I Married a Fat Kid

"Cupcakes" by Pamela Johnson

I once read about this family that adopted three or four orphans from Sudan, or maybe it was Zimbabwe- one of those 3^rd world countries that doesn’t have Wi-Fi or a Neiman Marcus. Shortly after their newly adopted children arrived, the parents had to put a chain on the refrigerator and a lock on the pantry door. The orphans had grown up in a state of constant starvation, and the abrupt change of environment which provided not only regular meals, but instant access to an abundant food supply was completely overwhelming. If ever left unattended, these kids would gorge themselves on all the food they could get their hands on.  Apparently one kid ate something like 40 hot dogs in one sitting while the parents went next door to visit a neighbor. Why these people had 40 hot dogs in their home to begin with is definitely questionable, but that’s beside the point.

This story has always stuck with me. Probably because I feel like I adopted one of those kids when I married my husband, Chris.

Chris eats more than anyone I’ve ever met. He consumes food like a competitive eater, not the kind that can scarf down 6.8 hotdogs per minute, but of the breed that accepts those challenges at shoddy road-side restaurants: If you eat this entire 76 ounce steak, it’s free. That’s who he is, the 76 ounce steak guy. The guy you can’t help but watch while you feel simultaneously impressed and nauseated at his incredible talent of eating a slab of meat the size of a cinder block.

My husband survives primarily on a diet of Taco Bell, subsidized with heavy helpings of wings and pizza, bolstered with regular intervals of doughnuts and all washed down with large amounts of Big Red. He also harbors a deep appreciation for chocolate milk, pouring towering glasses of the white stuff and then dumping an economy-sized bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over it for the better part of a minute. The resulting brown sludge is so thick I wouldn’t be surprised if it would stay in the glass if turned upside-down, like a blizzard at Dairy Queen.

His daily diet resembles a crescendo as his calorie intake gradually increases throughout the day. He hates to eat breakfast, enjoys lunch, relishes dinner, and adores late-night snacks. Several hours after his evening meal and usually just before bed, Chris regularly devours entire boxes of cereal, pints of ice cream, and sleeves of double-stuffed Oreos.

Like a sommelier searches for fine wines, Chris is constantly on the lookout for restaurants that serve exceptional versions of chili-cheese fries, as not all samples are suitable for his elevated palate. He holds the hot dog chain, Wienerschnitzel in particularly high esteem for their talents in this field. “Now they know how to make chili-cheese fries,” he often comments, appreciatively.

Chris’s love for fast food is marred by any changes these restaurants make to his favorites. He still mourns the loss of Whataburger’s A1 Thick & Hearty Burger. The new Steak House Burger just doesn’t cut it. He also turns his nose up to the modifications Taco Bell has made to the standard enchirito.

“It used to come with black olives,” he complains every time he orders it. “It was way better with the black olives.”

“You could just dump some black olives on it when you get home,” I once suggested.

“I know that,” he spat out, bitterly.

Like any true carnivore, anything that grows from the ground Chris regards with deep suspicion while he holds no such reservations about eating any food material that falls under the category of meat. After killing a deer on a hunting trip, Chris brought back a startling amount of processed venison in neat packages wrapped in white butcher paper. I didn’t have a problem eating it until sometime later Chris brought back the mounted head of the deer, christened him “Brutus” and then proceeded to hang him on a prominent wall in our living room. He hangs there directly opposite from the kitchen, staring at the freezer that contains his remains. There’s something about having your prey look at you with huge, unblinking eyes that makes chewing their dead body somewhat uncomfortable.

“Those aren’t even his real eyes!” Chris said when I told him I couldn’t eat any more venison with Brutus staring at me. “You’re being ridiculous, that deer is delicious.”

Undoubtedly, most people would envision Chris to be extremely overweight. The type of obese individual who uses a motorized cart at Wal-Mart. Not because there is anything wrong with his legs, but because the effort of shopping for food is too strenuous for him to do without the aid of a wide leather seat and a powerful electric motor. But they would be wrong.

