Last week, I left work in the middle of the day to pick London up at preschool. I arrived during lunchtime and sat next to him in a chair the size of a Webster's dictionary. While he chomped his apple, London offered introductions to the paddock of his pint-sized peers. "That's Dylan, my best friend," he said, pointing to the kid with a healthy head of hair seated next to him.
"Nice to see you." I offered an abbreviated wave.
"That's boy Devin." At London's preschool there are Devins of both sexes so even though it's easy to tell which locker room each would frequent, the kids have simplified the storytelling process by adding gender to this shared unisex name.
At the table next to ours sat another boy who was quietly eating his Lunchable, compartment by compartment. London must have realized that he hadn't completed his duties as the self-elected mayor of Munchkinville. "See that big fat boy over there," he spat like a Gotti with his mouth full of fruit. That's…" and then he said the boy's name.
"London, well," I stammered, not knowing how to deal with such a stout slight in public.
"He sure is big and fat, isn't he, Dad?" He erected the thumbs up like we were recruiting heavy kids for a diet show on Nickelodeon.
"No, London, he's just bigger than you are, that's all," I said, which was the corpulent truth.
"We all come in different shapes and sizes," the preschool teacher offered from her perch by the door.
"And with different ways of noticing such," I said in the direction of my little Richard Simmons.
I sped home, not because I was late for my last class on Hawthorne, but because I was dying to tell Lala about our son's fatty faux pas, the origins of which were still unclear to me. I made London recount the story about this boy and he did so, note for note, which is rare for someone who can easily forget what he ate for breakfast.
"London, some people would find it hurtful if you call them fat," Lala said.
London thought about it for a second then cozied up to her. "Well, Mom," he whispered in her ear. "He is a little fat."
Later that day, London was playing Rescue Heroes on the floor in the living room. I had finished helping Poppy with her report on the circulatory system and was, as they say in Texas, fixin' to wrestle up some dinner.
"Mom," London called. "One time I saw these people at the airport and they were so fat!" He had paused in mid-rescuing and let visions of travelling obesity fill his head.
I sighed, my hands busy inside a chicken. "What's with all this fatness?"
"London, it's not nice to call people fat, remember?" Lala reminded him.
"But they had this big fat all over their bodies!" He almost shook from the tallowy thrill of it all. "So fat!"
On Thursday nights, our family puts down the books, dishes, art supplies and arrest warrants and gathers around our old television set to watch
Survivor
. London usually grabs a wooden train or Bionicle because reality shows don't hypnotize him the way they do the rest of us mind-numbed Americans. During the episode we were watching, Judd, a doorman from New York, won a feast as a reward and got as hammered as Chris Farley on the open bar.
"I want that fat guy to win," London said to no one in particular. None of us thought he had any idea what the show was about, let alone the attributes of the individual camera whores.
"Why him?" Lala asked.
"Come on, he's so fat!" London shook his fists in the air in solidarity with the lardaceous lad. Then he walked over to the couch where I was sprawled, lifted up my shirt and pointed to my belly. "Just like you, Dad."
