thwack, thwack – crash, as it bounced off the metal garage door) and hollering at each other well after dark in the summer, noisy enough that you had to close the windows to get any sleep.

In the case of the kids and the quiet cul-de-sac, I think the problem could and should have been resolved between neighbours, without involving the bylaw office. These people have to live with each other, after all. But it’s still a bit of a surprise to me that here in Ottawa, of all places, we have an actual law (City of Ottawa bylaw No. 2003-530: Part IX, clause 93, subsection 1) that says “No person shall play or take part in any game or sport upon a roadway.” A law that bans children from playing in the street… I don’t know about that.

I’m interested in your thoughts on this one. My kids are just on the threshold of this kind of thing, taking tentative baby steps out of my yard and into the big world, and I’m full of thoughts on how the world should be, just like I was full of righteous ideas on handling fussy eaters and non-sleepers and tantrums in public — before I had my own to deal with! How do you balance a child’s need to play with safety, all without incurring the wrath of the neighbours?

Snack time

I’m getting lazy. I’ve stolen the idea for this post from a comment I made on a post of Andrea’s yesterday about Tupperware. Sad, isn’t it? I was up all night with a barfy Simon, and I have to cram this in before the Bob the Builder DVD is done, so this is as good as it will get today.

Ahem, anyway…

I thought that having a kid in half-day kindergarten would allow me to dodge the bagged lunch woes for at least a couple of years, but I’m finding snack time almost as stressful.

Tristan is in morning junior kindergarten, which goes from 9:00 to 11:30. We’re supposed to send a snack and a drink every day. A healthy snack. A healthy snack that Tristan might actually eat. I mean, he’s only there for two and a half hours, how much does the kid need to eat in a day?

But fine, I’ll send a snack. Tristan’s actually a lot better with snacks than actual meals anyway. My real complaint is with the requirement for a drink. I hate tetra pack juice boxes. Hate them! I hate the waste, and the fact that they aren’t recyclable. And I still tend to water down the boys’ juice, which I can’t do with a juice box.

Well, you say, you could send a drink in one of those re-useable drink boxes with the straw, couldn’t you? Except I’ve yet to find one that doesn’t leak. At least three times so far this year, I’ve had to leave Tristan’s backpack spread out to air dry overnight after a leak.

On Parent’s Night at the end of September, I spoke up and asked if there was a water fountain that the kids could use, instead of wasting all the packaging of juice boxes. Not only the teachers but the parents looked at me like I had three heads. Uh – sure, the teacher said, looking rather bewildered.

And so I buy and send juice boxes. I hate the wasted packaging, I hate the extra sugar and I hate the cost. It figures that the one time I try to take the moral high road, it’s the wrong choice. And I’ve stopped worrying about thinking of goldfish and raisins as a healthy snack, too. At least the bag always comes back empty!

Blog book tour: Sleep Solutions

A couple of days ago, I was reading a great post by Bub and Pie about rage and sleep deprivation, and it reminded me of one of my own posts from last year on this subject.

Ah, sleep deprivation, my old nemesis. Of all the worries relating to having a third child, I think it’s the one-way ticket to a minimum of six months of serious sleep deprivation that most scares the hell out of me. Some people do well with not very much sleep, but I, unfortunately, am not one of them.

So it’s timely that today I have the great honour of hosting a stop on the bloggy book tour for my good friend Ann Douglas and her book Sleep Solutions for Your Baby, Toddler and Preschooler.

I wrote a little bit about this book when I first received my copy, back in March. I was a part of Ann’s panel of 200+ parenting ‘experts’ (snicker) that she consulted in writing the book. Go on, read that post. I’ll wait. I’ve taken the trouble to highlight my own contribution to the book, significant as it is!

