The Burden of Being Atlas Jr.

publlished in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on April 29, 2011

The issue of weight has been weighing heavily on my mind. It has been weighing heavily on other parts too, of course, but we’re not here to talk about me. Notice how my photo cuts off before the wide-angle lens is required? Be thankful for good editorial insight: they know when and where to truncate things.


I don’t want to succumb to the pitfall of obsessing over my weight. The diet and weight loss industries are doing well enough without my chipping in my two cents into their billion-dollar bins.


Even so, weight is often on my mind. My youngest boy (recently turned six) is as scrawny as ever. He’s acting like adding even one ounce to his bony frame would be tantamount to adding to the burden of Atlas Almighty. Just tell me whether Atlas was still riding in a car seat after he turned six because he hadn’t reached forty pounds YET.


It’s a good thing little Atlas Junior is my sixth child. That way, I don’t have to get bent out of shape when someone sees him and asks if he is four years old. He is, after all, still comfortably wearing size 4T, as long we can classify comfortable as the elastic inside the pants’ waist being yanked to its tightest setting and his belt being set at maximum strength so that I only have to remind him fourteen times a day to pull up his pants. Why should I be offended? It’s not a crime to have a child of petite stature, even though we live in America, home of the super-sized portion. Admittedly, no teenaged boy is going to want to be classified as “petite,” criminal or no.


For many people, this Size-of-my-Child thing is a matter of supreme parental pride. They gloat over the percentile of their child’s height (or infant’s weight) as if it were a score indicating the child’s abilities or the parents’ competence, whether by way of being genetic contributors or as nutritional providers. “Why, little Frankie is in the 97% percentile for height,” they gloat, “but we don’t know where he gets it!” I want to warn them that the oxygen might be a little thinner up there where Frankie’s elevated brain resides, but I resist.


Even though it’s not a crime to have a child that’s on the left end of the bell curve, it still feels like a blemish against the maternal record for producing such a puny person in the first place or for allowing him to remain one. Were you eating enough protein during pregnancy, or were you busy putting down slabs of chocolate cake? What kind of lousy nutrition have I got my family engaged in? 

Or should I blame genetics?  Forget genetics.  Genetics is for people who can’t own up to their own faults. “You know, Little Sammy here might have been so much more productive, except he’s got that Excessive-TV-Watcher’s gene, you know?”


Because he is my sixth child, I am at least spared the self-doubt and insecurity when the grocery store clerk comments on Atlas Junior’s size after complimenting his cuteness and inquiring his age. The clerk gasps, “Oh, really? Jeez, my son is only three and he’s already this high.” She motions just below her pendulous bosom, and all I do is smile. All I CAN do is smile. Sometimes, smiling is as much a weapon as it is a defense. I want to say, “That’s great for you. Maybe next year your preschooler can bring you to work on piggy back with his massive self.”


So why can’t or won’t my little man pack on a pound or two? And then, a brilliant idea occurs to me. All over the media and marketing, we get pointers on what is contributing to our obesity. If I reverse the logic, couldn’t I impose on him all the things we are supposed to avoid in order to help him pack on the pounds? Or even ounces? I could be happy with ounces, you know.


Special K promises that people who eat breakfast tend to weigh less than people who don’t. Great. Make the kid skip breakfast. That should help him put on pounds.


Apparently, people who have regular bedtimes, as opposed to night owls fueling themselves on hard cinnamon candies, also tend to weigh less. I don’t know how much more productive night owls are, but they can certainly claim, in addition to the extra pounds, more cavities as well as a cranky need for caffeine in the mornings.


Also, people with sedentary lifestyles, especially those “engaged” (entranced?) in lots of TV-watching, also tend to carry excess weight. So here’s part two of my master plan, a double-jackpot: the sedentary night owl. Strap the boy down and force him to watch late-night TV. He might possibly gain weight, but he’s definitely bound to gain some worldly wisdom.


Then, when he’s tired and cranky the next day, especially after I make him skip breakfast, I will give him a doughnut, which he will ravenously wolf down. I’d add coffee to this regimen, but that might stunt his already stunted growth.


Ask me in a year whether I’ve achieved success. Or, just look for me around town. I’ll be the one riding piggyback on Atlas Jr.