I never considered myself a short girl. I’ve always believed I was sort of average at five feet, five (and a half) inches, though BrightSide has taken more than your typical amount of glee in telling me I’m height deprived.
Then again he’s six foot three, which I find freakishly tall, so I guess we’re kind of even.
At any rate, it never occurred to me (not even ONCE) that there might come a day when I’d be the shortest one in our family.
This photo is from the fall of 2015, when I still had a couple of inches on my kids. Sure, they were looking pretty grown, but I was decidedly taller than both of them.
These days those little punks are looking me in the eye. I mean, come on! One’s not quite eleven and the other turns thirteen this summer – how on earth can they be as tall as me already??
Bear has shot through several inches and is, to T-man’s mortification, as tall as he is. We keep reassuring him that his growth spurt is coming and in the end he’s going to be taller than all of us, but that doesn’t seem to make him feel better about his baby sister looking him in the eye.
I suspect he’ll feel a lot better when his short mama is looking up at him every day.
Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturdays are open to anyone who’d like to participate. Pop over and give her blog a visit. This week’s prompt is “short.”