Everyone assumed that our little bean would be tall. Even the pediatrician, at the bean’s two-day-old appointment, asked if we wanted to guess what her height would end up being as an adult. Her dad is 6’6” and her mom is 6’0”, so she was always unlikely to be a shrimp.
But she was pretty tiny for quite some time. A chunker at birth, her weight percentiles kept dropping at her monthly appointments, until she was down to 8th percentile at 6 months old. She remained above average in height, which means she was quite skinny, and her BMI was 1%.
You breastfeeding moms out there will know how disappointing that was for me, how difficult it was not to feel like I was failing my child, how jealous I felt of the moms of chunky babies with leg rolls and triple chins.
For the last nine years, I've been building community
alongside my best friend.
We’ve got a new houseguest living with us for the summer, and he works at one of the local orchards. Some days he gets up really early to work at the orchard’s stand at local farmers markets; other days he trims peach trees, restocks the walk-in freezer, walks alpacas, helps build roofs. Basically, for nearly sixty hours a week, he does whatever he’s asked to do out at the orchard, and he seems to really like it.
This morning was a farmers market morning. I heard him leave a little after five.
About 9 am, I pushed the Bean’s stroller over to the market to pick up our weekly half-share of local veggies and fruit from a different local farm, and I stopped, as usual, to say hello to our friend. He was finishing up an enormous bite of some sort of breakfast food, and he’s not typically a breakfast eater. He apologized for the mouthful, and explained.
A woman who (he thinks) works in one of the nearby restaurants came around to various stands at the market and purchased lettuce, tomatoes, bread, and bacon, and then left. A little while later, she came out with–you guessed it–freshly made BLT sandwiches for the farm workers who had been manning the stands.
Out of the blue.