Go Ahead, Judge the Baby

Obesity is the last acceptable American prejudice. I know I have harped on weight issues in the past, and I don't want to become one of those women who always talks about food, but I am on a soapbox today about this subject.

We just had a cleaning person swing by This Old House to give us an estimate. Yes, I am returning to my office job (as we also already discussed - no Barry today and I WILL NOT CRY) soon, and I made a deal with my beloved that if I would bring home the bacon, someone else would be scraping the grease. Anyway, I digress. This woman came by, saw the little angel sleeping peacefully in her bouncy seat (and looking charming in her pastel overalls) and inquired as to her age. As soon as the words "eleven weeks" escaped my lips, a look of utter shock washed over her already pallid features. "She's HUGE!" said the evil one.

Now, a week ago, I had a friend from graduate school come by to visit the little angel so that my beloved and I could celebrate our three-year anniversary. J. and I have known each other since I got engaged, and she is familiar with my sensitivity to weight comments. Still, she told me upon our return that she had actually had to call her mother while babysitting to tell her how big my baby is.

Stop the madness.

Okay, so she's a big baby. Okay, so she weighs probably around 15 pounds at 11 weeks and has already doubled her birth weight. Okay, so she has a stomach the size, shape and color of a regulation volleyball. She is MY little angel and she is ADORABLE. What am I supposed to do? Not feed her? She eats the same as every other spider-monkey, ten-pound three-month-old - she just has superior food storage skills! She was breastfed for seven weeks! She eats less Liquid Sleep than some of her cohorts! SHE'S JUST A BABY, PEOPLE!

But then, I looked around today at the grocery store and realized that almost every magazine contained at least subject line about weight loss. There were more magazines dedicated to food and weight loss than any other subject. It's still okay to make fat jokes on national television. Poor Kirstie Alley hasn't had a break since the early '90s. Look how they tortured poor Oprah after "The Color Purple." Don't even get me started on Extreme Makeovers.

If the little angel is already a bit tubby and people are already this rude, what must she endure if she's an overweight middle-schooler? What happens if she hits puberty early and has hips in fourth grade? (I was, and did.) How will I raise her to have healthy self-esteem in a world where it's unpalatable to make a comment about school prayers but perfectly fine to torture the fat kid or the Iraqi, whoever happens to be handy at the time?

I realize all new parents have a bit of panic when they realize how DAMN MUCH there is in big, bad reality to filter out. Those fuzzy bunnies and Golden Books can't be strapped into the little angel's peripheral vision past the age of four. And even if I could protect her from all the freaks out there, how would she learn about the beauty of free speech?

I realize I must just do my best to set a good example and give her a solid foundation, then watch her experiment with atheism and extreme politics in college before settling down to turn out just like me. It's going to be a wild ride, though. Hopefully I'll be able to restrain myself from punching the next person who takes one look at her ample midsection, sucks in a deep breath and cries melodramatically: "What a chunk!"