Whether he was born with perfect genes or drank some sort of magical elixir, I’m not sure, but Chris is perpetually thin, despite the thousands of calories he consumes. Even more unfair, his body is also remarkably responsive to even the slightest level of physical training. On a whim, after years of inactivity, Chris moseyed over to the gym and signed up with a personal trainer. He now works out for an hour once a week.

“I really need to start eating more,” he told me after his second work-out in two weeks, looking down at his taunt stomach that bulges in six neat squares. I nodded in what I hoped was an understanding manner, still sweating from a boot camp I go to several times a week.

“I just keep losing weight,” he continued, mournfully. He said this as if I should be sympathetic, as if this is a problem that I can relate to. I tried not to give him dirty looks while I picked at the green tissue paper that composed my dinner. Right, because you’ve worked out for two hours in the last 14 days, you’ve lost 10 pounds and need to eat even more. That’s just awesome.

Sometimes I can’t help but complain about my difficulties of living with someone who eats like a beluga whale. My friends and colleagues are always quick to offer feedback.

“Well, he won’t stay like that forever,” they often tell me. As if the idea that my trim husband will soon swell to the side of a Biggest Loser contestant is uplifting. The more sensitive point out, “His arteries must be awful.”

Apparently the hope of an impending heart attack is supposed to comfort me.

An Inconvenient Truth

The district had this thing, this stigmatism, about failing elementary students. My school in particular, had all sorts of red tape and hoops of fire to navigate if a teacher were to give a kid a failing grade on their report card. Forms have to be filled out, phone calls have to be made, questions have to be answered. Did you introduce the material in a manner that is conducive to all learning styles? Were appropriate modifications made? Could the assignment have been shortened or excused? Did you offer tutoring? Was extra credit given?  Did you call the parent? Did you document the parent contact? Why didn’t you have a parent conference?

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s just not worth it to fail a kid, and I try to avoid it all costs. Which brings me to Kyage.

Kyage was very short, even by 5^th grade standards, where the boys are always lagging several inches behind their female counterparts. His round little face was topped with carefully styled brown hair which he often brightened with highlights. He had a twin brother who though not identical, looked very much like him.  Because of Kyage’s girlish tendancies and his extreme affinity for the color pink, the powers that be among his 5^th grade classmates designated Kyage as the “gay twin.” Not to be confused with his brother, Kyle, who was known simply as the “dumb twin.” Elementary trademarks these brothers will probably bare all their lives.

As the labels would suggest, Kyage was the smarter of the two brothers, but he was also lazy. After turning in virtually no homework, his average was deep in the red-zone. I made him sit out of recess for days while he did make-up work, but after he bombed yet another spelling quiz, I had had enough. I sent Kyage home with a progress report to be signed by his mother.

Every day for the next week Kyage returned to class bearing excuses, but no signed paper. First he told me he had left it at school, then he forgot to tell her about it, then he lost it and I had to give him another copy.  

I decided to ask my older and wiser colleagues during lunch one day what I should do. “That’s easy” Leslie said over the chili-covered baked potato she was hacking into pieces and shoveling into her mouth. She had been teaching for longer than I had been alive and though she was great with the kids, she was also pretty strict. She also liked to cuss a lot, which made working in an elementary school inconvenient as this is a practice usually frowned upon in the presence of children. With only 30 minutes for lunch, she seemed to be trying to fit as many of the profane words in, like a smoker hot boxing a handful of cigarettes.

“I’ll tell you what you need to (f word) do,” Lesley said, her words finding their way out though she continued to shove in chili-soaked mounds of potato.

“You whip out your (f word) cell phone right there in the middle of the (f word) class and call his mom. Not only will he never (f word) lie to you again, the rest of the class will think twice.”

She put down her fork, which meant the next part was going to be important. I held my breath and looked up at my mentor, expectantly.

“If they know you’ll call home, especially in front of everyone, they’ll take you (f word) seriously.”

Now that, I thought, was brilliant.

So right after lunch I asked Kyage for his progress report which we both knew he wouldn’t have. He went on to tell me a truly ridiculous story that he had given it to his mother and she told him she did not have time to sign it.

