I sat and reached for my seatbelt. The molded seat was too narrow for my rear end, so I sat with one butt cheek several inches higher than the other, my body tilted. I squeezed what I could to no avail, and I still couldn’t find the seatbelt. My physical size left little room to search for the belt. I found its left half but realized I was sitting on the right. I stood to retrieve the other half as the attendant stopped at my car. I sat again under the attendant’s gaze, this time with half a seat belt held in each hand. Once again, my butt failed to sit squarely in the narrow molded seat. This time I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The attendant leaned across me to help my 7-year-old son, Justin, fasten his belt, and checked that it was secure. I continued to fumble with my own belt unassisted. The attendant watched silently. I heard someone giving us instructions over the loudspeaker, but I couldn’t understand the words uttered in fast-forward.
The attendant stood next to me watching me fumble with my own belt. I looked down at my hands. I panicked; worried the belt wouldn’t connect across my belly even after I let out the extension. I tried to connect the two ends, and they met, but I fumbled, dropping one. My hands blurred as my eyes watered. I felt the attendant’s presence as he stood next to my car, waiting. I didn’t dare look at him. I began to feel other eyes staring at us, at me. I felt huge next to Justin’s small body. The people behind me, I was sure, wondered why I was causing such a long delay. I tried again to connect the two ends of the belt around my waist, and though the metal ends touched, I could not make them connect.
It goes the other way, the attendant said, breaking his silence. I turned the latch mechanism over and tried again to connect it, this time successfully. The attendant moved on. Everyone else on the ride must have been properly fastened because it took only the time for the attendant to walk to the end of the train before the ride started. Enough time to confirm my silent son’s belt was indeed secure before the initial jerk of the train.
In the four-person car ahead of me, I saw my three daughters and my husband. Steve was in the front of the second car with our 9-year-old daughter, Maxine. Both had their hands high in the air as the ride climbed that first hill. Behind him sat Autumn, 12, and Amanda, 10, with their arms half-heartedly in the air. As the car reached the apex, Autumn lowered her arms and grabbed the bar in front of her. In our car, Justin and I never attempted to raise our arms. Justin’s eyes were wide, and my own head was filled with worry about the way I was sitting – that the belt I had struggled with wouldn’t hold me. As I watched my daughters, I forced myself to fake a smile before I turned to Justin, hoping to offer him some reassurance in the few moments the train balanced at the top before plunging at what seemed breakneck speed.
As the roller coaster descended, I lifted off my seat, restrained only by my belt as the force of gravity pulled at me. As the next big hill began, I realized I was now sitting securely in the narrow seat, both butt cheeks evenly embracing the bottom of the elusive seat. The combination of centripetal and gravitational forces must have been great enough to rearrange my rear end in ways I had failed to do in too many years of lame attempts at diet and exercise.
It was our first trip as a family to an amusement park, a vacation my husband had suggested several months earlier as a way to help mark both the end of summer and my 35th birthday. Initially he suggested a vacation that included a day at a water park in northern Michigan, but worry about temperatures and disappointed children if the weather went sour sent me to the Internet for research before we let the kids in on our plans. Our kids knew about amusement parks and had been eager to go. In the past, Steve and I would go to a park by ourselves or with other adults, leaving our children in the care of a babysitter. We knew about amusement parks, too, particularly the height restrictions and the impact they can have on an excited child’s emotions when the child is too short to ride. Months before we told the children about our plans, I looked up the amusement park on the Internet to check out the height restrictions on the rides. To ride all the rides except one in the entire park, our children had to stand at least 48 inches tall. We weren’t worried about Autumn and Amanda. Autumn was tall for her age, and while Amanda was average height, we knew she could ride because she was the lone veteran of the amusement park in our family. She’d gone the previous year with a friend, bringing back brochures and bragging rights about riding the park’s biggest ride, Shivering Timbers.
Steve measured Maxine and Justin without letting them know why. They were immediately interested and excited to find how much they had grown. Steve noted Justin was 49 inches tall, an inch shorter than his sister, Maxine. He brought his measurements to me where I sat at our computer, and we compared notes. We could safely plan a trip knowing we would avoid any and all meltdowns involving “you must be this tall to ride” signs. All of our children would be able to do more than go to the park. Our children would be able to play, too.
When I did the research about how we fit on the rides, I only thought of the kids’ height. I never worried about my own body. At other amusement parks, in the past, I never had a problem. I’d been to the big parks – Six Flags, Cedar Point and Disney. I didn’t worry about fitting in at Michigan’s Adventure. I thought about other concerns like everyone having proper footwear, sunscreen and how we’d store bathing suits and sunwear to use at Michigan’s Adventures two parks.
