The little angel's favorite babysitter (and my friend) came over last night, because we had to go to dinner with some people from my beloved's new work.  All went well, but as we were chatting after slipping her the cash, she complimented the little angel.

"She is just a beautiful baby," she said.

I blushed, eyes downward modestly.  "Oh, thanks."

"Even if she is the hugest child I have ever seen."

Pow!  Again with the weight thing.

I tried to steer the conversation to how much she'd slimmed down as she grew over the past few months.  To no avail.

"Yeah, when she was a baby, it was like she was this blob with a head," she said cheerfully, oblivious to my dismay.

Well, she was a big baby.  I'll give my friend that.  But really.  But please.  She's a small child, a toddler.  I don't want her to look like a spider monkey.  She looks fabulous.  I will not be going all Spanglish on her if she's a chubby adolescent, either.  I was there, folks, and emerged normal on the other end (well, there was a brief foray into too skinny, but that's what preteen fat comments will do to you).

I'm sure my own struggles with my weight have lent me a mother-bear quality unattractive to others regarding the little angel's weight.  She has been out on the trail with me three times a week since she was born, and I plan to bring her with me as long as I can force her to do things, letting her choose only bike vs. run vs. roller skates, not go vs. not go.  But really, I was a 100-pound fourth grader.  She got my nose and my shoulders.  She may very well get my adolescent awkwardness, too.  And I swear I will KILL anyone who makes fat jokes around her once she is old enough to realize what they are saying, which will probably be tomorrow.

Or I'll just show her the photos of Kate Moss snorting cocaine and tell her skinny ain't all it's cracked up to be.