When Lauren was 14, I shared a secret with her. “You know, I really am a superhero. I just decided to carry these extra pounds so that you could have a normal childhood.”
She responded to my news by rolling her eyes and saying, “You’re a loser, Mom,” launching the volley of name-calling that continues to be our trademark way of saying, “I love you.”
“Moron!”
“Imbecile!”
“Nincompoop!”
“Dunce!”
“Dolt!”
The last one threw her off her game. “Dolt? What’s a dolt?”
“Look it up in the dictionary,” I said. “It’ll be—”
“—right next to your picture,” we finished, in unison.
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