Don't call your mother names, kid.

I thought I was safe. It had been two years. I was wrong.

It started out innocent enough. My son was reading daddy's motorcycle magazine at the table.

"oh look! It's a superhero bike!"

"And that one is cool! Totally awesome!"

I was absentmindedly uh huh and uh hmm-ing while I got baby O ready for school.

"Look Mommy! There's you!"

Me?, I'd asked. I walked over and followed his finger to where he was pointing.

It was... The Michelin man.

"Really kid? The Michelin man?"

He agreed. And now I sit here, 60 pounds lighter and feeling like I never got anything accomplished at all.

I pressed him for more explanation. As much as a four year old can be pressed. His only answer was, it looks like you.

It's been hours and I can't get it out of my head. I kept the weight off for three years and yet still, I'm the Michelin man to my kid. I thought I looked so different from all those years ago. Apparently, I was wrong.

We're very careful in this house about the word fat. Leave it to the four year old to find a way around that.