Despite the comfort I enjoy in my own skin, apparently the word “fat” still kind of stings. Even coming from a cute-as-a-button 6 year old. Yesterday morning I was lying on my side in bed. Laurel padded in, peeled back the blankets, and (as is now becoming customary) lifted up my shirt to say good morning to Roll.
Laurel: “Whoa mama, look! The side of you is all flat and the front of you is all fat!”
Me: “Um, Laurel, I’m not fat, I’m full of baby!”
Laurel: "I know! With lots of fat to protect Roll!"
Commence giggling. Because apparently the word “fat” (and a grownup’s reaction to it) is pretty funny for a 6 year old. I mean, not “butt” or “poop” or “fart” funny, but still funny.
No matter. Perceived as fat or full, Laurel cannot get over my growing belly. And now she can hang onto it. This isn’t the best picture – I was holding the camera way over my head and shooting randomly – but it captures the love of the moment so appropriately. And what Laurel spends a lot of time doing these days.