Day 66: The Chazinator

The other day, Charlotte was sitting with me, being idly intrusive while I tried desperately to get something done...

 The Chaz, being Chaztastic

This is a pattern with her these days.  I think she's feeling the difference in the amount of attention she gets, vs the amount of attention Elliot gets.  It's a real problem and I'm trying very hard to correct it, but I only have so many hours in a day, not to mention only so many spoons.  The upshot is that Chaz has realized that she can still get the attention she wants, as long as she keeps her behavior in the "vaguely irritating" to "OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU JUST DO THAT?" category.  Just one of the many ways I am totally cocking up this whole motherhood thing.

But I digress...

So, Charlotte was hanging out, prattling on about this thing and that, which I was half listening to while I tried to come up with a synonym for face that didn't sound like I was writing a gangster novel.  She was wearing her purple leotard, and while I probably can't remember a thing she said, I can picture her vividly.  Sprawled back in one of the dining room chairs, legs akimbo, delicate arms waving through the air as she spoke, happy little smile on her face.  All of a sudden my brain registered that she'd switched topics, and I focused in alarmingly quick.

See, the words that had just come out of her mouth were "Mom, did you know I'm just a little chubby?"

Just.
A little.
CHUBBY.

I have no idea what it feels like to have a stroke, but I imagine it's the same feeling I had when my daughter (who, according to a recent pediatric visit, is in the 57% in height and the 42% in weight) told me she thought she was a little chubby.

 Yeah.  Real hefty, isn't she?

Shown with her brother, Young Skeletor, for reference.

Have you seen those nature videos, where a great hunting cat runs down its prey and rips into it, and then the screen goes red and bloody as something that moments before was a living animal dies slowly under the claws of a predator?  In that moment, had I known who had planted this idea in my daughter's head, I would have re-enacted a similar scene, with me as the cheetah and them as the antelope.

 Like this.  Only angrier.

It's not, you understand, that I would mind if Charlotte was a little chubby.  People come in all shapes and sizes, and that's cool with me.  I was chubby growing up, and now that I'm an adult I fluctuate within the 'nicely-curvy-to-festively-plump' range.  If my girl grows up with some junk in her trunk, I'm gonna get her some well fitting jeans and tell her to rock what her Momma gave her.  It will be totally fine with me, and I pray every day that it will be fine with her, too.

But I have my doubts.  I have my STRONG doubts that she will be "fine with it".  Because my baby girl, who is ONLY SIX YEARS OLD, has already gotten the idea that she is chubby.  And if this slim child--with her Minnie Mouse tankini bagging around her because it's a little loose--has already internalized that she's chubby, what will she internalize as she grows? 

 

Will she learn to believe that her worth is inversely proportional to the size of her pants?

Will "thin" supercede "healthy," "happy," and "strong" in the list of things she wants to be?

Will she learn that method of confession that is really a brag, that we use to announce the meals we forgot to eat, or how little we've nourished ourselves?

Will it viscerally hurt her when someone notices she's gained a few pounds? 

Will she come to believe, somehow, that she has to make up for her body?  That she has to be more understanding, more kind, more tolerant of the bullshit that surrounds us, because it's the only way she can balance the scales with her curves?

*growls and flexes claws*

Not if I can help it, she won't.