Cindy

Droog

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October 29, 2007

Call Me Short All You Want, But Leave My Son Alone

I really don’t know how my parents did it.

Of course, that statement applies to many things. Keeping a family together for 40 years and counting. Remaining calm in the face of a 64-pack of melted Crayolas stuck to the fabric of a rental car on a family vacation. Stuff like that.

In fact, I’m sure “How did they do it?” is one of the most oft-used phrases by new parents. Currently for me, it applies to one thing. How did they ever put up with all of the unsolicited comments about my diminutive size relative to my age?

At two, I was talking in clear, full sentences. Not unusual. Unless you look like you’re eight months old. Then, people stare. At 13, my parents would tell people I was a freshman and get the quizzical look right before the dreaded, “Is she a child prodigy?”

My dad dealt with it through sarcasm. It wasn’t unlike him to throw his arm around me and announce, “Yep! NASA’s already recruited her for their first planned trip to the sun. She inherited my genius!”

My mom was very concerned about these comments. She insisted on having deep conversations with me about self-esteem and inner beauty. In truth, I dreaded these talks and often met her defiantly. “Mom, I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about this. I’m trying to . . . (insert parental-avoidance activity of choice here . . . usually, saying I was busy with homework was the winner).

In the end, it was probably the perfect combination of these approaches that made me forget how short I really am. Not that I’m never reminded. Like when I try to reach the Tupperware in our kitchen cabinets. Or when I’m walking through the corporate cubicle desert and I realize no one can see me coming over the five-foot walls. (Trust me. Never talk negatively about the short people in your workplace. We could be inches away.)

My parents dealt with this for 18 years. I’m just getting started. My husband and I are blessed that, developmentally, our son is doing all of the things he should be. Walking. Running. Pointing at and naming trucks, dogs, bikes and birds. Often, one sighting sparks a repetitive tirade of verbal excitement. “Owl! Owl! Owl! Owl!” These are true moments of such happiness on his behalf that I simply can’t ruin them by telling him it’s really a duck.

Still, his vocabulary doesn’t change the fact that, at 16 months, he’s the height and weight of a six-month-old and takes after me in more ways than one. (Clumsiness is the other thing he inherited from me, poor kid!)

The comments from others – sometimes hurtful – are at least predictable. First, you catch them looking at him a little strangely as he walks by. Then, the approach: “How old is he?” Then, they get stupid. “He’s so small.” “He’s the tiniest 16-month-old I’ve ever seen.” “He’s so short.”

How my mom kept the strength not to smack people upside the head is beyond me. After all, there’s something different about people commenting on your child as opposed to commenting on you. You’re used to your own flaws. You see your big nose in the mirror every day. Or your birthmark. Or your lack of height. You get used to it. When you have one clear, defining, unique physical characteristic, good or bad, you get thick skin. It’s a survival mechanism.  

But when it’s your child, it feels as if the gates of hell have opened up, and all the mean people are talking about him. You can’t figure out why their brains don’t open before their mouths do.

Still, you have to teach him to deal with it. Since my son is still a little too young for deep discussions a la my mother’s, I’m going to test a few sarcastic responses first, starting with these:

a)       Actually, you’re wrong. He’s a real-live giant, born last week! Don’t you read the Enquirer?

b)      I think he’s pretty tall, considering his digestive problems require a “live bugs only” diet.

c)       Yeah, it’s great. We don’t need a child safety seat because he fits in the glove compartment!

And if all else fails, I’ll go back to my Dad’s NASA/child genius approach. By the time I have to use it, I’m sure my son will be able to pull off the “Is it an owl or a duck?” thing.

© 2007 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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