My daughter, Iris, didn?t grow?well, at least not in the way she was ?supposed? to. After her March birth date, she didn?t bloom in summer, like her name suggested. I took photos of her on a white shag blanket every month like any Instagram mom, but I never shared them because she looked like the same baby, frozen in time from one month to the next.
Babies don?t come with a manual, but they do come with a formula?a data set for success. It?s a path marked by numbers?milestone weeks, pounds and ounces of milk?that measure the way to a healthy childhood. It?s the parents? job to make sure that there aren?t any obstacles on this path to a successful future. When my infant was diagnosed with ?failure to thrive,? I felt like the failure was mine alone. I hadn?t done enough to get my baby, who was unable to fend for herself, along the healthy path of success. And this is when I began to see numbers as a reflection of my failure. I?ve never been sure about my decisions as a mother. I?m envious of those mama bears who growl with such confidence on behalf of their children. I?m more of a waffler, hoping that I?m doing the right thing and acutely aware that so much is out of my control.
When Iris was born, she breastfed easily and we were able to take her home. But after seven days, she hadn?t reached her birth weight like she was supposed to. She hadn?t gained half an ounce a day by her one-month wellness check-up. The paediatrician told me to stop eating salads because the fresh v...