Parenting Insights
In that sweltering pre-summer heat, when the lingering chill of winter had faded from memory, I found myself thinking, Wow, it’s so HOT. In a couple of months, I’d be regretting that thought, buried deep in the summer’s oppressive warmth. It’s akin to how a mother of a toddler might wish her little one would hurry up and walk, talk, and grow up, only to later long for those simpler days. It seems there’s always something to grapple with.
Children’s laughter and playful shouts drifted through the air, occasionally pierced by sharper, mocking tones that raised the hairs on my neck—a telltale sign that trouble was brewing. Suddenly, the sound of feet pounding on pavement erupted, followed by the screen door slamming shut and the muffled sobs of my son, hidden in his arms at the table.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, my tone betraying my desire for everything to be fine, though I knew it wasn’t.
“He called me fat,” he replied, the words tumbling out like stones dropping into a pond, each one weighed down by the pain only a child can feel.
He called my boy fat.
First came a rush of anger. How could someone do that? Who raised such a child? Don’t they realize that calling anyone fat is unacceptable, no matter the context? Then came the wave of shame. I recalled my own experiences with taunts from childhood: “Porky Pam,” “Fatty,” and others that still echo in my mind. I remembered the sting of rejection, the feeling of being different as I sat isolated during sports, or the embarrassment of being laughed at for something as trivial as a Cheez Whiz sandwich.
My heart raced with a fierce protectiveness. No one would make my child feel that way. No one would make another person experience such degradation while I was around. But, as always, that anger flickered, unable to sustain itself.
I thought of the looks from friends when I wore something that clung a little too tightly, the well-meaning suggestions to try something else. I felt unworthy, not enough—just like my son, who had been labeled unfairly.
“You are not fat—you must know that,” I asserted, my voice steady and filled with conviction. “No one has the right to say that to you.”
His head bobbed in acknowledgment, though he remained hidden behind his arms, his sobs softening.
Then, unexpectedly, a strange sensation swelled within me—a mix of joy and relief. He called my son fat, a mundane schoolyard insult, akin to “four-eyes” or “big-nose,” yet it struck a chord deep within me.
This profound realization filled me with an unexpected happiness. I squeezed my son’s shoulder, feeling the dampness of his hair against my fingertips. My beautiful child had been called fat, and I felt glad.
What was happening to me?
Six months earlier, my son had transitioned from being assigned female at birth. I had become acutely aware of the slights aimed at him. I’d sat through therapy sessions where he recounted the bullying—being shoved, mocked, and deemed “weird” or “creepy.” I developed strategies for discreetly notifying teachers about issues while shielding my son from extra scrutiny.
I witnessed parents pulling their children close as we passed, fearful that my son’s identity might influence theirs. I had heard of kids being withdrawn from activities he was part of without explanation. My eyes scanned the faces of coaches and educators for any hint of prejudice or discomfort regarding my son. The dread of being outed or inadvertently exposing him lingered constantly.
Countless visits to the doctor became a cycle of worry, with my son experiencing sharp pains and other distressing symptoms. Each test resulted in normal findings—a diagnosis any parent would hope for, yet I yearned for something tangible to confront. I wanted the clarity of a common childhood insult, like calling someone fat at the park.
Nights filled with anxiety saw me pondering all the harmful names my son might encounter. I wept at the thought of a day when he could no longer blend in, play freely, or escape the labels that might come with his identity. I dreaded the moment when I could not confront a bully, who wouldn’t call my son fat, but would hurl transphobic slurs instead.
It was the names he hadn’t been called that filled me with joy, that moment when he was just a boy being teased in a familiar way.
Soon, we would step outside to confront the bully for an apology. Soon, he would return to playing, and the day would close with the magic of fireflies lighting up the dusk.
But today, we were safe from the harsher names.