measuring up

Why are we so obsessed with measuring the babies?

I'm told that in the very near future, our appointments with the pediatrician will include percentile rankings charting Stanley's physical growth. I find this process of measurement fascinating but not quite understandable. Over the years I had heard babystats from other new parents, who usually relayed them with some measure of pride: "David is in the 98th percentile in height for his age," and "so-and-so's weight is in the 95th." Even heads can be measured and compared. I suspect that as parents we selectively share babystats with others--a not so subtle form of early parental bias and an early gesture toward adult worlds of competition. That these measurements help chart my child's health is undeniable, even though I think they also emphasize physical worth too much. And it bugs me that they're reported like the SAT, as if, some how, my child achieved something great in growing or not. My friend's one-year-old, who resembles a freakin' Greek sculpture, was reported to be doing well, percentile-wise, and is also bubbly, kind to animals, and charming. Though I don't know for sure, I bet that Monster Baby is also measuring up. I don't really know what these numbers mean, what their purposes are beyond assuring you that your kid is not going to immediately die (which we need to hear occasionally). The kid grows in front of our eyes; no outside verification seems required.

This little obsession with size and physical measurement isn't just in the discourse of our medical establishment and it's not just about our health. It's built into our rituals, from the small talk (how big? your poor wife!) to snail-mailed baby announcements (can't remember when I last saw one without height and weight) to family conversations that gaze into the crystal ball and speculate about the boy's future in (name the) sport.

The other day we did a little height-check on Stan. He's up 2 inches (10 percent) from his birthday. And when grandma K was in town, she deposited this writer's baby book, which prompted immediate footprint-to-footprint comparison, where we learned that papa had a huge hoof. It was fun to compare. At the same time, it's also the first trappings of our larger culture's sometimes nasty fixation on perfect bodies. Suddenly, a birth announcement looks a little more like a baseball card, and babies less like bundles of love and more like players in a game they didn't ask for. To this, I prefer the sentiment expressed by Loretta Lynn: that God Makes No Mistakes.

Next week is the four-week visit. It's not clear whether or not we'll get to measure Stanley then, but, if we do, I'll be curious. We don't have a scale in the house so I'm wondering about his weight.