When Kids Talk About Fat Bodies
The history of hurt around my body wasn’t authored by children, but by adults
My brother called 12 years ago. His wife was, he told me, pregnant. For the first time, I was going to be an aunt.
I was excited, if nervous, about how it would shift my relationship with my brother. He had always been so warm and loving with children that raising his own seemed like an inevitability. In high school, when paired with a first grader for mentorship, he would speed the two of us home from school. (“I have to get home by 3:30. Battle Bots is on and it’s Billy’s favorite.”) He loved children, and his easy charm and matter-of-fact style often made the feeling mutual. I suspected that he and his wife would be great parents, and that my mother would be thrilled at the prospect of a grandchild.
When I thought about myself, though, I clenched, happiness overshadowed by anxiety. A baby would soon become a toddler, a toddler would soon become a child. And children had long taken on the ruthless task of naming of the body I otherwise strove to keep out of conversation. Children, after all, weren’t concerned with social graces, with politeness or impoliteness. They were observers, constantly learning, doing their best to make sense of the world around them.