If I worried about my own measurements, would we have gone? Does the amusement park website have a “your hips must be smaller than this to ride” guide? There isn’t, but in the fine print on the page with the height restrictions, you’ll find the warning, “Restrictions for guests of extreme size (height or weight) are posted at certain rides.” I didn’t read the warning before we went on our trip, and if I had, I’m not sure I would have realized it might apply to me. Further digging on the website would have led me to more specific information, “Due to rider restraint system requirements, guests of exceptional size may not be accommodated on some of our rides. This may apply, but not be limited to, guests who exceed 6′ 2″ in height, those who exceed 250 pounds, have a 46″ waistline or 54″ chest. You may enter the ride via the exit to ensure that restraints function properly prior to waiting in line.”
Should Steve have measured me as well? Fat chance I’d let that happen. When was the last time I had measured my own body? I know once upon a time my measurements were something like 38-24-40, but that was when I was in high school, weighed 145 and wore a size 9. In other words, that was more than 15 years and four kids ago. The other measurement I know is my dad’s waist. It was 60 inches when he weighed 400 pounds. Even if I had read the park’s measurements, I wouldn’t have been concerned. I weighed less than 250 pounds. And my waistline and chest were nowhere near the maximums listed on the website. So why hadn’t I fit?
We arrived at the park at 9 a.m., a full hour before the rides opened, planning to spend the entire day. It was my last day as a 34-year-old, and we were ready to celebrate. As we waited, we played games and consulted a map to plan our day. My husband was determined we would do the biggest ride in the park first. He figured it would be Shivering Timber’s shortest line of the day. When the rides opened at 10, we made our way to Shivering Timbers, but there was already a line. The first ride had gone to a group of kids in matching outfits who had sprinted off as soon as the park employees nodded at the crowd. Steve was right. The line was short. As we waited, I talked Steve out of starting the girls off in the very front of the ride. We compromised: they’d sit in the second car, with Justin and me filling in behind in the third car. It wasn’t long before we were climbing into the train, and I began my battle with the mandatory seatbelt.
After the ride, we bought the photos, encased in keychains, to commemorate the event, cementing its significance in our children’s lives. With the biggest roller coaster in the park successfully defeated, we moved on to the second biggest roller coaster. As we waited in line, I watched the other passengers. I was trying to figure out how the belt fastened so I wouldn’t go through another belt incident with yet another attendant going through the motions of presiding over the ride. As we approached the front of the line, we filtered out to select our seats, maneuvering our group so we were on the same train in successive seats. As we waited, my worry ended when I spotted a very large man in front of me. When the coaster came, I noticed the cars had a bench seat. I watched as the man sat and belted up without a problem. I mentally compared his body size to my own, noting he was almost twice my own weight. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding as I noted the extra room on the bench to seat the young boy with him.
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The amusement park trip was months ago, and I’ve thought about writing about how I was feeling several times since, but I waited. I have written the story in my mind a thousand times, but I worried about composing the words outside myself – in a place my children could read them. I debated with myself whether I should share how I was feeling that day, or if I should keep my thoughts to myself. My debate wasn’t because of how humiliated I felt not only on that first ride but other similar moments throughout the day. I was concerned that sharing my thoughts about my weight may change the way my children remember that day. For now, before having read my words and what was happening in my mind, they remember the day as a fun family holiday. How would their memories change, be colored by my words and thoughts, changing their own memories? Is it fair of me to do that to them? I know it is a day they remember – our first family trip to an amusement park, a first roller-coaster ride. I wanted only good memories, so I decided not to share my own thoughts. It would be my secret, kept from them.
Ah, yes, how noble I am, the self-sacrificing mother placing her children’s needs and concerns ahead of her own. Mothers sacrifice everything for their children, and I’m no different. In order to protect my children, I won’t write about my humiliation, I claim. But who am I really protecting? Not writing about it might protect my children’s memories, but what does it do to help my children develop and maintain their own healthy body? It is easier not to write. It’s easier not to talk about it. I have a long family history of avoiding discussions about weight and obesity. I didn’t want to write because by doing so I rekindle and relive my humiliations. Before committing pen to paper, I carried my humiliation privately, which is hard enough, but when I write, others might read, and the humiliation – in a modified form – happens each time someone new reads my words. By writing, not only might I change my children’s perceptions of that day, I might change the way my entire family, especially myself, thinks about weight and obesity. Why go there?
