MOM ON THE RUN: Son takes on responsibility of new height

I’m in the kitchen — I swear, I’m always in the kitchen, how can three meals a day for four people take so much time? — as my kids and I bustle around, getting breakfast. I’m at the sink, rinsing dishes.

My 17-year-old daughter is pouring a bowl of cereal. And my almost 14-year-old son is in his regular position in front of the fridge, door open, peering in, looking hopefully for a tasty unexpected choice.

I’m watching him, and I have kind of a hunch, and when he straightens up empty-handed, closes the door and sighs, I make my move. I look down at my kids’ feet, compare the height of their soles.
“Hey, you guys, both of you, kick off your shoes.” My kids turn to look at me warily. My daughter’s arm has frozen, spoon in mid-air. Silently they stare at me, wondering. “Go on, do it. Take off your shoes.”

Slowly, suspiciously, my daughter steps out of her flip-flops. My son braces one foot against the other and shakes off his sneakers. “OK, now here, in the middle,” I wave to the open center of the kitchen floor. “Back to back, let’s just see.”

And now they get it. My son stands still, straightens his back, lifts his chin as his sister moves into position behind him. “Are you standing up straight?” I ask her, and she nods in response.

“Well, then … back up … sure enough, you’re taller!” I tell my son. “You’ve got — oh, probably a half-inch on her! Wow!” Silently, expressionlessly, my daughter goes back to her flip-flops and her Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I study her face. “Are you upset?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t care.” And indeed, it looks as if she doesn’t. “Were you expecting this? Waiting for it?” I know I was. She shrugs, picks up her cereal, and moves to the table to eat. I’m a little surprised, I expected a reaction, but really this is the safest response for her. My daughter has been the second-tallest in our family for some time, only her father above her, and she has enjoyed her stature status, made sure to occasionally remind us shorter people that we are, well, shorter. So now, losing her spot, that’s got to hurt.

I sneak a look at her brother, who is also being very quiet about this change. He’s clearly excited, though, grinning as he bends down to pick up his shoes. “So how tall do you think I am?” he asks me, trying to be casual, nonchalant. For many years he was one of the tallest kids in his class, but his friends have all shot up lately, leaving him behind. I know he’s glad to be finally growing again.

“Well, knowing how tall your sister is … I’d guess you’re just over 5’10’’. Closing in on 5’11’’.” His grin grows as he quietly processes his news and goes on with his day.

That evening, we’re all three watching TV together. I look up, up on the wall, where a decorative firefighter helmet sits. It’s absolutely covered with dust, something I’ve been meaning to get to for weeks, but it’s up so high, cleaning it requires a stepstool or a kitchen chair, and I just keep putting off the whole multi-step effort.

A thought strikes me, and, “Hey, one of you tall people,” I say generally to my kids. “Can one of you please dust that helmet up there?” I point at it. “The feather duster will work fine. It’s in the laundry room.”

My daughter sighs, used to the high-up, reaching chores falling to her, and she has just begun to move when my son rises from the couch. “I’m taller. I’ll get it,” he announces, and he strides to the TV, where he easily reaches up, plucks the helmet, and carries it over to the laundry room.

I meet my daughter’s eye as she settles back into the sofa and we share a little smile over the up-side of being short.

Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. She can be reached at liannewilkens@hotmail.com.