It’s hard to say this out loud, let alone commit to the blogosphere for the world hundred or so people who visit to read. I’ll just take a deep breath. I can do this. Admitting it doesn’t make me a failure…

I’m officially the shortest person in my house.

A picture from the days of yore when I could still smile down into my children’s eyes.

I’ve been processing this for a while as the reality that my days of lovingly gazing downward are over really sunk in. But this morning…well, this morning T-man asked me to check his hair for grass (lawn mowing fallout, you know how it goes) and I had to ask him to bow his head for me. That’s when the weight of being vertically challenged forevermore in this family hit home.

This was April and I swear T-man’s grown another half inch since then. I only escaped looking like a midget because Bear’s not standing up straight. (How cute! We look like we’re about to start a kick line!)

The path to acceptance has been a rocky road. And not in the yummy Breyers sort of way.


What are you talking about? What do you mean, they’re almost taller than me? You’re drunk! There’s no way these kids are taller than I am; they’re barely in middle school. I didn’t finish growing until ninth grade. I’m sure I’ve got at least another year before I have to worry about that.


Are you kidding me?! Are You KIDDING ME?!? This is bullsh*t. How am I supposed to wield authority when they can pat me on the head? What kind of messed up system is this? Don’t you laugh about this. Don’t you dare even look like you’re laughing about this. I Am A Grown Woman, Dammit!


If I can just get one more year – just one – then I’ll handle whatever. They can be six feet tall and I’m cool. If I can just make it to summer without these kids towering over me I’ll be ready to deal.


Where’s the time gone? Just yesterday they were pudgy little toddlers bumbling around the front yard. I could scoop them up and snuggle them in my arms, and now look at them. I can’t even lift them into the car when they’re hurt. (chomp chomp chomp) Where’s the other pint of Ben & Jerry’s?


There’s no point in arguing – any fool can stand us next to each other and see I’m the shortest banana in the bunch. But whatever. Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing. Plus there are probably benefits to being the shorty…I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but I bet there are. And considering my choices are embracing high heels 24 hours a day or accepting my mini status? I choose acceptance.