“Really, Kyage?” I asked, my voice skeptical, sounding eerily similar to a detective I watched grilling a murder suspect on Law & Order one time.

“Yes, really,” he replied, as if this was a perfectly plausible explanation.

“You mean,” my volume rising as I warm to my subject, “that your mom didn’t have time to do this.” I grabbed the pencil from his hand and scribbled my name down. My face tilts in an angle of mock surprise.

The child shakes his head, “she just said she didn’t have time.”

“Well, then you wouldn’t mind if we called her right now, would you? Just to get this little misunderstanding worked out.” The detective tone continues, but I can’t help it.

“Um, ok.” He seemed guilty. Really, really guilty.

Most of what I say goes unnoticed by the attendees in my classroom, but this was getting interesting. All of the little mouth-breathers let their jaws slacken even more as their beady eyes followed my every move. Perfect, I had an audience, and they were about to get a front-row seat in a courtroom drama that could rival Judge Judy.

I grabbed my phone and asked Kyage to dial the number for me. I cleared my voice and prepared to speak in a very loud voice. True, they were already watching me, but I wanted to make no mistake. Watch out world, I will absolutely call your mother in the middle of class and hash it out right here in front of the whole class.

After about four rings, my confidence began to waver. Leaving a message wouldn’t have nearly the same impact.

“Hello,” a haggard voice abruptly came across the line halfway through the sixth ring. I was usually very nervous calling parents, these adults are usually at least 15 years my senior. However I felt extremely confident and relaxed during this conversation. I was on the attack.

“Why hello Mrs. Parker. This is Kristin Wilson, from Lee Elementary.” My voice is airy, poised.

“What? Who is this?” the voice was muffled by a great deal of background noise. I couldn’t tell if she was in a cattle yard or an active construction site.

“Kristin Wilson. I’m Kyage’s reading teacher.” I say a little more quickly & quietly, trying to validate myself.

“Oh, oh right.” Her voice signals recognition but there is no trace of eagerness to talk to me.

I forged ahead, determined to take control of this ship which seemed to have wandered into rocky waters.

“Well I am calling you because there seems to be some sort of misunderstanding with Kyage’s progress report. I sent it home to be signed at the beginning of the week and he still has not returned it.  He’s been telling me-” I pause to add a little chuckle and look Kyage right in the eyes.

“He’s been telling me that you didn’t have time sign it.” My fake laugh and sardonic emphasis clearly implies that we both know that this is clearly ridiculous.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been meaning to do that. I’ll try to get that in next week.”

Something called humility slapped me across the face as I realize my full-proof plan has not only failed, but back-fired in epic proportions. I make a mental note to kill Lesley before I put all cylinders in reverse and begin damage control. The students in my class have not even taken a breath. This soap opera went from intriguing to sensational.

I draw myself up with whatever pride I have left and say in my best authoritative voice, “I would appreciate it if you would please have Kyage bring it to me tomorrow. Thank you and good bye.”

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” I say to Kyage, determined to act like I still have the upper-hand.

“I told you I gave it to her.”

“Can it, Kyage. You shouldn’t have failed that stupid quiz anyway.”

Firmware Upgrade Needed

After I was hired, one of the first things the district required of me was to attend an enormous amount of technology training. Under strict supervision in mandatory sessions lasting hours at a time, we learned advanced technological skills like scheduling a substitute, and managing the on-line grade book.

To anyone who has not spent any time in the public school system, this may seem completely ridiculous. Some may wonder if it is really necessary to schedule blocks of time to teach college-educated adults how to perform simple tasks, like how to log-on to a computer.

Yes. Yes it is. And there’s a couple of reasons for this.

The first thing you must know is that teachers are usually horrible students. For years, the classroom has been their castle and they have grown accustomed to calling the shots. In a simple case of environmental adaptation, basic observation and listening skills have been lost forever and instead the teacher has evolved to develop powerful lungs and vocal chords capable of producing and projecting a tremendously loud voice that can be heard over the roar of a small mob. It’s a matter of survival.

