Skip to main content

"She's taller than my dad!"

"I wonder if she can slam dunk."
"That mom is gonna hit her head on the door."
"She's taller than my dad!"

These are things often overheard when I drop my kids at school. Kids don't whisper quietly. None of these comments are new, mind you. I've heard these (and worse) since I was, oh, 9 years old, when I stood next to my 4th-grade teacher and one of my classmates noticed that I was as tall as Mrs. Schneider. No, I cannot slam dunk and I've never hit my head on a door jamb, but yeah, I'm taller than most dads. (And I've only met one mom in Portland who looks me in the eye; her kids go to a different school.)

I've borne the loud-whispered tall comments my whole life. Usually they're muttered behind my back, but often to my face as well. People say silly things. Period. Words sting, even if they're not intentionally harsh or teasing, and I wish people would realize that I can hear their gasps and whispers; my ears are not so high above your mouth that sound doesn't reach them. There are so many times - daily! - that I would like to simply blend in, to not stand an entire head taller than everyone in the room.

But what can I do about it? The only alternative I've come up with so far would be chopping off my feet just above the ankle to remove about 6 inches. (That would put be at about 5'9" which I've always felt would be a perfect height.) However, it would be difficult to get around without feet and ankles, and my hiking boots would surely never fit right again. I like hiking, so I suppose I'll continue to put up with the tall comments. I'll continue to pretend my ears are too far into the clouds to hear shorter people's questions, taunts, jokes. And I'll put off ordering the jacket that reads "I can hear you, dummy" across the back.

My kids are tall, too. Of course they are. You'd be surprised how many people - even well-educated people who understand the general concept of genetics - say things like "Wow, he's tall" when they see Happy standing next to me. (Interesting, too, is that they always ask, "Is his Dad tall?" As if my being 6'2" doesn't fully elucidate the origins of his height.) Just last week, at Zippy's 7-year-old well visit, our pediatrician's nurse practitioner said, "You should take a look at this growth chart! He's well above the curve for both height AND weight." I didn't respond with words. Instead, I glared a laser through her face until she realized what she'd said, how ridiculous it sounded when talking to a child's Amazonian mother. She looked down at the chart, wearing a sheepish I-can't-believe-I-just-said-that smile, and replied, "Well, I guess that's to be expected. I mean, he always has been. And you..." Her voice trailed off without finishing the sentence. (Can you believe she asked a few moments later if his dad is tall, too?)

In general, when I'm with my tall kids, the tall comments are directed at me (because I'm tallest, and I'm a woman and may as well have a horn growing from my forehead), and I absorb them as I always have. (Someday I'll tell you how mama-bear I feel when I hear people talking about Happy's size, and how amazed I am that my own parents must have carried a roiling ball of fire in their bellies without completely exploding on my behalf.) This morning, though, walking into Zippy's school and hearing (again) all the children whispering, a sudden anxiety gripped me: Will my kids be embarrassed by my size?

I mean, they're both at ages where their peers' perceptions are crucial to their own self-esteem. Will they hear these whispers and feel self-conscious of their own bodies? Will other kids tease them about me?! I was suddenly 9 years old again, hearing a classmate say "My mom thought you were the teacher!" about our class picture, listening to the laughter of my own classmates and wishing I could melt into the linoleum floor. I tucked my head down, felt my shoulders hunching.

At that very moment, Zippy reached out and grabbed my hand. I know he heard the comments, too. We walked a few more feet into the school entryway, and a little boy looked right at him and said, "Your mom is taller than allllll the teachers!"

"My mom," Zippy explained, "is tall like a superhero." His stride didn't slow, his voice didn't waver. True conviction and all heart. My boy's mom is tall like a superhero. In fact, she is taller than his dad, too.

I squeezed Zippy's hand. He squeezed back. Then I let go, breathed deeply, and watched him float along in the wave of children flooding the hallway. I could see him all the way to his classroom at the end of the hall, too, because he stands a head taller than every single child around him.


  1. I love this. And, my sister my friend, I feel this--including but not limited to the class picture thing! Exact same experience!) LOVE every damn inch of you.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Boardwalk ghosts

“Imagine this, buddy, in the middle of summer, especially near the Fourth of July. Wall to wall people, just sort of moving in and out of each other. Flashing lights. Loud music. Screams from Morey’s Pier, laughter on the swirly rides. Oh...and the cream, funnel cake, fudge, cheese steaks, pizza, fries...the smells alone would drive you nuts!” 
It’s 5:00 on the evening before his Nana’s funeral, and we’re standing in a windy drizzle on an empty Wildwood boardwalk. My mind has flashed back to the summer of 1991, when I spent a week here with my best friend. Wicked sunburn. Tandem bike adventures. Water slides. Thrill rides. A ground-shaking thunderstorm. Friendship bracelets. College guys taking showers outside. Ice cream and VCR movies every night.

Back in the here-and-now I’m trying to explain to Zippy what this place is like when it’s not October. He’s been to Rehoboth and Ocean City and Old Orchard Beach, but none of those come anywhere close to Wildwood in peak season.…


Zippy and I hiked in the woods the other day, following the icy trails around Evergreen Cemetery. The cold air stung our eyes but the sun shone warm and bright, and it felt great to breathe fresh air. As he skipped and hopped and twirled beside, in front, and around me, I felt peaceful, happy, content. Until I realized the Womens' March is in a few days, I am going, and I don't know what to expect. I've never done anything like this, except for a few years ago at Occupy Philly, which was nothing compared to the numbers they're anticipating this weekend. The Women's March will be a peaceful protest, yes, but 200,000 is an awful lot of people in highly charged city during turbulent times. I felt anxiety creeping into my chest.

"So you know I'm going away this weekend, right? To Washington, D.C. For just two sleeps. Do you know why I'm going?" I asked Zippy.
"Because you don't like Donald Trump and he's going to be the President."

Look up

I walk a lot. Walking is one of the pieces of my Portland lifestyle that I value most, in fact: countless trails, parks, paths, and sidewalks that not only get me where I need to be, but also show me woods and sea and proud old homes and all sorts of loveliness. (I also walk past a lot of not-so-lovely in this town each day, but we'll save that for another post.) Sometimes when I walk through a quiet neighborhood, like the one over here along Clifton Street in Back Cove, I feel envious of single-family homes and yards and kid-friends playing together in the driveway. Other times in these same neighborhoods, I feel grateful for the ample parking and snow removal of our rental home, as well as for landscapers who cut the grass and landlords who come to fix the kitchen lights or replace the dryer when it punks out. When I walk through Evergreen Cemetery, often I feel contemplative, peaceful; its consecrated ground and hundreds of years of history soothes me. Other times I feel sad an…