The Heavy

by Dara-Lynn Weiss

  Comparing her growth chart to that of her brother, I see that between the ages of two and six, David gained about five pounds each year, and Bea put on an average of twice that amount. At her checkup when she turned three, her weight was in the 99th percentile. A year earlier, it had been in the 75th-to-90th percentile range. Something was changing.

  At a conference with me at Bea’s preschool that year, one of her teachers gently sounded an alarm about her eating. “She doesn’t self-regulate,” she noted. In the classroom, there was a snack table, a dress-up area, an art studio, a writing center, a library, a blocksbuilding section, and a music station. Guess where Bea spent most of her class time? She’d start off at the snack table and stay there long after her classmates had moved on to other activities. Though she would eventually join them, she’d make frequent stops back at the food for additional nibbles throughout the class period.

  Ten pounds a year between the ages of three and six is a noticeable rate of weight gain. At first we saw this merely as a transition from being a slim toddler to being a slightly chunky one. There were other kids who, like her, were carrying around a bit of baby fat. It was sort of cute. Definitely not a big deal.

  We also didn’t really spend a lot of time worrying about it because, frankly, we were too busy enjoying other aspects of Bea and David. Since they were both healthy, we paid much more attention to their emotional development than their weight.

  CONCERN AT FOUR

  Bea grew bigger still. She occasionally skipped entire clothing sizes. Jeff pointed out that the size-5 wardrobe I’d been dressing her in when she was four was unbecomingly tight. By the time I brought home a bunch of size-6 replacements, it was too late: she’d outgrown them, too. By the end of that year, she was wearing clothes meant for eight-year-olds. We started having to shorten the legs of jeans meant for much older (and taller) girls so they’d fit her.

  I realized this was one of those situations where our response to her behavior, rather than the innate behavior she exhibited, was going to be the determining factor in this issue. But, afraid to send her down an unhealthy path of food obsession and body image problems, I kept my mouth shut. If there was any chance that Bea’s weight might not end up being an issue for her physically, I didn’t want to make it one psychologically.

  But aside from the obvious health problems associated with being overweight, I worried about the emotional implications of letting Bea stay heavy. Were we going to let our daughter be the fat kid in the class? Would her schoolmates tease her? Would she start to hate how she looked? Might she be ostracized in the lunchroom or at recess? What if she grew into an obese adult, as half of overweight six- to eleven-year-olds do? Would her social life suffer? Her self-esteem? Her job prospects? Her potential life span?

  I wanted Bea to feel good about herself and her body, but was preaching this kind of self-acceptance wrong if she was actually overweight? Should I teach her to be comfortable with a body that the rest of society disdains, that the medical community cautioned against, and that her father and I personally tried to avoid?

  I still held out hope that this was a passing phase that wouldn’t require any major action on our part. In light of Bea’s appetite, I was careful to make sure the foods she did have access to were nutritious. She could finish a pint of grape tomatoes or an entire small melon for a snack, so I could only imagine what kind of damage she could do to herself if I’d instead handed her Cheetos or Chips Ahoy cookies.

  At that point in Bea’s childhood, junk food was not unheard of, but it was still pretty rare. I wouldn’t have dreamed of giving a four- or five-year-old kid soda. We almost never ate at fast-food restaurants—maybe once or twice a year. I doled out the kids’ Halloween candy haul parsimoniously and raised my voice sharply at grandparents who attempted to sneak them an extra share of dessert at a restaurant. Not because of Bea’s weight, but because I felt those were good, healthy habits that I should try to instill in my kids at a young age. No crappy food, no overeating, moderation. Obvious.

  HOLDING STEADY AT FIVE

  When Bea was five and her weight once again barely fell within the confines of the top of the medical chart, her pediatrician still was not overly concerned. She hoped (as I so desperately did) that the problem would work itself out, that Bea would hit some kind of growth spurt that would eliminate the problem naturally. Bea was also tall, so while her weight was in a high percentile, so was her height. Her annual weight gain, while significant, was staying constant year after year. Her problem wasn’t getting better, but it also wasn’t getting worse.

