“Grandma, what’s THIS?”

Angel Girl asks the question as she squeezes the back of my upper arm.

“Is that FAT?”

“Why is your arm so FAT right there?”

“Hey, T, come see Grandma’s FAT!”

That’s a call to action no big brother could resist. Angel Boy runs in, takes a hunk of the back of my upper arm and confirms his sister’s diagnosis.

“That’s a lot of fat, Grandma!”

I hear the unmistakeable sound of the original Angel Boy snickering in the other room. I bet it’s all deja vu for him as he must recall torturing me the same way.

Out of the mouths of babes, right?

I’m shaking my head; the apple definitely doesn’t fall far from the tree, not with these guys.

“Oh jeez, it’s SKIN, girl. Everyone has SKIN.”

She lifts her own perfectly formed and toned upper arm to show me. “I don’t. My arm doesn’t look like that.”

Mom chimes in, “Wait until you’re older. Come here and help me with breakfast. Let Grandma finish dressing!”

Her brother lifts his wiry arm (built just like his dad)… “Not me either, Grandma. See MY arm?”

I query the other grownups, “Where did she learn all this fat shaming? Sheesh, I thought nowadays children learned to be inclusive and accepting of all of our differences. What’s up with this?”

While I’m speaking, Angel Girl is following me around, squeezing my arms and laughing hysterically. I can’t help it, now I’m laughing, too–because, at the end of the day, it’s just funny. She’s always been hyperfocused and hypercritical of my each and every detail –from my hair to my shoes, and this is no different.

“Jeez Louise, girl, goodness gracious sakes alive, you’re killing me.”

She’s not being rude, if that’s your conclusion–she would never intend to hurt my feelings – it’s simply a case of speaking her truth. I’m one thousand percent sure that she would naturally censor herself with her pre-K classmates, but I’m different, and it’s OK to practice life skills on me.

I’m her pet project, the Little Grandma, with apparently endless patience.

Both of the Angel Kids are fascinated by my diminutive size…

“My hands are almost as big as yours, Grandma!” (This is a continual hand-to-hand ritual measurement every time we see each other to gauge how much they’ve grown.)
“Look, I can wear your shoes now!”
“Can I have your Hello Kitty shirt, Grandma! It fits ME!”
“Why are you so small?”
“Stand still! I am LITERALLY almost as tall as you are!”
And that’s true. I’m five feet and that 7.5 year-old truly is nearly my size.

That’s the time I tell them that the best presents come in small packages, but since that’s not their life experience, they shake their heads and laugh.

Thanks to Angel Girl’s eagle eyes, I have to silently agree that I need to focus more work on my triceps.

Brutal honesty. BRUTAL. Brutally honest.