I saw a girl at the playground once and knew right away something was different. Her ankle looked about the same size as my kid's two wrists put together. And the way she walked… it looked like a wooden marionette walking, each joint moving separately, almost mechanically. And yet there she was, swinging with real enthusiasm.
On the bench next to the swings sat a couple who looked like her grandparents, out watching their granddaughter. That girl struck up a conversation with my kid — unusually outgoing.
I found out later that she had developed an eating disorder. She'd collapsed multiple times at kindergarten and been rushed to the hospital. Hearing that hit me hard. Nobody had done anything wrong here, and yet the kid was unwell. The grandparents had clearly given it everything they had, and the parents were caught in a situation they couldn't fully control either.
I keep thinking about that girl's expression. Creaking along like a wooden doll, running around, and still smiling the whole time. She genuinely looked happy. Her stamina couldn't quite keep up, so she'd stop running not long after starting, but the joy on her face while playing was real.
It's not just a saying, that kids raised by grandparents tend to have good temperaments. She was exactly like that. You could feel that she'd been thoroughly, emotionally loved. Which made it even harder to watch — if her body had been a little stronger, she could have carried that brightness so much further, so much longer.
At some point after that, I started quietly cutting back on snacks for my own kid whenever they didn't want to eat their meal. I'm not sure if I'm doing it right. But I keep thinking of that girl.