  The pediatrician waved away the need for any major intervention at that time. She urged us to avoid desserts and sugary drinks. But I knew that wasn’t the culprit. We fed Bea nutritious food, and she was no less active than lots of kids her age. Though no athlete, Bea walked around town, played in the playground like everyone else, and took dance class every week. We confirmed that she had no metabolic or other medical problem causing her weight gain. She just plain ate too much.

  CONFRONTING REALITY AT SIX

  When Bea was a happy, productive first grader, our adult friends began to acknowledge her weight. “You just can’t let her eat like that,” one outspoken member of our extended family said. “Get rid of all the processed food in your house,” advised my co-worker at the time. “You should get her to exercise more,” ventured a mom of one of Bea’s classmates. Not that we’d asked.

  Bea was catching on to the fact that she was starting to look different from other kids. One afternoon, as we were heading out to a family get-together, I found her in my bathroom putting on my lip gloss.

  “So people won’t look at my belly,” she explained.

  Her words cut me to the core. I don’t like people looking at my belly either, but I’m in my forties. I hadn’t even been aware of my stomach as a potential source of shame until I was years older than Bea. To see her feeling embarrassed about her tummy at such a young age seemed like a premature loss of innocence.

  Sometimes, as we cuddled in bed or when she’d get dressed, she’d say, “I’m fat.” It seemed disingenuous to contradict her, but unthinkable to agree with her. So I’d dodge. “You’re beautiful and healthy. You’re growing. You don’t have to worry about being fat.”

  But secretly, I was, increasingly, worried. I asked myself how much of my concern over the superficial, physical aspects of her being overweight was a result of my own ego or vanity. Was I afraid she made me look like a bad mother? Did I worry that other moms thought I was overly lax? Unconcerned with her health? Neglectful? Lazy?

  On the flip side, if I tried to put a stop to her patterns, would people think I was overreacting and not giving her time to grow out of her heaviness naturally? I didn’t know when the “right” time was to declare war on a child’s weight, but I thought age six definitely seemed premature. (Apparently not: a college friend who works in the medical community later confided that when she saw my family that year, with my husband’s weight at an all-time high and Bea seemingly following in his footsteps, she was worried. She felt our decision to help Bea did not come a moment too soon.)

  So, sure, I wondered what other moms thought about me, and how they might judge my actions or inaction. But I was much more concerned about the judgments Bea herself would be subjected to. I wanted to protect her from the problems inherent in growing up as a “fat girl.” I knew people were beginning to view her that way—it was impossible not to—and that their associations with that label were almost always negative. It saddened me to think that people were looking at Bea with anything other than the awe and admiration I felt she deserved.

  No matter her weight, I could not love Bea more. And when her belly swelled under a bathing suit or peeked out prominently under her pajama top, my only inclination was to want to kiss it. No weight gain or loss was going to change my opinion of her. Yet while I know a fat Bea would be just as amazing as a thinner Bea, I worried about other people regarding her differently, treating her
differently because of her weight. I didn’t want people thinking of her as the “fat girl” throughout her childhood. Or ever.

  CHAPTER 2

  In 1984, a trio of female researchers published an article called “Women and Weight: A Normative Discontent.” The title reflected their conclusion that for American women, being unhappy about their weight had ceased to be an anomaly and had become the norm.

  Things haven’t improved since. After conducting a study of women ages twenty-five to forty-five in 2008, Cynthia Bulik of the University of North Carolina Eating Disorders Program found that 10 percent of the women she surveyed qualified as having an eating disorder, while an additional 65 percent exhibited milder, subclinical levels of troubled eating.

  Bulik observed, “It is almost expected that a woman—any woman—is dissatisfied with her body and is trying to lose weight.” Obviously, there are exceptions. But each year, approximately forty-five million Americans go on a diet. Inevitably, I’m one of them.

