Fat Kids, Bad Parents?

We’ve all seen the talk shows with obese toddlers who gorge themselves on spareribs and Coca Cola, right? And who among us was not shocked and disgusted? Who among us did not swear right then and there that their child would only eat perfectly balanced meals and nutritious snacks?

I’ve said my share of my child will nevers. But I’ve realized (due to eating innumberable helpings of crow) that many of those ideals were born out of ignorance. So I usually just shrug, accept that my idealism was misguided and try to adopt a more realistic approach.

My Diminutive One is getting fat.

I don’t want him to be fat. Being a kid is damned hard enough.

My sister was a fat as a child and I watched her deal with the hurt and embarrassment for many years. I could do nothing to help her, except try to shield her from the taunts and jeers. And as she grew into a young woman, I know she feared that she would never be asked to go steady, or get that first kiss, or marry and have children. Thankfully, we had wonderful, caring parents who fostered very healthy ideals in regard to worth and identity. She grew into a strong, confident and successful woman despite her struggles with weight.

But I suspect that the heartbreak of those years stayed with her. I don’t think hearing “Fatty Fatty two by four…” chanted by your classmates on the playground is the sort of thing that ever really leaves you. I don’t think hearing your first real crush oinking as you walk down the hall is the kind of thing a young girl ever really forgets, though the shame and humiliation may eventually fade.

I recently watched a program about a young man who is morbidly obese and I cried, knowing my Diminutive One could well be on the same destructive path. That young man spoke of killing himself to end the pain of feeling less than human. It broke my heart. I would go out of my mind with grief if my child committed suicide because someone made him feel that he didn’t deserve the basic kindness, dignity and respect that all human beings are entitled to. Because someone made him think he would be better off dead than fat.

I don’t know what to do.

Diminutive One has ALWAYS had a sweet tooth. It was evident from a very early age, though we did everything the baby books advocated in regard to starting solids and forming good eating habits. We started him on veggies first, so that he wouldn’t grow to prefer the sweet taste of fruits. We introduced new foods slowly and singly. If he rejected them, we offered them again and again, never pushing, only encouraging. He did develop a fairly serious juice habit, because after weaning from the breast, he refused cow’s milk. I offered him fortified juice to stave off scurvy and rickets. It was stupid, but well-intentioned.

Despite our efforts, he very quickly grew to love all things sweet. As a toddler, he would hoard cookies, candies and other snacks to ensure a ready supply should a request be denied. We did allow treats in moderation (we didn’t want to create the “forbidden fruit” syndrome all the baby books so stridently warned against) but it was never enough. We had to lock up any and all contraband and when that failed to deter him, we took to storing them on top of the fridge. It was an exercise in futility. You can read all about that here. Still, it was fairly easy to keep him well nourished, because I could impose my will upon him with relative ease.

Now that he is older, we constantly battle and I hate being the food Nazi. I hate that our dinner table, which I have always considered a really important part of staying connected as a family, has become a war zone. I hate that I have to constantly deny him the things he wants, to ensure that he gets the things he needs. I hate that he has become sneaky and manipulative with food.

The other night at the ballpark he asked if he could get something from the concession stand. I gave him a five dollar bill because it was all I had at the time I told him he could choose one thing. He came back with three Butterfingers. I made him take them back. The other day Husband was checking his purchase history on Mealpay and found that he has been purchasing rice krispy treats, chips and fruit drinks. We had to put a lock on his account. And two days ago Husband found twelve Reese’s miniature peanut butter cups in his old hiding place behind the recliner. I took the treat jar, emptied it into the garbage and put it away.

I just don’t want to do it anymore.

It would be so much easier to give up and let him eat cakes and cookies and soda anytime he wants. It would be so much easier not to pack a healthy lunch everyday and let him graze on chicken nuggets, pasta and white bread to his heart’s content. It would be so much easier to let him have fast food every night and spare myself the “YUCK.” and “There’s no WAY I’m eating THAT.”

Because it’s not working anyway.

Diminutive One is an active kid. He plays baseball at least three nights a week. When he’s not playing, his brother is, and he spends that time at the park playing tag or running races with other siblings. He and his brother spend hours jumping on our backyard trampoline. He rides his bike all over the neighborhood. He is in constant motion.

At the very least I have the satisfaction of knowing that his weight problem is not due to sitting on his butt in front of the television or the Gameboy.

But I’m doing everything I can and still he is getting fat.

We talk about making good choices. We talk about sugar being bad for you. We talk about all the reasons being overweight is harmful to your health. I’m trying to motivate and empower him because, that’s what the books say you’re supposed to do. But they also say you shouldn’t create power struggles over food. I suppose then that insisting he eat his green beans before he gets a second helping of mashed potatoes is really playing with fire.

But what is a mother to do?? What kind of parent would I be?? How could I live with myself??

I’m going to continue to fight, weary though I may be.

Because I don’t want my son to know the heartbreak of being that kid on the playground. Because I don’t want him to wind up on some tabloid talk show. And Because I don’t want him to ever wonder if he is good enough to be worthy of the love and respect of thin people.

I have ten years before he strikes out on his own. I hope that I can teach him something, anything, that will keep him from spiraling out of control once the choice is in his hands. But I hope that what he learns above all else, is that he has value and worth no matter what size he is.

Wish me luck.