There were clues.
The ability to swipe things off the dining room table--and the edge of the kitchen counter.
The nearly flat seatback that enables us to keep his carseat rear-facing without folding his legs on top of each other.
"He's going to be a MONSTER!" our pediatrician announced today, eyes wide, after weighing and measuring Will. (He was measured standing up for the first time ever. That's when you know your BABY is a TODDLER.)
To be honest, it gave me more than a little satisfaction to hear his size marveled at--only because in those moments when I find him to be curiously large for his age, I don't know if it's for good reason or if it's because he's my first, and he's mine, and he's themostspecialboyinthewholeworld, of course he's off the charts, why should the charts apply to him, he's Superbaby, blah blah, doting momisms ad nauseum...
So Will is threatening to leap off the charts, is the point of this rambling story. He keeps climbing higher and higher beyond the 95th percentile in height and weight--"well-proportioned--not chubby, just solid," the doctor clarified before asking, "What sport did his dad play? He was a football player?"
("He ran track," I offered in response, although in another lifetime I suppose Dave would have been the quintessential lanky high school quarterback.)
Will's currently pushing thirty pounds and thirty-four inches. Tangentially (but not to us, given the way it affected his sleep for TWO WEEKS STRAIGHT in December), he also has three newly popped molars, each in a different corner of his mouth. Also, you should see his penguin dance. It's out of this world.
(I always thought monsters were underrated anyway.)
**The photos at the top of this post were not the result of parental contrivance; Will just ambled into the living room one day wearing an empty spool of wrapping paper on his hand, and we started calling him "Edward Cardboardhands." At least we think we're funny.**