Grouping all of these thunderous alphas together can have certain detrimental effects.  Before our instructor can even finish the initial explanation, hands shoot up all over the room like fireworks. The less courteous start shouting out their opinion over the melee. Most of these loud comments begin with the words, “well, at my old school…”

During one of my first training sessions, I was surprised to find that all we were expected to do was set up our school email account. Yet all around me, people were shouting for help. With only their heads visible above their computer monitors, it looked like a crowd of people sinking in quicksand, frantically waving their arms in a desperate plea for rescue.

“I know it takes some getting used to,” one of our instructors soothed as she patted the back of one flustered participant. As if using an electronic mail system is an insurmountable task, like learning how to tie your shoe with one hand, or quitting cocaine. It takes some getting used to.

Another complication is that teachers are generally too old to have garnered much experience with anything more electronically sophisticated than a microwave. Anything that runs on batteries causes great anxiety and a quickening of the pulse of the typical educator. Then again, considering that many of these people did their homework on a slate by firelight, you can only expect to run into difficulties when trying to incorporate technology into the classroom.

This problem is compounded by the fact that teachers have access to and are expected to use a massive amount of technology. Just this year, I was issued one laptop, one docking station, one printer, one overhead color projector (with remote), one cable box (with remote), two student desktop computers, and one telephone. We also have access to computer labs, laptop carts, electronic chalkboards, document projectors, electronic sketchpads, video cameras, digital cameras, copy machines, laminating machines, binding machines, a poster printer, an electronic dye cut, and enormous boom box CD players capable of producing noise at incredible volume.

At any point in time, any or all of these electronic devices will need to be updated, charged, adjusted, cloned, refilled, or fixed in one way or another which puts the average teacher in clear and present danger as they have no hope of ever understanding these devices, much less fixing them. The end result involves a great deal of wailing and the gnashing of teeth.

In an attempt to combat the overwhelming amount of hi-tech ignorance, the district employs a person a Campus Instructional Technologist (CIT) whose sole job is to alleviate teachers’ technological frustration.

The CIT supplies all of the teachers with an enormous number of handouts that very clearly explain in an easy-to-read, step-by-step process how to do essentials tasks, which is great- but nobody reads those. She is also very good to email us pertinent information about timely issues, faithfully sending out reminder epistles about how to submit our grades- but nobody reads those either. Every month she hosts a mini-training session during our conference period to help explain new software or explain how to troubleshoot simple problems, but the only reason people go to these things are for the free jeans passes (as we are not normally allowed to wear jeans to the workplace) and because she always supplies homemade baked goods or candy and we like homemade baked goods and candy. I’m not sure exactly how much technological information is disseminated during these sessions.

Despite her valiant efforts to educate us and minimize potential problems, the poor CIT is usually running from classroom to classroom as frantic teachers call, email, radio, or flag her down in the hallway, desperate for help. To the inexperienced, it may appear that they are a victim of a major vehicular accident when it actuality it probably just means that they don’t know how to load more paper into their printer. Many of the CIT’s solutions are relatively simple. Have you plugged it in? You need to restart it. Hang up the phone and try again. Put in new batteries. Turn off the caps-lock.

Administration will sometimes highlight truly superior individuals who do exceptional things, like send out a mass email, or [insert gasp/shock and awe] maintain a blog to communicate with students and their parents. Shoving a microphone in their face, they march the teacher to the front of a faculty meeting and have them show the rest of the population their amazing skill on a projector screen in the cafeteria.

“Well anyone can do that,” someone whispers nonchalantly, and other teachers around nod in agreement and then frantically try to write down what the presenter is saying. Something about putting a comma in between email addresses in order to send a message to more than one person at a time.

Due to budget cuts, more than half of the CIT positions have been eliminated next year. I expect all technological devices to either burst into flames or be thrown out of windows during fits of rage and frustration.

The Way We Were

I would like to think that my mother and father were very happy when I was born. They were young, I was their first child, and I turned out to be everything thing they had hoped for: beautiful, brilliant, and humble. I imagine they were excited about beginning the adventure of parenthood.  I sometimes wonder how their attitude might have changed had they known that they would be parenting for the next 31 years, a timeline more suitable for growing trees than raising their five children.  

