My kids inherited certain things from me: my quick wit, my hazel eyes and also my body type.
I was a chubby child. The adults in my life told me it was ?puppy fat? and that I?d outgrow it. When I didn?t, I was sent to a weight-loss group for fat kids in grade 4. I remember nothing about it apart from the humiliation of seeing another boy from my class there.
I put on more weight as I grew into a teenager. My mum, who struggled with her own weight, chose Christmas Eve to force me on my grandmother?s scales. I was told I shouldn?t weigh that much.
I grew up on a pretty steady diet of fish fingers, baked beans, and chips. It was the extent of my British-born father?s culinary skills. With my kids, I wanted it to be different. I made baby food from scratch. I turned my nose up at KD and fed them quinoa before most of us knew how to pronounce it correctly. As my two kids grew up, they put on weight. I worried about them getting fat. I worried about them getting teased as I did, adults commenting on their weight as if it was a character flaw?that being fat meant you were lazy, a slob. That they?d be told no one would love them if they were overweight.
But there was a part of me that also felt ashamed of having kids who were overweight. I thought others would judge their weight as a reflection of my parenting. This fear wasn?t unfounded. At the time, a friend in the UK who worked as a social worker mentioned overweight kids were being put into foster care. The message" Allowi...