A few days ago two young parents brought their baby in for a consultation.
They were so terribly worried that their pigtailed 2-year old child had a runny nose.
When I looked at the child I nearly fainted.
"How many children do you have?" I asked them nervously.
"Just this cute little one." The dad beamed proudly.
"You're lying!" I almost screamed at him! "You actually had THREE kids and this child ATE the other two!"
This kid was the size of three kids.
What in the hell were they feeding this child?
Fried fat wrapped in pastry covered in cream, basted with lard and a side-order of baby?
And she had that hungry look in her eyes.
I examined her very quickly with my left hand.
The left one I was prepared to lose in case she desired a quick snack.
The right was too precious to risk.
Nothing wrong with your child, folks, except that she's morbidly obese.
I explained to the parents the horrors of this delicious death trap they were setting for their little one, and how I would be referrring them to a dietitian for expert advice.
All the while I kept one eye nervously on Junior, and one hand gripping my patella hammer in case she decided to attack me.
With each stomp around my consulting room desk her pendulous belly rippled and a tsunami of fat travelled infero-superiorly up her abdomen, threatening to engulf her head, but then thankfully richocheted off the two Dolly-Parton-sized fat pads that should have been her chest.
It took all my strength not to jump through the window behind my desk and run for the hills screaming that The Blob was going to eat us all!
Baby fat is cute.
Obese fat baby monsters are not.