Me, fat, and the boy, Chump
My son is 11 years old and weighs 26 kilos; tall, curly. At school, they studied the rib cage with the same person, since with just raising the shirt they start to leave a hundred thousand ribs, iliac crests, scapulae, sternum and a rosary of bones that (of course) I do not have. Or it does not seem so. I swear that it has the right perimeter to house the vital organs , not one more viscera, nor one less viscera.
It is so since he was born. Little did he care about my despair when he weighed him in the pharmacy and the scale threw, if anything, pyrrhic increases. While other ladies deposited babies full of lipids on the metal tray, I left her trembling. I knew that skinny, very scoundrel, was going to question breastfeeding again. And, indeed, I gained as much-very much 150 grams a week, which is the driver that I eat on the way to the bathroom. For those displacements to his selfless mother I decided to punish him until he turned 18. By cretin.
During those first months, the pediatrician calculated the creature's percentile and the figure fell like a sentence . The thing is a measurement that says if your weight (and your height) is average or not and, where appropriate, came to place my firstborn in terrible parameters, according to my mother-in-law, and dramatic, according to my mother . Both were staring at me when I was serving anything, whether it was a donut or a pea. They should consider the great grandparents that I deserved nothing as long as their first grandson lazy the body.
Tearfully, I finished the tit by general whistle, but this demon boy did not improve his percentile with porridge, before, or with Risketos, after . He has never had any interest in food intake, whatever they may be. And to me, from whom he has not inherited the metabolism, this lack of appetite seems like a capital extravagance.
On the edge of hospital admission (mine, through nerves), I read about respectful eating and all that unbearable chatter, with the sole purpose of getting used to his lightness, his apocopated appetite, his little bird bones. Those 'influencers' of Zen parenting come to say that we leave the children alone. Mine saw the open sky. For a year, the caprice of his cardias only admitted star soup and turkey sausage. Neither of letters nor of pig, eye. And so 365 days. If I had asked, I would have put white truffle, Kobe meat, oysters on the plate . But also bollicaos, jelly beans, cork, shells of things.
As of today, if we put on a plate everything my firstborn eats on a Tuesday, let's say, anyone would say I feed a hamster. Or a parakeet. For mental health (ours), we no longer weigh him, although we know where he is going thanks to his pediatrician. And she, Dona Amparo, says everything is fine. So do not talk anymore.
About to finish Primary, I must settle a debt with their dining room monitors, to whom I pay my respects. Those people will undoubtedly have resorted to benzodiazepines to support him. I do not know what they charge, but it is little, very little, God knows well. What they will have fought for my creature to chew spinach, battered fish, croquettes.
As if the native gastronomy no longer supposed enough problems for their lifeless reluctance, they recently dedicated a day in school to Chinese food. The tolls of multiculturalism, it is already known. When I asked him what he had been put first, he replied hesitantly: "I don't know ... A thing that had something inside that looked like crap . " In the quadrant of the menu that hangs from my fridge it said: "Spring roll".
Lord, take me soon.
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