  It’s been that way since I hit puberty, when I became aware of how my body looked and ashamed of the extra weight I was carrying. Prior to that, my relationship to food and my weight had been fairly unremarkable.

  CHILDHOOD NUTRITION, 1970S-STYLE

  My two sisters and I grew up in a house where food was not a big deal. There was no overt focus on nutrition, but the meals my parents prepared for us were healthful and well-balanced, at least as the world understood balance and the food pyramid thirty years ago. Breakfast was generally a quickly downed bowl of cereal before the school bus came. Sure, we were into Lucky Charms instead of steel-cut oatmeal, and the milk was whole, not skim. But we weren’t scarfing down fast-food breakfast sandwiches or “Breakfast Bake Shop” Hostess donuts either. I did try to make the argument that since these greasy or sugary confections were being marketed as a breakfast food, it was only fair for us to consider them as such, but to her credit, our mother didn’t buy in.

  The lunches we brought to school might include a turkey sandwich and fruit, or a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Dinners often began with a half grapefruit or a salad and always contained a protein, a starch, and vegetables.

  We were chided for eating too quickly or too messily, for not finishing our vegetables, or for tipping our chairs back at the dining table. But we were not pressured much to eat more or eat less. No one had a health or weight problem when we were little, so food was just food.

  I developed a sweet tooth at an early age and could generally find something in my house to satisfy it. There might be something as decadent as a box of Devil Dogs on the corner of the kitchen counter or a box of Oreos in the pantry. More often, the choice was between an Entenmann’s Walnut Danish Ring—which I strategically cut for myself to get slices that were heavy on the icing, light on the walnuts—or a freezer burn–ravaged carton of Breyers ice cream.

  As we grew up, my sisters developed an enthusiasm and respect for food. They enjoyed eating, cooking, and talking about food. But they did not obsess over it. Their weights were generally stable, and they didn’t worry about how their bodies looked any more than the average female did.

  GROWING UP CHUBBY

  I didn’t pay attention to my weight until junior high, when I started to get a little heavy.

  My weight gain was understandable, given my activity level and how much I ate. A poor athlete and a lazy person, I exercised only when forced or when I felt it behooved me to try to act more “healthy.” I preferred to spend my time reading, writing, or watching Tic-Tac-Dough on TV.

  I loved eating. And more was better. A latchkey child, I made my own after-school snack, and usually cooked up a pizza muffin or two, followed by a Twinkie or two. My real weakness was peanut butter. On toast, with jelly, or straight up on a spoon—I could down a half cup of the stuff within minutes. At 760 calories and 64 grams of fat for that half cup, it was a dangerous relationship.

  At dinner, I would often eat until I felt stuffed. I couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t eat as many pieces as possible of delicious, golden-brown chicken Parmesan with tangy tomato sauce and slightly browned, melting chunks of mozzarella. It was there, it was delicious, I didn’t have to pay for it (at least not financially—the pounds incurred were another story). Later, I’d dig into the RingDings with the same lack of restraint.

  I’ve spent a good number of hours considering whether there was some emotional component to this eating. It’s conceivable that loneliness, insecurity, or boredom contributed to my habits. But I truly believe that my overeating was largely due to my love of food and lack of self-control. With minimal supervision in a household with two working parents, and no formal instruction on what constituted appropriately sized meals and snacks, I just followed my appetite, which was expansive, and directed at the worst possible targets: high-sugar, high-fat comfort foods.

  I never became extremely fat. I was always able to wear regular sizes, and no doctor ever said my health was at risk because of my weight. But by eighth grade, I was definitely heavy enough that you’d notice it. I was legitimately chunky. Plump. Zaftig. And I hated it.

  So I tried to lose the weight by eating as little as possible all day until my willpower gave out. When it did, I had trouble eating normal amounts of food. By age thirteen, I was constantly engaged in the classic dieting conundrum of mind over matter, willpower versus appetite, id against ego.