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I remember my own first trip to an amusement park. I was 8 and the park was Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. After my own trip as an overweight adult to Michigan’s Adventures, I know that in 1979 my dad was too large to fit on any ride. That explains why he sat on a bench inside the park and later in one of the park’s saloons. How did he feel that day? Was there a time he sat on something and realized he didn’t fit? Why didn’t he do something to change ? At what point does it become too hard to lose excess weight?
Ultimately I decided to write about my weight in an honest and frank manner because I wanted to provide my children with something my dad didn’t give me. I want them to continue to have two parents active in their lives. I want them to know what a healthy portion of food is and how to develop into a healthy, active adult. I want them to talk about weight openly. To do that, I need to be honest even if the truth hurts. I need to stop avoiding the problem and face it head on. I can’t expect my children to develop a positive body image if we never talk about body image. What does it mean to be healthy?
My children don’t think of me as fat. Or if they do, they don’t say it aloud. In fact, they say the opposite. The other day we overheard a “your momma” joke about a fat mother. My family, including me, laughed. My oldest daughter apologized to me, her mother, even though the joke wasn’t about me.
I’m sorry, Mom, she said, still giggling. It’s funny. I shook my head up and down, smiling at her. Yes, it was funny. Her dad, however, interrupted.
Your mom’s not fat, he told my daughter.
I know, she agreed.
I remained silent, but I wonder. Do my children really believe I’m not fat? In the last 12 months, I’ve gained 40 pounds on my already oversized body. I’m tall, and people underestimate how much I truly weigh. According to any height and weight chart I am not only overweight, but obese. Yet to my family I’m not fat. My children are as blind to my excess weight as I was to my dad’s excess weight. How much more do I have to gain to be seen as fat by my family? Will they ever see it? Will I? If we all ignore it, will it somehow dissolve and go away? I wish. I ignore it, and it steadily and slowly grows, until somehow I’ve gained those additional 40 pounds. My weight is creeping up like that train at the amusement park. The climb is slow and steady, each pound clacking softly as my weight inches further and further up. But unlike the amusement ride, I can’t find the brink – the apex at which my weight will climb no higher – the point when my weight will finally start to descend. Will there be a time when I will be at the brink, ready to plunge back to a healthy weight that won’t stand between my children and my ability to parent? Shouldn’t the time be now? If I wait, will I ever find the way? I weigh more than I ever did when I was pregnant. I’m a full 100 pounds more than I weighed in high school.
Despite his objections to our children, my husband knows I’m overweight, although I don’t think he’d ever call me obese. When we’re alone together, we still dream about our future, and our dreams include future versions of our own bodies. He wants more hair and 20 fewer pounds. I want to lose a lot more than 20 pounds. We make plans to lose weight together. We’ll start Monday by walking. Sometimes we do, more often than not we don’t. We know what we should do, but we don’t.
No one ever told my children, but we should. Kids, we should say, your mom is obese. She needs to exercise more and eat less. She needs your help. If she doesn’t change soon, she won’t be the parent you deserve. She won’t even be on the sidelines of your life. She won’t be able to sit in the bleachers. She knows. A long time ago she had a parent who couldn’t completely be her parent. He listened. He watched. He loved, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. You deserve more.
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The Sea Dragon was the next ride, a giant ship with a dragonhead at one end. The ride swings back and forth, higher and higher, until it is perpendicular with the ground. Justin didn’t want to ride the Sea Dragon. He saw how high it goes, and he was scared before we ever stepped onto the ride. We forced him to get on, to overcome his fear. I reassured him. I’d be right next to him throughout the whole thing. You’ll be OK, I said. It’ll be fun. I promise. Just wait and see.
As we waited in the front of the line, we planned where we would sit. We decided to take the two center seats because they face each other, and we’d sit with three of us on each side of the pole. Steve would sit on one side with Amanda and Autumn. I’d be across the aisle between Maxine and Justin. We climbed aboard and positioned ourselves on the long flat bench. I pulled the bar onto our laps, but it wouldn’t lock. Before it could latch, my thighs got in the way. I turned to the attendant for help. This time it was a female attendant, and she was foreign. I barely understand her English because of her heavy accent. I remained silent, but I pleaded with her, trying to convey my need with my eyes. She ignored me. I tried again to press the bar into my fat thighs, and it wouldn’t latch. I watched my skin turn white as the bar pressed into my leg. I asked the attendant for help, but she didn’t move. She stood next to the ride. She told me to press harder. I couldn’t press any more. I wanted her to reach over and help me press against the fat of my thighs, but she didn’t.
