Height: Does it matter?
Try telling your daughter height is not a problem. So you’re only 4 feet 7 inches at thirteen? No big deal–you’ll grow, you see.
No amount of words or goodwill can soothe that out. Try mixing with thirteen year old girls. Most over 5 feet tall, boobs quite out there, sometimes, too out there and strutting is their favorite sport. Boys gawk when they pass and life is truly the cream with the cherry on top.
There she stands, wondering when her game is up. Or will be ever be up? Conscious ever of her size. Dimunitive or petite or dainty is not a pretty word, not in this country where tall and lean is the rage and being precocious is a precious commodity.
So I sign as I drop her off at the curb. As she talks into the morning throng of middle schoolers, I wonder, when will her puberty gene shows up? A small dainty girl going into the harsh reality of “popular girls” rule and exclusive sub-groups. Will she survive? Will she find it in her to take it all in her strike as she strikes up the stairs to her school?
Too many questions and too few answers. I don’t know. I was five feet one. The pain I once suffered as taller, prettier girls seem to steal all the limelight and I languished in the shadow of them all. Or maybe not– I did grow resilence and inner resolve, needed to survive the peer pressure game.
I’m still 5 feet 1 inch tall. With 92 pounds on my frame, I’m small by any measure and when I go and pick her up, they think I’m one of them. So maybe, there’s a up side to this height game. At high school reunions, my taller counterparts complain how age is catching up and they look at me, and say, “It’s not fair. You look young because you’re so small.”
I smiled and thought, “Who would have thought?’ Me, the envy.
So maybe, I should tell my daughter, don’t sweat it. Time will show you up, for the better.