“Underweight,” “Off the chart,” “Failure to thrive” - all of these I have heard in the past year regarding Sam’s size. For months I have been trying to get him to gain weight because he is not high enough on “the chart.” Oh, the chart, the all important chart. Last summer, when this all began, our pediatrician wanted me to put Sam on a high calorie diet in order to get his weight back up. I was pregnant at the time, emotional. The whole thing really took me by surprise. I was particularly confused about the manner in which she wanted me to get him to gain. It involved a lot of sugar and a lot of products like Instant Breakfast. I ended up doing a modified version of it, focusing more on increasing his fat intake, and in six weeks he gained a whole pound. I was told to continue with this diet in hopes that he would creep up even higher.

Fast forward to January. At this particular doctor appointment I found out that Sam had not gained what she would have liked him to. I explained that at his last visit he had been weighed on the big scale and was fully dressed, whereas this time around he was on the sitting scale and in a diaper. Still not good enough. I asked if he appeared unhealthy in any way. No, but too low on the chart. She started talking about having him tested for reflux, also known as a milk scan. As she explained it, this was just a precautionary measure to be certain there was not a physical problem that was stopping him from gaining weight. She assured me it was a simple, safe test, and that there was no harm in having it done to be sure everything was ok. He probably wouldn’t have reflux, but we should do it just to be sure. If the reflux test was negative we should move on to a special feeding clinic where he would have behavioral evaluations and put on some sort of program to get him to eat more. I went home overwhelmed and upset. I’d already been trying so hard to balance what she wanted me to do with what I felt was right for him, and this felt like I’d failed after being given an ultimatum.

After I had some time to regroup and get over how shamed I felt (she also tried to make me feel stupid about Robby’s alternative vaccine schedule, which she had originally said she supported, but that’s another post), I just had the feeling that something was off. You know, when you just don’t feel right and are unsure as to why?

I started writing down everything that Sam ate each day. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but I had a feeling I might need it at some point if I was going to deviate at all from our doctor’s plan for him. I also started doing a little bit of research on reflux. When I compared what I was finding out to what he was eating in a day, there was just no way that it was the problem. He was eating quite a bit and taking in a wide range of foods. More importantly, I called the hospital to find out exactly what the test entailed, and that’s when I discovered why I felt so odd at the appointment with her.

Remember, our doctor told us the test was not a big deal. She said it was simple and safe. She said I’d just need to bring a cup of milk for him to drink. What she failed to mention was that first a radioactive material would be put in his milk. I was assured by the woman on the phone that this was “perfectly safe,” that the amount of radioactive material was so little that they “just dumped it down the sink.” I don’t even know what that is supposed to mean. And it doesn’t matter because of what would happen next. After drinking his radioactive milk Sam was going to then be strapped down onto a table . . . for an HOUR . . . while they x-rayed him to watch what the glow in the dark milk did inside his system. Can you imagine? He’s two and a half. He was going to have belts going across his chest holding him onto a table tight enough that he would not be able to move insane asylum style. I was told that I could bring some books to read to help sooth him. Yeah, that’ll work. I spoke to a friend of mine later and found out that her son had this test done.  She said it was completely traumatizing for both of them.  She had to leave the room several times and begged her husband to unbuckle her son so she could take him and run away.  She also said there was no way the test would not have come up positive because her son was so upset that he made himself vomit.  Did my doctor think I wouldn’t find out what the test really entailed? I just can’t believe that this woman could stand there and tell me it was not a big deal. We’ll not be seeing her again.

I called the doctor. She wasn’t in. I spoke to her colleague. I read my food log to her and she agreed that he most likely did not have reflux and agreed there would be no reason to undergo “that test” when he was not demonstrating any symptoms for that problem. She recommended I take him to a nutritionist in order to make sure that what she thought sounded like a great diet really was one and to discuss other reasons he might not be gaining.

Sam had his first appointment with the nutritionist a few weeks ago. She agreed that he seemed very healthy and had an excellent diet, but that he was small. She gave me some more tips on how to get him to take in more calories. We’re going to keep checking his weight in hopes of getting him higher on the chart. It feels slightly less like an ultimatum, but I certainly still feel very much under pressure here. And constant discussion about Sam’s eating certainly does not help things. As any of you with a child this age knows, the more you push the worse it gets. So I’m trying to settle down about the whole thing and trust myself to do what is best for him.

_______________________________________________________________________________

And here’s the happy side of this post, also appropriate under the same title. Sam and I had a little Mommy/Sammy date today. I took him to see his first movie, Horton Hears a Who. I had no idea if he would enjoy the movie experience or not. I tried to prepare him as much as I could by explaining that the “TV” was going to be really big and it might be loud. We had been reading the book for a few weeks now in anticipation of doing this one day. I was prepared, though, for the possibility that we would not be staying for the whole thing.

And, well, I have no freakin’ clue how he liked it. He was mesmerized, I can tell you that. I tried to talk to him and ask him questions throughout the film - Did he like it? Was he scared? Did he want to stay? Did he want to sit on my lap? - and he just gave me one-word answers and assured me we should stay. I suppose it’s pretty overwhelming the first time you’re in a movie theater. And of course, my crazy emotional crap kicked in, and I was pretty much choking back tears at the end. Why is it that once you are pregnant and go through that crying phase it still lingers for things like this? Is that true for others too? It rears its head again for the endings of movies and bad TV. It’s ridiculous.

After the movie I asked Sam what his favorite part was. He said it was the part with the eagle. Um, the really scary, vampire-like eagle who attacks Horton and steals the clover, almost killing the people of Whoville? Yeah, that’s the one.

I hope Sam doesn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night about monkeys trying to cage him. He did eat a great dinner though so he can’t be completely scarred.