I stood, talking to the kids and to Steve. I can’t get the latch shut, I said, I’m not going to be able to ride. I’ll just wait over here by the exit. Have fun, no, it’s OK. Stay here. I’ll just watch. My husband argued with me immediately, and tears came to my eyes as I explained to him in detail. My thighs are too fat, I said. The bar won’t latch. I can’t ride. Get over here, he said, Autumn switch places with your mom. He made excuses. It was because the two youngest kids’ thighs are so small. It’s their bodies’ deficiency not mine, he seemed to say. Sit by him, an adult with adult-sized thighs, and I’d fit. I couldn’t explain anymore. I quit arguing with him. I was convinced he’d learn the truth as soon as he tried to latch the bar. I didn’t notice anyone else on the ride this time. I didn’t care if a stranger was watching and listening to my humiliation. The ride was full, and I knew they were there. I only cared about my own family. How humiliating is it that your mom can’t ride because her thighs are too fat? I think of the attendant as evil. She refused to help me, so I had to reveal to my family that I didn’t fit. My cheeks burned. My eyes filled with tears.
I sat next to Steve and watched as Autumn sat next to Justin. He wanted to sit by me. I had promised him. I tried to catch his eye, but he stared straight ahead at the pole. I smiled reassuringly as Steve latched the bar. It didn’t dig into my thighs. I don’t know if Steve had to give it any extra effort to latch it. I didn’t want to know.
As the ride continued, I watched Justin with a smile on my face to reassure him in case he glanced my way. We’re having fun, you and I. We’re not humiliated or terrified. It’s fun. The ride picks up speed. At one point, I have that familiar sensation – the one where it feels like you lose your stomach, and I laugh. I think I was hysterical.
I wish I had really lost my stomach – and some thighs too. I don’t want to have to work at it. I want it gone. I’m not a fat person – not here inside my head. When I think of myself, I’m skinny. When my husband looks at me, I’m beautiful. But when I try to help my son be brave on a dragon ship ride, I’m a fat failure.
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The night before my first trip to an amusement park, my parents parked our motor home in Cedar Point’s Camper Village. I slept on a board stretched between the driver and passenger seat. Also in the camper were my parents, who slept on the converted table, and my sister Dee and her husband, Mac, who slept in what should have been my bed above the cab. My three-year-old niece Jessica, my sister’s daughter, slept on the floor near me. Her infant brother, Shawn, slept in a portable crib, blocking the walkway.
The next day, my family entered the amusement park ready to have fun. I was determined I would ride every ride. We’d barely entered the park when my dad sat on a bench. I don’t remember the conversation, but I know it was decided this bench would be where he would spend his day. When I objected, he claimed to enjoy the view as he gestured at a nearby woman in a skimpy top.
I only remember riding one ride – a giant wooden roller coaster named Gemini. At the time, Gemini was one of the park’s largest rides, and Mac was convinced it was too big for me. She should ride the Junior Gemini, Mac told my sister Dee. I want to ride the Gemini, I protested. I had a strong stubborn streak even as a child. Mac ignored me, addressing his comments to my sister over my head. He said in no uncertain terms he wouldn’t be riding in the car with me. If I threw up, it would be on my sister.
The line was long. No one talked to me about putting my hands up. When it was over, I was thrilled. I’d had fun, and despite Mac’s predictions I didn’t feel the slightest bit of nausea. I was ready to go again. As we walked to the ride exit, I spotted my mom with my niece in her arms. My dad wasn’t anywhere around. He was still on the bench by the front of the park.
It took me more than 20 years to realize why my dad didn’t ride any rides with me. Even then I only thought about the “you must be this tall to ride” sign, thrilled my height met and exceeded the requirements on every ride. He didn’t remain on the bench all day. Later, to escape the heat, he entered a saloon with live entertainment. I never questioned his choice. He let me think he’d rather watch entertainers than be with me and my family. Why didn’t that bother me then like it does now? I never thought about his weight and the restrictions it must have imposed. It never occurred to me to think of my dad’s weight, his size. Years later, I never revealed my own concerns about my weight and body size to my children. Now I wonder if weight and the restrictions it caused were on my dad’s mind that day at Cedar Point as often as it was for me years later at Michigan’s Adventure. What did I lose because my dad wasn’t next to me on the roller coaster, urging me to put my arms in the air? What will my children lose next time if I don’t control my weight soon? When will this slow weight gain reverse itself? What will it take to make me finally do something? At what point could my own father no longer recover from his obesity? Is it already too late for me?
The pounds creep up. Even without confirmation on a scale, I know they are increasing. Pants that fit me loosely last week are tight this week and will be too small the next. I buy new pants, each time telling myself I refuse to go past this size. I first made that declaration at women’s size 16, somehow convincing myself I’d be happy to remain there forever. I became a size 18, and renewed my vow. Now I’m teetering between 18 and 20, leaning towards 20.
