Fat shaming, Oh Baby.

I have a running list of PSAs in my head. You know, the reoccurring thoughts you have every time something drives you batty – but there isn’t a true audience to endure your internal monologue.

For the last 28 years, my main internal PSA has been: Public restrooms and the habits of nasty women.

A PSA asking women to PLEASE wipe the toilet seat in a public restroom if you’re too germaphobic to sit. We get it. You don’t want to put your bare bottom on the public seat. But, if you leave the aftermath of your business on the seat for the next person who occupies your stall, you ARE the problem. Wipe it.

My latest  PSA – now that I’ve added “mom” to my resume: Baby fat shaming.

My daughter is 1 and some change. So far at each doctor visit, she’s gotten an A+ from her doc on her growth metrics. I trust my doctor. My doctor is a professional. My doctor went to extra school to be able to tell me how my child is doing in the growth-sphere.

Granted – as my husband and I explore these uncharted waters of being new parents – we’re regularly inundated with unsolicited comments regarding Piper’s size. Comments like, “She doesn’t miss a meal.” Nope – sure doesn’t. We’re growing a person here folks, and last time we checked, to grow – you gotta eat.

“She sure likes to eat.” Yep. Sure does. Doesn’t everyone? Eating is good. Self-imposed starving is for narcissists and folks suffering from mental illnesses (you know, me from 2009, the miserable-hungry waif).

“No wonder she’s so chubby.” She’s a baby. Let her live, will you?

Want to see a mom go from the Brady Bunch matriarch to 2007 Britney Spears with an umbrella in 6 seconds? Fat shame her baby.

I can roll (pun intended) with the punches. But there’s a fine line between loving on a baby’s sweet rolls and feigning concern over his or her eating habits.

When I met my husband eight years ago, I weighed 90 pounds. So, I’ve been the self-imposed starving, scale-god serving narcissist on the path to achieve the imaginary ideal female physique.

Those days are behind me – and I hope to never look back. My hope for my toddler is that she can grow up in a healthy environment filled with positive, supportive men and women – where food is not the enemy. Where eating french fries doesn’t mean you failed. Where exercise isn’t personal punishment for enjoying pizza. Where wine (when she’s 21, of course) is a gift from God and not a glass of empty calories to induce guilt if you partake on a week-night (gasp!).

She is healthy. She is beautiful – inside and out. That.is.all.

If you feel the need to tell us otherwise, and you’re not an MD – please eat your words (or don’t because you know, calories).