Parenting in the early years is fraught with questions about sleep. Some of the most contentious issues we’ve faced have been about sleep and sleep deprivation: whether to co-sleep (despite being vehemently opposed to the idea while pregnant, both boys slept either in a cradle at my bedside or in my bed well into their sixth month), how to deal with sleep deprivation, whether to rock the baby to sleep or let him fall asleep on his own, crying it out, soothers, early risers, non-nappers, early-to-rise and late-to-bed… my goodness, have I ever blogged about anything other than sleep-related issues??

And that’s why a book like Ann’s is so important, and so helpful. I’ve read all the books in Ann’s “Mother of All” series, and there are a few things in common that I love about all of them. Ann writes with a gentle humour, and it often feels like the advice is coming from your best friend or older sister. And while I snicker about being part of a panel of parenting ‘experts’ I do enjoy reading the experiences and exploits of other parents who have been there and done that.

One thing I most love about this book in particular is that it is 100% guilt-free. Ann lays out all the common wisdom and research work done on sleep, and offers the big ideas to you with tips and tricks for you to find what works for you and your family – without making you feel like a bad parent whether you choose to let your child cry it out or let your child co-sleep through kindergarten.

This is a practical book with real solutions. It has chapter headings like, “How sleep deprivation makes parenting harder,” and “Eight best sleep strategies: What every parent needs to know.” It has charts explaining sleep cues, and the difference between tired and overtired, and a chart showing how much sleep your child actually needs at each age and stage. The end of the book even contains almost 30 pages of sleep tools to help you understand and manage your child’s sleep troubles.

Congratulations again, Ann! My only complaint is that I wish you had written this book about five years ago!!

Stacking the kiddies like firewood

We’ve been slowly wrapping our heads around the idea of fitting three kids into a three-bedroom townhouse. It seems to make sense for us to move Simon into Tristan’s room, and leave his room with the crib intact for the player to be named later. We’ve talked to the boys, and to my surprise, they are both quite enthusiastic about room-sharing, so now we just have to work out the logistics.

Even though he’s two-and-a-half and nearly 40 lbs, Simon is currently still in his crib. I remember a little too clearly the agony of moving Tristan into a big-boy bed at the tender age of 20 months, and the ensuing weeks of sleep-deprived, eight-months-pregnant hell as he wandered around the upper floor of the house from midnight to three am every day, so I haven’t been in too much of a hurry to transition Simon out of his crib any earlier than absolutely necessary. I think, though, that with Beloved’s semester break in December, coupled with the fact that I’ll have a bit of holiday time and Tristan will be out of school, makes that seem like a reasonable time to give it a try.

We already have a second-hand twin pine bedframe that loosely matches Tristan’s, and so on the weekend we went out to Ikea to scope mattress and dresser options. That’s when we stumbled across this little gem of a bed. (The original version of this post had a picture imbedded – pardon the pun – into the post, but blogger.beta ate that post, and now refuses to let me post a picture. Grrrrrr!)

In the catalogue, it’s sold as a low loft bed (it’s only about 4 feet off the floor), but in the store they had it set up with a second mattress on the floor, setting it up as a particularly child-friendly bunk bed.

The boys LOVED it. We couldn’t pry them out of there. Now, we’ve discussed the idea of bunk beds in passing before, but usually the conversation ends with a snort of derision and the image of one or both boys launching themselves off the top bunk and onto, say, the dog. Clumsy + rowdy boys + bunk beds = TROUBLE. But this particular set-up seems fairly innocuous, and I have to admit that I love the idea of saving the space. And besides, wouldn’t you have absolutely loved a bed like this when you were a kid?

There are a few impracticalities, aside from the prospect of abrasions and contusions. Crawling onto the top bunk to read bedtime stories might become a bit of a trick, especially in the third trimester when I’m likely to not even fit under the canopy. And while Simon was content in theory to sleep in the bottom bunk – Tristan put together a surprisingly reasonable plea for the bed on the spot in Ikea – I’m sure the time would come when they would battle for the top bunk.

