Dad stood all of 5’7”. Mom could wear platform stiletto heels and still look up into his eyes. Statuesque was never going to appear on my driver’s license. However, when I reached 5’3” in the sixth grade and towered over all the girls – and all the boys – it gave my parents pause. My maternal grandfather was a six-footer and I think they feared I might become some sort of aberration. I also think this was when mom upped her daily rosary habit and I often accused her of “praying me short!”
By eighth grade I was still 5’3” and by then the shortest in the class. All through high school and college, into marriage, motherhood and grand motherhood, I stayed that tall. Or so I thought.
A couple of years ago during an annual physical, the nurse motioned me over to a metal yardstick attached to the scale. “Hop back up here and let me measure you. The doctor wants to confirm your height.”
“No need,” I said calmly, starting to put on my shoes. “I’m 5’3.” She informed me that they wanted to make sure. I informed her of my vertical history. She won, of course, and pronounced me precisely five-feet-even. “Impossible,” I argued. “You must have defective equipment!” She measured me again with the same result. I’ve never found those missing three inches, although I keep looking.
My husband, who holds steady at 72,” naturally thought this was funny. “I always dreamed of a shorter wife,” he lied. Statuesque was more his hope. Jim thoroughly enjoys it when I bring home Capri pants that touch the tops of my feet and knee-length skirts that come closer to the ankle. He pats my head and advises me to get measured annually so we can keep accurate track of the numbers. I’ve taken to actively noticing women who are shorter than me. And there are loads of them out there. Virtually loads!
I have two granddaughters, Anna and Grace, who give every indication of staying petite. My four grandsons are another story, the little (big) devils. Fortunately I’m still taller than Adam, who is almost 18 months. Jimmy, at l6 has long since passed me and is heading for his grandfather. Riley, who is coming up on 10 is also coming up on me. Every time I see him he tells me he’s having another “growth spurt.” He and his cousin Drew, who just entered his teens, enjoy bounding up our porch stairs and insist on measuring themselves against me even before I get a kiss. They love to see the “dismay” on my face as they remind me they were “just under my chin,” last time and now are “almost to the nose.”
Drew, who stayed a respectable head shorter for a comfortably (to me) long time, greeted me on his last visit from North Carolina, by suddenly being nearly level with his aged ancestor. “Watch it there Drew,” I teased. “If you work too hard at growing, you’ll soon be taller than me.”
This young man, who is our family philosopher as well as a wily wit, looked me (almost) straight in the eye and countered, “Grandma Barbara, I’m sure not going to have to work too hard at doing that!”