During my little one’s routine check-up at two and a half years old, I heard a word I never expected to come from his mouth.
“How are we doing today?” the doctor asked, sporting a cheerful Snoopy tie and looking over his clipboard as my son, who preferred to be without clothes, squatted under the exam table, preoccupied with searching for lost change.
“Great!” my son chirped back. “I didn’t say ‘fuck’ and I don’t have to get a shot!”
The doctor chuckled, thankfully oblivious to my child’s expanding vocabulary and equally lacking in good manners. I feigned shock and whispered to him, “We use kind words!” while tickling him in an attempt to distract him, a tactic that had worked before when the F-word slipped out.
Let me clarify: this was his first public utterance of that word, meaning it was the first time I felt compelled to address it seriously. As a mom with a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and an infant, my initial perfectionist mindset had given way to a more realistic approach. Minor missteps were easier to overlook if they happened when no one else was watching.
But now, my little wordsmith had dropped a bomb in front of a professional, and I felt the pressure of judgment. Sure, it was amusing to hear him say such a naughty word, especially since it was a skill he’d picked up from his father, who proudly claimed responsibility for it.
“I think that’s my doing,” my husband grinned.
“Of course, it is,” I replied, rolling my eyes—although I really was just battling allergies.
I knew I had to tackle this habit before it escalated into more serious language issues. I tried ignoring it, reasoning it was merely a cry for attention. That didn’t work. I explained how sad it made me when he used the word, only to be met with laughter. I even resorted to time-outs, which only fueled his determination to say it more, giving him extra one-on-one time with me as I returned him to his “think” spot repeatedly. I soon realized that the F-word was here to stay.
I lived in constant anxiety that I would receive a call from his preschool, with teachers bringing up my son’s colorful language. My husband, of course, found the whole situation hilarious. But I couldn’t bear the thought of my child sounding like a stand-up comedian, while others in his class were still mastering basic words.
Yet, it wasn’t the F-word that caught me off guard one day after school. No, it was a different F-word that cut deeper—one I hadn’t anticipated.
“Mommy? Am I fat?” my son asked from the backseat as we drove to our favorite juice spot, enjoying a rare moment of quiet together. His innocent question pierced my heart.
“You’re perfect just the way you are! Why would you ask that?” I replied, hoping to deflect.
“Zack told me last year I had a big fat belly. It didn’t bother me then, but now everyone thinks I’m fat,” he confessed, his voice serious.
I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut.
“When I’m on the playground, some kids shout, ‘Big fat boy coming!’ when I run by.”
He said it so casually, unaware of how much it hurt me to hear.
“Those are friends just making bad choices,” I managed to say, choking back my anger at the thought of those kids. Violence wouldn’t solve anything, and I had to resist the urge to hunt them down.
As we sipped our celery-apple-kale juice, he expressed his wish for a magical place where he could make his belly skinny by morning. He cried about feeling weird in his clothes and wanting to fit in better. Each word shattered my heart further.
I felt responsible for every meal I cooked, every screen time moment I allowed, and every swim lesson skipped. I wanted to fix it all for him.
As parents, we instinctively protect our children from harm. We childproof our homes and keep them safe from dangers. But how do I shield my son from this kind of pain?
We tried various approaches, reading books about self-love and embracing differences. My husband joined in, reassuring our son that he was stronger than hurtful words. I even spoke with a therapist, who suggested I help my son see the positives of being unique. Thankfully, his school was supportive and handled the issue sensitively without singling him out.
The situation improved for a while, but inevitably, another child would call him fat.
I often feel compelled to describe my son, to assure others that he is not overweight, and to list all the healthy foods he loves and the sports he enjoys. However, it doesn’t matter.
There are many lessons here about healthy living and boosting our children’s self-esteem. Yet, the main takeaway is simple:
Let’s stop using the word “fat” to describe anyone—ourselves included. Refrain from warning your kids that they’ll get fat from too much sugar; instead, explain how it can harm their health. We must not forget boys in discussions about body image, as they face similar struggles. Rather than making jokes at the expense of those who are overweight, let’s challenge those assumptions.
I read advice suggesting we teach our children to reclaim the term “fat,” but society has long associated FAT with BAD. So, I urge you to change your language and encourage others to do the same.
Your child isn’t the only one who needs protection. Even if your child isn’t targeted by such words, everyone risks being called something hurtful. Just like I hope to prevent my children from using hurtful language, I promise to discourage my son from using words that could harm others. It’s not just about the F-word; it extends to all words that hurt.
Consider how carefully you guard the word “fuck,” avoiding it in front of your little ones. I’m asking you to apply that same care to the word “fat.” Because I can assure you, the impact of “fat” is far more painful.
In conclusion, let’s foster a culture of kindness and support, where we uplift rather than tear down.
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