  I tried everything to get my weight down. I set my alarm clock for four-thirty in the morning to go jogging and bike riding before school. That fitness kick lasted two days. I rode my bike to the supermarket and bought a packet of diet pills. The purchase felt thrillingly precocious and transgressive, like buying alcohol while underage, except in this case, no one asked me for ID at checkout. I didn’t tell anyone about my stash of capsules, though their existence likely would not have raised eyebrows. During those years, diet pills and other appetite suppressants were hawked on TV at all times of day (I still remember the tag line from a commercial: “I lost weight with Dexatrim, and I feel great!”). In my suburban community, they were practically on the same level as antacids. I occasionally popped one before school, in hopes that it would help me with my plan to eat nothing all day. It didn’t.

  There was lots of educational talk about eating disorders during those years, both at my school and in the media. It was through that outreach that I learned that sometimes girls took laxatives to lose weight. So I tried it. At the supermarket, they were helpfully and suggestively located right next to the diet pills, and even came in a kid-friendly chocolate-bar format. While they did perform as advertised, the severity of the result (and the disgusting flavor of the “chocolate”) were such that I didn’t do it again.

  At my most desperate moment, I took an emetic in order to make myself throw up after a slightly out-of-control eating session. But generally, my efforts to reduce my size were confined to the Sisyphean task of adopting any calorie-reduction regimen I heard about. I undertook the most ridiculous one at a summer program during high school. It promised five pounds of weight loss in exchange for three days of eating only two eggs, an orange, and broiled chicken. On the morning of the fourth day, I fainted in the hallway of my dorm. That episode prompted a visit to the campus counseling office, where I was referred to a therapist in my hometown. I embarked on a short-lived series of sessions with her, which I didn’t mind, but which had minimal effect on my behavior.

  At my competitive high school in a well-off, high-achieving community, I was hardly the only kid struggling with eating issues. I would say at least half of the girls in my school were dieting in some way. There was a girl in my grade—popular, smart, accomplished, pretty—who had to be hospitalized for anorexia. Another girl—happy, well adjusted—would coolly saunter to the bathroom to make herself throw up after eating a big lunch.

  Awful as it is to admit, I sometimes wished I could be more like these girls. It was almost a sign of maturity to have an extreme weight loss strategy. One was successful enough in her w
eight loss efforts to have to be hospitalized for it. And the other so seamlessly and effectively integrated her food neuroses into her day that it hardly seemed like a burden to her. I felt I had the worst of all worlds: starving all the time unless I was gorging on food and feeling bad about myself; lacking both the willpower not to eat and the level of commitment necessary to purge; thinking about food and weight constantly, yet still being (in my opinion—and that of a few adults who had the audacity to comment on my physique) chubby.

  Then, finally, I was ready to try that quaint, mainstream solution to weight loss: a reasonable diet. An offhand but searing comment from the guy who cut my hair—something along the lines of “You’re getting heavy. You should lose weight”—prompted me to join Weight Watchers. After a couple of months of dedicated adherence to the program, I’d dropped the ten pounds that had stood between me and a normal weight, and I was delighted.

  Except as soon as I went off the diet, my eating habits reverted to the patterns that had made me overweight to begin with. And so I set to work to lose the pounds I’d regained, reverting to the now-familiar cycle of overeating and deprivation. I wasn’t heavy anymore, except by my own standards, but my desire to keep the weight off was as fervent as ever.

  My relationship with the scale was a close and intimate one, and I would step onto that thing at least once a day. Most of the time, my mood was at least in part determined by what the scale said.

  I grew up in an age when the ideal female form was fairly tiny. As a teenager, I worshipped Madonna, and watched as the attractively fleshy body with which she debuted in 1983 morphed, within a few years, to the more ascetic and sinewy appearance we associate with her today. In the ensuing years, the connection between beauty and voluptuousness of any kind grew weaker and weaker until we reached the 1990s, and it was Kate Moss time.