What do you think, bloggy friends? I don’t have any room-sharing experience of my own, let alone any bunk bed experience. (Heck, even now I don’t like the idea of sharing a room and would gladly have a room of my own!) Any thoughts or tips on room sharing in general, or bunk beds in particular?

And be assured, I wouldn’t even be considering this if we didn’t live in a country with socialized medicine and free trips to the ER.

Eight days

Eight days. That’s how long it took for us to be called in for a meeting with Tristan’s teachers. Eight days of school.

When she first stopped Beloved late last week and said she would appreciate it if he could take some time to come to a meeting, I was curious but not overly concerned. (Of course, I also dropped a few things so I could clear my schedule and attend the meeting as well. My control tendencies run deep.)

We showed up on Friday afternoon with both Tristan and Simon in tow. Tristan took Simon on the cook’s tour of the junior kindergarten classroom while Beloved and I folded ourselves into half-sized chairs around a knee-high table and tried to look nonchalant. When the teacher laid out photocopies of a worksheet in front of us, I began to suspect this is a meeting she has with all parents. The worksheet had a section for Tristan’s strengths, areas of concern, goals for teacher and goals for parent. A few minutes into the conversation, though, it became clear that There Is A Problem.

Frankly, I’m not incredibly surprised at the nature of The Problem. Tristan is a little, um, wilful. Sometimes. The first “incident” she had listed on a separate sheet (no copies of that one for us) was that on Tuesday, she had bestowed Tristan the honour of being the helper of the day, and he threw a pout on Wednesday when he realized it was someone else’s turn. Um, pouting. Yep, we’ve seen that one at home.

The next “incident” had to do with Tristan not staying in line. Tristan only likes to be at the front of the line. We’d heard about this problem already, and were talking to him about how important it is to stay in line, and the importance of listening to the teacher.

The third “incident” was about circle time. She told us, “He’s very smart, but he has a tendency to shout out the answers instead of raising his hand.” Well, okay, I used to be like that, too. But really – we’re talking DAY EIGHT here. Give him a couple of weeks. And he tends to wiggle and wriggle in his spot and ‘put his hands on the other kids’ in circle time. Well, okay, I’ve seen this at home too, and while I realize he needs to learn to stop, did I mention EIGHT DAYS?

The final incident is the only one that really worried me. He has a little friend, whom I will call Dude to head off any possible future slander action on the part of his parents. (Hey, I read Suburban Bliss.) Tristan talks about Dude constantly; you’d think there were no other kids in his class. Well, apparently earlier in the week, Dude’s mother sent a note to school saying that Tristan had been calling Dude names like “poopy head” and that Dude felt intimidated by Tristan.

My first reaction was gut-wrenching shame. My child intimidating someone else? After I spent my entire grade-school career being the target of choice through three elementary schools? And then I really thought about it. First of all, Tristan is a gentle soul. He’s big, no doubt – the size of a big six year old. And I’ve no doubt that he called Dude a poopy head, because he and Simon are going through that poop and fart language stage right now, and I’ve heard it at home. But to be honest, I haven’t been incredibly stringent about it, because I find it pretty harmless. When Tristan mimicked one of the older kids and called Simon a loser the other day, the whole world stopped turning while I explained that some things are not acceptable and made him apologize. But “poopy head”? Isn’t that a four-year-old rite of passage? It just so happens that I know Dude has not been in daycare, and so maybe that’s why his mother was particularly horrified that Tristan unleashed this verbal assault on her son, but I’m having a hard time being concerned about this.

In all, I’m glad the teacher called us in for a discussion. Because Tristan alternates one week in English and one week in French, this was his first week with this teacher, and I can see why four incidents in five days would be of concern to her. And she herself admitted that she had seen no further problems beyond the first day with the ‘special helper’ incident. And I know that Tristan is both wilful and boisterous, and that’s something we’re all going to have to work on. Maybe it’s time to look for another form of discipline beyond the time out. Anybody got any good books to recommend?