My brother K.C. and I often lament about how “it used to be,” the way Julie Andrews must feel when she goes to the movies. 

“They never would have let us have that when we were kids,” K.C. once commented, gesturing towards the video game system hooked up to a massive television on the wall.

“Are you kidding? They never even let us have cable!” I added, with a sage nod of the head.

We consider our childhood to be something that was to be survived, like an initiation process.  Our elementary years were happy, but tempered with the rigidity of a West Point cadet in basic training. When we see what pushovers our parents have become, we can only shake our heads and talk about the old days. The way things used to be.

Roughly every two years after my birth, a new sibling joined our household. This became increasingly inconvenient as these unsolicited family members forced me to share the love, attention, and economic resources of my parents. Not to mention the long-term ramifications of my inheritance getting split into splinters with each new precious baby that came through the front door.

By the time I was seven, my home was invaded by two strange boys Mom and Dad referred to as “brothers,” and a truly terrifying small girl they christened my “little sister.” With four kids under the age of eight, my parents began to panic and quickly switched gears from family unit to military compound. They called an emergency all-night planning session, frantically reading through parenting manuals and military textbooks in equal amounts. The next morning they bombarded us with rules, regulations and procedures as if we had enlisted in the armed forced.

The first order of business was to limit the amount of time they actually spent with us. My parents didn’t believe in sending us to public school or day care, but they had no qualms about making us spend eleven hours a day in our bedrooms. Not unlike a high-security prison, we had to report to our room every day between the hours of 9:00 PM until 8:00 AM.  I remember trying to sleep as long as possible to try to pass the time, but you can’t help but wake up early when you’re a kid. It was a hell of a long time to be kept in one place.

Staying in our bedrooms may not have been so bad if we didn’t have to share them. Crammed into 200 square feet with a roommate assigned to us at birth. It wasn’t because we didn’t have the extra space either, an entire bedroom and bathroom lay untouched at the far end of the house but my mother refused to let any of us use them.

“You’re going to share a room for the rest of your life, so you might as well just get used to it.” My mother would tell us.

“You’ll have a roommate in college and then you’ll get married.” She continued, eyebrows raised, daring us to question this inexorable logic.

They didn’t actually lock the door to keep us in our bedrooms, they didn’t have to. My parents taught us early on that crossing the threshold wasn’t an option.

When I was two and had graduated from caged crib to the freedom of a single bed, I found it much easier to toddle out of my room to visit my parents at irregular intervals throughout the night. My father grew tired of having his sleep interrupted by his disobedient daughter. He solved the problem by placing the instrument of punishment (a wooden spoon) on the floor outside my bedroom door. My father did not believe in baby talk or making deals with children.

“If you get out of your room,” he told me, his voice stern and unyielding, “you better bring the spoon with you, because you’re going to get spanked.”

I was small but I wasn’t stupid. And I might not have totally understood everything he said to me, but I was well aware of the power of the spoon. I never left my room again.

Corporal punishment was a prevalent piece of my childhood, mostly because it proved to be a particularly effective tool for keeping all of us in line. I was spanked often, but never in public. If pushed too far, one of my parents would quietly murmur, “You’re getting spanked when we get home.” And that was the worst. I wished they would have just spanked me then and there and gotten it over. Instead I had the dark knowledge of impending doom rising in my chest, like a prisoner whiling the hours away on Death Row.

I would try to be really good after my sentencing, so good that maybe they would forget about spanking me. Or even decide I learned my lesson without the aid of a few swift smacks to my backside. But they never forgot, and they never changed their minds.

My parents implemented a process for everything. When my mom took us inside a store, standard procedure was that we follow her in a single-file line, like a row of ducklings. We hated going on errands and we begged to be left at home but this was before the days of cell phones. My mother relished any time away from us, but she was hesitant to leave four kids alone in her house. The compromise was that we were allowed to stay locked up in the minivan, kind of like a mobile storage locker full of small children.

