Baby, the other white meat

When I was home for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, my sister and I decided to look through some old family photo albums. Alternately, we took turns pointing at pictures where our parents and grandparents were young and lively, their faces still unlined. We also laughed at a couple of photos when when we were in our younger years and sporting odd hairdos and weird fashion choices. We got a good chuckle out of some of those pictures.

But then, my sister broke out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

She only giggled some more and slid her album towards me, pointing at the guilty photo.


This is a picture of me when I was a baby. Yep, that's me. Pudgy thighs. Double chin. I even look to be developing a pair of floppy breasts! A seventh-month old sumo wrestler.

When we showed the picture to Justin, his eyes grew wide and his jaws fell open. I think he was afraid my seventh-month self would jump out of the page and try to eat him.

Admittedly, this picture freaks me out but not for the reasons you may think. After seeing this photograph, I'm now a little afraid of the future spawn who will erupt from my uterus one day. You see, my father used to cajole me with stories of my babyhood and how I would do only three things: eat, sleep, eat. (Oh, and poop from time to time.) Apparently, I grew so large that nobody wanted to hold me for longer than five minutes at a time. I was passed around my relatives like an unwanted watermelon.

Now, I have to ask myself... Will I come to bear babies with voracious appetities the size of Tokyo? Will I spend my days and nights satiating the hunger of Baby Richmond? Will Justin and I be eaten out of house and home by our own 25 pound infant?!

Well, whatever.

I still think I was a pretty cute a Fat Albert sort of way.