Through the course of the weekend, I’ve gone from shame to bristling annoyance to filing it under “lessons learned + blog fodder”. The teacher is going to make up a little worksheet for Tristan with three or four goals for him (sit nicely in circle and raise your hand to speak; hands to yourself in the cloakroom; etc.), and each day she’ll either mark a check or an X and we’ll review it at home together at the end of the day. It’s a pretty good idea, and I appreciate her efforts.

Eight days. Ugh. How long until graduation?

(Edited to add: ha ha. Today’s Word of the Day on the sidebar is recalcitrant \rih-KAL-sih-truhnt\, adjective: Stubbornly resistant to and defiant of authority or restraint. See Tristan.)

Contracting out

I have exciting news: the cleaning lady starts on Monday. Isn’t that the best news you’ve heard all week?

Beloved and I are not completely in agreement on our need for a cleaning lady. To his credit, he did an admirable job keeping the place tidy (if not spotless) while he was home with the boys during the summer. He insisted we could continue to do the cleaning now that he’s teaching four days out of five, but when I found out I was pregnant it sealed the deal for me. We need a cleaning lady.

We had someone coming in for a couple of months when I first came back to work after my maternity leave with Simon, but Beloved took over the cleaning that summer when he was home and we muddled through the next year or so doing (gasp!) our own cleaning. Or not, and living with the filth.

Beloved’s argument against hiring someone was “we’re not rich,” and I do get where he’s coming from. Not that I’m overly fond of cleaning, and I certainly don’t have issues with the idea of having someone else pick up after me. Please, if I could find someone to chew my food for me I’d pay them for it these days.

We finally compromised, and she won’t be doing a full cleaning, just coming in for two hours every second week to concentrate on sanitizing the bathrooms and kitchen and do whatever else she can get around to. Frankly, aside from the additional cost, the main reason I don’t have her cleaning the whole house is that I’m worried about keeping the place tidy enough for her to clean under the clutter. (How sad is that?)

Now that I’ve gotten Beloved over this hurdle, my next goal is to convince him of the other members I’ll need to complement my personal staff: a chef, a gardener, a personal trainer, a nanny, and a masseuse. Hey, I’m worth it!

In defense of Polly Pockets

We’re at McDonalds (I know, I know) and we’re making an event out of it. We’re not zooming through the drive-thru, we’re actually in the restaurant standing at the counter. We’re about to have a little picnic lunch on the patio, because we have time to kill and it’s a beautiful day.

So I place our orders with the painfully blasé seventeen-year-old girl behind the counter, and I tell her I would like one “Hummer” happy meal and one “Polly Pockets” happy meal. And she says, “Okay, one boy and one girl happy meal.”

And I straighten my shoulders and set my feet and say, with a pointed glance at my two boys, “No, as a matter of fact, I would like one HUMMER meal and one POLLY POCKETS meal, thank you.”

She takes a long, evaluating look at me and decides not to mess with the wigged-out suburban granola cruncher taking up space at her counter. She shrugs dismissively and says a quiet, “Whatever” as she punches our order into her cash register.

And you know what? By the time the fries were cold and the hamburgers had been gormandized, the Hummer toy was lying to one side, forgotten, as the boys argued over the Polly Pockets doll.

All of which begs me to ask: why is McDonalds gender stereotyping in their Happy Meal toys? Why segment the market like this? We also frequent Harveys and Wendys (yes, we eat way too much fast food – but that’s another story) and they don’t gender-segment their hamburger-snarfing clientele. Harveys is my favourite by far; they offer little cans of play-dough and crayola markers that have become staples in the ‘entertainment-on-the-go’ pocket of our diaper bag.

