When my son was four, he went through what I can only describe as his "fat phase." Not fat himself, fat obsessed. Specifically, pointing it out. On strangers. Loudly. Now, he's autistic, so whatever thought entered his brain went straight out of his mouth at maximum volume. No filter. No pause. Just pure, uncut commentary.
So picture us at the grocery store checkout line. There's a woman in front of us, a very heavy lady, with a cart piled high with food. My sweet little boy looks at her, eyes wide, and announces: "Oh my god, Mom! Look at that fat lady! She's so fat! And she has so much food, I'm surprised there's even anything left on the shelves! SHE'S SO FAT!"
The world stopped spinning. The conveyor belt stopped moving. Even the barcode scanner seemed to pause out of respect for my impending death. I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. Instead, I launched into Olympic-level apologizing, then dragged my son and our cart back into the aisles like we were fleeing the scene of a crime.
It didn't stop.
At the donut shop a week later, we're standing behind a very large man, and my son belts out: "Oh my gosh! That man is so fat, there won't be any donuts left when he's done!"
Reader, I left without donuts. Do you know how tragic that is? Leaving a donut shop empty-handed because your child fat-shamed a stranger into oblivion? This went on for months. Months. Every fat person we encountered, my son provided live commentary like he was hosting a nature documentary: "There goes a really fat one! Wow, that fat man must eat ALL the cookies! Oh my gosh, she's so fat, Mom! Look at her!"
I tried everything. Soap in the mouth. Vinegar. Time-outs. Long heartfelt explanations about kindness. Nothing worked. He just… didn't get it. Until Rachel.
Rachel was my sister's best friend, practically family, and she was hanging out at our house one night. We're all sitting around playing video games when suddenly, it's like my son noticed her body for the first time in his entire life. "Rachel," he says, dead serious. "You're really fat. Did you know that? You're SO fat."
Silence. Then Rachel bursts into tears. Full-body, dramatic, Oscar-worthy sobbing. Shoulders shaking, face buried, ugly-cry soundtrack. My son froze. He looked like he'd just been personally responsible for the fall of Rome. Rachel gasps between sobs, "That really hurt my feelings. It makes me sad when you call me fat."
For the first time, it clicked. His little face crumpled. He apologized. He hugged her. He finally understood that his words could hurt people. Later, when he left the room, Rachel wiped her face dry and grinned at me. "Don't worry," she whispered. "Most of that was fake. I just wanted him to understand."
I almost fell off the couch. Those were Oscar tears. She deserved a trophy and a speech. But it worked. From that day forward, he never said it again. Sometimes parenting is discipline. Sometimes it's patience. And sometimes it's a brilliant woman fake-crying so hard your kid thinks he ruined her life.