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Suddenly, Teletubbies seem like poor role models. To say nothing of that chub named Fancy Nancy.

Aura had her five-year physical this week. I’m not sure why I always get a touch anxious when it’s time for one of these things. It doesn’t help that the entire experience always starts with a stint in the waiting room during which Aura cagily eyes all available toy options and then beelines for the one located next to the sickest kid with the loudest wheeze. This time, she kind of angled her body backward to be in the direct line of cough fire, then looked back at me with a glance that roughly translated into “Just try to take me to swim lessons once I catch this surely severe respiratory illness. Swim without a flotation device NOT GOING TO HAPPEN EVER BWAHAHA.”

So there’s that. There’s also all the little tests. The hearing test. The vision test. The knock-on-the-knee test. Oh, and the drawing test, when the doctor tells Aura to “Just draw a picture¬† for me while I talk to Mom!” and I can only commit 51% of my brain power to the actual important mother-doctor conversation because the other 49% is sending Aura telepathic and highly pressuring commands to remember the Techniques of¬† Shading and Dimensional Perspective and DAMN IT THAT BETTER NOT BE JUST SOME STICK FIGURE WITH HASTILY SKETCHED CURLS.

Happily, the exam went well. However, this particular pediatrician is a real sticker for kids’ BMI numbers, so there were a few stressful moments when she was doing the abdominal exam, pressing Aura’s tummy here and there.

“Hmm. I think I hear something crunchy in there!” she said cheerily to Aura. “Did you have something crunchy for lunch?”

I have never prayed so hard in my life that Aura lie and lie hard about fish sticks. When it appeared that she was about to open her mouth and describe them in all their breaded wonder, I jumped in with a rash question about early-onset childhood obesity. New parental rule of thumb: When in doubt, prey on a doctor’s personal causes and shake your head woefully at statistics about fat kids. Poor little porkers. So little and so…porky.


By the time we got to the end of the appointment, all seemed well with the world. Healthy weight and height! Satisfactory pulse! Excellent reflexes! Then I remembered something that happened earlier this week and started to ask about it.

Eh. I didn’t bother bringing it up after all. Crazy kids are better than chubby kids any day.


Disclaiming disclosure: I experienced a stint of heftiness in my own childhood, so yes, I KNOW. But takes one to poke fun at one, I always say.

Second disclaiming disclosure: Those are Trader Joe’s reduced-fat fish sticks. For the (kinda-guilty) record.

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