The Heavy by Dara-Lynn Weiss Page B

cookies and candy. I imagined their thoughts:
    Jesus, lady, what is your problem? Just let her have the stupid cookies. She’s seven years old. This is her childhood. Childhood is cookies and birthday cake. Eating cookies is not a disease; it’s a small and simple pleasure. You are ruining her innocent years by making every treat a sin. Did you ever weigh the damage of your nagging eye against her buoyancy and joy?
    God, yes. I considered that point of view every day. There werecountless moments of refusing, denying, questioning, and bargaining between Bea and me. Instances when she was asked to take responsibility for controlling her eating when other kids were reveling in the pleasure of not having to think about it. I persisted despite incessant doubts because, I told myself, the end result would be worthwhile, and that in its way, my pestering her was not just annoying, it was important.
    To me, intervening when I saw Bea about to make a bad choice needed to become a reflexive reaction, like seeing her about to wander into a busy street. I didn’t know if this anti-obesity undertaking could really work, but I did know that it was sure to fail if I gave in “just this once.” Being the killjoy around food was not fun, and it wasn’t how I was naturally inclined to act. But it was a crucial part of the process for Bea. In order to keep her resolve strong, my will could not bend.
    It called to mind when my kids were toddlers and I went to all those workshops their preschools offered on parenting. You know how it is when you’re a new parent: you read the books, scan the online message boards, and attend the lectures in hopes that someone will tell you how to raise your kids right.
    The first workshop I attended was on sleep training. As with almost every other behavioral issue with children, including potty training, limit setting, and sibling relations, the parenting expert exhorted us to be consistent. If the child toddles out of her room when she’s supposed to be going to sleep, you wordlessly bring her back to bed. Make the mistake of smiling and greeting her and letting her play for a few minutes, and your authority is shot. Let her cuddle in your bed for one night, and you’re back to square one, having lost all credibility as a disciplinarian. Kids need to know what the limits are and that their parents will enforce them. It’s actually scary for a child, the expert told us, to feel there are no parameters.They are not equipped to run your household, she said. So don’t let them.
    When I make a deal with one of my kids, I expect that child to hold up his or her end of the bargain. If they promise to take their baths once they complete a round of Othello, I am not pleased if I walk in ten minutes later and find they’ve finished the game and started a new one. If a trip to the movies is contingent upon their not getting into a fight all morning, the outing is canceled the moment one kid provokes a sibling argument. Homework is done before computer games are played, period.
    Every day our family engages in multiple tiny negotiations, and I take some pride in delivering on my promises and following through on my threats. Though sleep training may have been the exception to the rule (you’ll recall the ten or eleven o’clock bedtimes mentioned earlier), I didn’t just sit through those toddler-parenting workshops—I took them to heart. If I commit to something, my consistency is pretty consistent.
    If all of Bea’s meals had been prepared and served by me and eaten in private, our weight-loss journey would have been a radically different experience. But food is public. Food is social. Ultimately I was going to have to let Bea eat with, and under the supervision of, other people. The prospect caused me some anxiety. I didn’t trust anyone else to understand her dietary requirements, let alone love her enough to protect her progress. So I didn’t let go of the apron strings easily.
    But while these minor