Happy and healthy
My daughter is fat. She has folds of fat around her stomach and huge creases in her thighs. My son is fat too. They’re both lovely squishy, soft, biscuit-smelling puddings of things with dimples in their cheeks and knees and even in the small of their backs. They’re one and three respectively.
Sometimes, when I call one of them fatty on the street an emaciated woman in high heels will stare at me in horror. The worst imaginable insult, meant in this case, as the highest form of compliment. I hate those skinny, stringy babies that some people have, nothing to sink into.
I think it was just breast milk that did it. Or genetics. Or something. Neither of them ever eats sweets or chocolate or chips. They aren’t even allowed fruit juice at home. Why give them a glass of sugar when they could have water? They both like broccoli and fish. But they are great, big, soft, marshmallowy beasts of things and I’m so glad. Happy and healthy they look.
Of course, if they’re clinically obese as six year olds, stuffing four Big Macs a day and stealing money to buy crisps and Mars bars I’ll lock them inside with a lettuce leaf for comfort. But then I think that kind of behaviour is learnt from parents. I haven’t been in a McDonalds for at least a decade and I don’t buy chocolate or sweets ever. In fact, I don’t even buy biscuits. This isn’t a matter of principle - I just don’t much like them and the children are happy with a handful of raisins.
That is not to say that we have some hippyish aversion to anything bad for you. I often make puddings and cakes and, of course, Lev and Hope cram them down. I dyed some vanilla sauce pink with cochineal the other day and passed it off as Tubby Custard.
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