Of course, with so many kids, the simple act of loading us all up into a car could be a battle. To discourage fighting over who sat shotgun, my mother assigned us specific days for the privilege. My days were Mondays and Thursdays, unless it was your birthday on which you got to sit in the front seat no matter whose day it was. Sliding into that front seat on a Tuesday, K.C. protesting bitterly from the back seat, was one of the most satisfying moments I have ever known.

My mother also assigned days for who got to sit in the brown chair in the living room, who had to feed the cats, who had to empty the dishwasher, for everything.

My father was of the persuasion that children were to be seen and not heard. In the unlikely event we did need to communicate with him directly, there was a specific method as to which we addressed him.

If wanted to get the attention of my parents when they were talking to someone else, we were to apply a polite tap on one shoulder, much like a gentleman interrupting a dancing couple, and wait in silence until they chose to acknowledge us. Sometimes they would, sometimes they wouldn’t. But we knew enough to not tap twice.

Talking back was suicide, but my father did implement a system when we disagreed with one of their rulings.

“Excuse me sir, may I appeal?” we were trained to say. But most of the time, he just answered, “no.”

That was the way we were, and that was the way I thought we would always be. But I was wrong.

I first noticed the changes after my freshman year of college. I returned home to find every single one of my siblings installed in their own bedroom.  

“It was just easier,” my mother said “and we have the room…” she shrugged her shoulders as her voice trailed off.

 I can’t say I was entirely surprised. I remember walking through a busy parking lot with my family. My father held Anna’s hand as we maneuvered through the traffic.

“Dad, let’s skip,” the four-year-old said.

“Skip?” my father asked. I wasn’t entirely sure he knew what that was, and I was certain he didn’t know how to do it. My father walks to business meetings, he sits at desks, he runs at the gym, but he does not skip.

“Yeah, let’s skip,” exclaimed the little cherub.

And they did. Hand-in-hand, skipping through the parking lot. In that moment I knew, we all knew; Anna had it made.

Bedtimes are only a friendly suggestion to Anna rather than a strict guideline. When she was five or six, she would play along with my parents’ little game, dressing in pajamas and even turning off the lights. But as soon as Mom and Dad went to bed the kindergartener would dig a flashlight out of her nightstand and start roaming the house. On more than one occasion when I was home from college, I would see Anna crawling down a dark hallway, a Maglite clutched in her little hand. Sometimes sneaking into the kitchen for a quick snack, or trekking on hands and knees to the living room to watch a late night showing of a Jonas Brothers concert on TV.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed,” I asked, feeling like perhaps something should be done about small children roaming around unattended in the dark hours of the night.

“Yes, but I’m just going to get a bowl of cereal,” Anna whispered, “Please don’t tell mom and dad,” she begged. Clearly terrified of our elderly parents, although I wasn’t sure why. The lions had lost their teeth years ago.

After 14 years, Anna has finally reached the required weight limit to legally sit in the front seat of the suburban, but she prefers to lounge in the back, like a celebrity being chauffeured to a premiere. DVD players are installed in the back of the head rests so Anna may turn on a couple movies. Rear-controlled air conditioning ensures her trips to and from school are always at the correct temperature. She throws her backpack in the vast empty space of the backseat, she props her little feat up on a captain chair. She tells my mom to make a stop by Bahama Bucks so she can pick up a smoothie and then whips out the cell phone she’s had since the age of ten so she can update her Facebook status to “rough day.”

To the younger siblings in my family, spanking is a foreign concept, but for Anna, it is virtually unheard of. I think she has been spanked a total of two, maybe three times.

 “Anna is just one of those kids you can reason with,” my dad once told me. “You don’t have to spank her.”

Year by year, I watched the fortress of rules my parents had built disintegrate, like a sand castle dissolving in the waves of the incoming tide. These young kids know nothing of bed times, or spankings, or even sharing rooms. These are only distant memories, relics of a past life.

When I think of the hardships I endured, I now realize that my childhood was the bulldozer. Paving the road for the easy street Anna cruises on in the cushy back seat of the suburban.