I have skinny kids.
The Girl is in the 3rd percentile for weight.
The Boy is in the 5th.
To make matters worse, they’re both above the 60th percentile for height.
While it’s incredibly exciting to think that my kids are in the top half of the tallest kids in America, it’s also interesting because it makes them look even thinner than they are.
Which is fine with me.
Except when people say stuff like, “Goodness, he/she is SOO tiny.”
Look, I don’t care what people think about my kids’ physical appearance. Mostly because they are gorgeous, but also because I think who they are on the inside is way, way more important because I’m all evolved and stuff.
These kids need to start eating something because someone is going to call child services and that social worker is going to take one look at me and see a woman who is still carrying baby weight from seventeen months ago (and, okay, five years ago, too) that would be more appropriate for a woman who gave birth to twins day before yesterday.
Then? That social worker is going to think the kids are skinny because I’ve been inhaling the food off of their plates before they can get at it.
My situation will deteriorate further as The Girl summarily transforms a conversation that went, “I don’t waaaant brown rice pilaf, I want nuggggggets from McDonaaaaald’s./NoWAY, McDonald’s is trash, the rice will make you strong and help you grow, besides I don’t feel like putting on shoes” into “We told her we wanted to eat a real dinner, with chicken and potatoes, but she made us eat boiled cardboard and threw shoes at us. Can we go live with Brangelina? We are brown skinned, you know, I think we have a shot.”
This stuff keeps me up nights because, my goodness, if those kids get taken away from me and are raised by someone else? I’ll inevitably have to hear my father say for the ten thousandth time, “See, you never finish anything. This is like when you said you wanted to play the piano when you were five and then came home after two lessons begging to quit.”
All this caused me to engage in dialogue with the children’s physician on their last visit that made me look, well, frankly just sad.
“Are they healthy, though? I mean, I feed them… they eat, you know… it’s not like I starve them… you believe me, right… please don’t report me to anyone because I will die if I have to listen to my dad tell that story again about how I hid under the bed for three hours until they agreed to take me out of piano.”
The flaxen haired, cheerful woman who was smart enough to get into medical school and who is now charged with health related care of my offspring calmly smiled at me and said in a cheerful yet firmly reassuring voice, “I’m not worried, they’re perfectly healthy. They’re just lean, I assume they take after their dad?”
She’s never met my husband who is, for the record, naturally lean, but that is not the point, thankyouverymuch.
You just said I was fat without actually saying it.
Either you are the most clueless woman alive or you will make a fine mother-in-law someday.