I knew Simon would love the Polly Pockets doll. When we go to our local toy store, Tristan is magnetically drawn to the train table, but Simon tends to drift after a moment or two over to the Calico Critters dollhouse. And if you asked me, I’d say Tristan is the sensitive one. Simon has just always had a thing for dollhouses. I’m thinking about getting him a set for Christmas, but at two-and-a-half, I’m betting this phase won’t last. Unfortunately.

At least now I know. Next time we go to McDonalds (because, despite my best intentions otherwise, there will be plenty of ‘next times’) I’ll be ordering TWO Polly Pocket happy meals, for my smart, sensitive and oh-so-comfortable with their masculinity sons.

Baby jones

I have, as you know, two preschoolers. Two kids under the age of five. I am constantly exhausted by their demands, their neediness, their loving clinginess. Although there are still not enough hours in the day, and only barely enough hours of sleep at night, things are finally getting easier. One is potty trained, and I can only assume the other one will be someday. They go to bed with only minimal intervention, they feed themselves, they can entertain themselves for stretches sometimes exceeding four whole minutes, and they can even load their own DVDs into the DVD player.

Life is good, right? And yet, I am jonesing for a baby. I have baby fever now almost as bad as I did when we were working through our infertility.

I see babies everywhere and find myself staring inappropriately, often turning my head appreciatively to watch them pass in a manner alarmingly similar to the way I used to watch guys walk past in another lifetime. I linger in the baby supplies aisle at the drug store, eyeballing little jars of food and teething rings with nostalgia. I come across old onesies tucked away in the corner of a closet and marvel over their size, their softness. And socks, which I never seem to pack away and instead just pile the next largest size into the drawer as well – impossibly tiny baby socks that were already too small for Tristan at birth.

I must be nuts. Certainly, my husband thinks so. He thinks I’m certifiable, and gives me a big hairy eyeball roll every time I mention in passing how wonderful little babies are, how cuddly and cute and adorable and harmless. Which I seem to be saying with alarming frequency these days.

Now I’m sure some of this has to do with the whole frostie thing coming up. (For those of you keeping score, after pushing me within a day or two of buying a stick to pee on, the visitor in red finally showed up a week late. A week late!) But I think it’s more than that. Maybe because this is the longest I’ve gone without being pregnant, because Simon arrived a scant 23 months after Tristan did. I became a new person the first time I brought a new baby home, and that person has always had a baby around. It seems like something is missing now.

I know I can’t keep having them. Like cute puppies, babies have the rather troubling habit of growing up in disproportion to growing out of their neediness. And really, I had only ever expected to have two children in my life. But there is something delicious about babies, about the baby phase, that I miss. The drool, the brilliant toothless grins, the way they twitch their arms and legs to warn you that you have about two minutes before an all-out wail is on its way – and the blissful way they relax when you meet whatever need has overwhelmed them, the way they give themselves over so completely to the joy of the bottle, or the breast, or the cuddle they wanted.

It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, turning my babies into preschoolers. But it’s been the best thing, too. Babies.

It’s not so crazy, is it?

Swimming in shame

Oh, the shame! Yesterday was ‘parents’ day’ at the boys’ swimming lessons, where parents are supposed to hop in the pool with their kids and get a hands-on idea of how the kids are progressing, what they are working on, and where they need improvement. For whatever reason, we somehow missed getting our notice about this last week, so while Beloved hopped in the pool as usual with Simon for the parent and tot lessons, I sat red-faced and miserable on the deck. I even asked the instructor if I could hop into the pool in my jeans and t-shirt, so great was my shame, but she gently suggested that wouldn’t be necessary, and instead I spent a guilty 30 minutes observing from the deck and wondering what psychological damage I was wreaking to my eldest son.

Judge: We have reached the sentencing portion of this trial. Do you have anything to say for yourself?
Grown-up, bearded, scruffy looking Tristan in shackles: I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done. If only my mother hadn’t missed parents’ day in the pool when I was four, who knows where I’d be now…

Apparently not so much. Only two parents of six were in the pool, and when I asked Tristan about it, he didn’t even realize I was supposed to be in the pool with him.

Grown-up Tristan, handsome and content, in conversation with his girlfriend: Oh, you got your hair cut off? Oops, no, I guess I didn’t notice.
Pretty girlfriend: Argh! Men!

When I was registering the boys for their swim lessons, I was a little wary about scheduling them both for the same time slot. Two wet preschoolers plus one wet parent (Simon is too young to be in on his own) is a lot of chaos mixed in with the regular chaos of 30 other families in the changerooms, but it’s working out pretty well. We go as a family, and Beloved and I alternate who stays dry and who goes in the pool with Simon, then we each bring a child into the changeroom. Gratuitous props to any of you who do it on your own, without a dry parent as backup! Two wet kids I can wrangle. Two wet kids PLUS one wet mommy is a little too much, especially when you’re rushing out to get home in time to watch Survivor!

In the parent and tot class, I am often the only mommy, which was a bit of a surprise, but it’s nice to see all the daddies in the pool with their 2 – 3 year-olds. And I have to laugh at Simon’s fearlessness. I dunk him, he comes up sputtering and laughing. I put him on the side and he jumps back in before I can even get my arms out. (Well, the jumping is new this week. Up until now, he just kind leaned forward and tipped stiffly into the pool. It’s very hard to catch a 30 lbs slippery board-baby in time to make sure he doesn’t belly-flop into the pool.)

It’s very interesting to watch Tristan interact with his swim instructor. He watches her with wide-eyed intensity (when he isn’t wandering off) and is usually one of the first to follow her instructions. I haven’t decided whether this is encouraging or annoying, after having spent the rest of the day practically howling at the boy to get him to listen to my words at home on the eighth or tenth utterance, let alone the first. He is, according to the instructor’s assessment, very strong and doing exceptionally well at this level.

Announcer: And now, the Canadian national anthem begins as the gold medal is awarded for the 2024 Olympic men’s 400 metre freestyle to Canada’s own Tristan….

Tristan squared

While I was at work yesterday, Beloved took the boys to the paediatrician for Tristan’s three-year old check-up. Um, yes, he turned three a month ago – I kind of forgot to make the appointment until last week.

This is a big step for me, giving up control of a well-baby appointment to Daddy. I have no trouble letting Beloved change diapers or get up for midnight feedings, and he does a great job getting them dressed — probably doing a far better job of coordinating their outfits than I ever do. He stays home with them two days per week, so he’s quite good at feeding the boys, putting them down for naps and taking them on little excursions. In a perfect world, I’d prefer it be me at home with the boys, but if not me then Beloved has proven himself more than worthy of the challenge.

But it was still hard for me to relinquish control of the doctor’s appointment. This is serious Mommy-territory, and I have been known to have control issues on occasion. Would he remember to ask the right questions? Would he be able to handle both boys in the exam room? Would he remember enough details of what the doctor asked and observed to satisfy my neurotic need for affirmation that Tristan is doing well?

Yes, yes and yes. I have to tell you, I’m proud of all four of us. First, I’m proud of Tristan for behaving so well. (By contrast, the two-year old appointment was a bit of a farce, with Tristan pulling the ‘I’m a boneless bag of slippery potatoes and I will resist your every attempt to examine me as if you were attacking me with a hot poker’ tantrum.) I’m proud of Simon for being patient and only trying to climb up the doctor’s leg once during the exam. I’m proud of me for ‘letting’ Beloved handle the appointment. Mostly, though, I’m proud of Beloved for exceeding my expectations of him and for being more than able to handle everything the boys throw at him.

He even remembered to make a mental note of Tristan’s new stats for my wall calendar-cum-baby book. Tristan made it a little easier for him by being a perfect square – he is 40.5 inches tall and weighs 40.5 lbs. He is in the 95th percentile, the size of a five year old. Another whopper in the family!

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