Big

Chin held high, I straightened my spine, squeezed in my stomach and thrust my shoulders back. My daughter did the same. We braced against each other and held our breath, waiting for an answer. My husband squinted and considered and finally determined that I was still a smidgeon taller. It was an empty victory that I knew would not last long, but I relished the victory nonetheless.

Just eleven years ago, she was weighing heavy in my belly, making it impossible for me to stand completely upright. She was so big the doctors insisted on inducing her birth 10 days early. Even then, she was almost 9 pounds. She started in the 95^th percentile and has stayed there ever since.

Since she was little, her appearance has been the first thing people notice and comment on. It’s only natural – people comment on what they see: “What a pretty dress.” “Look at those blonde curls.” “My, how you’ve grown.” It is natural, but strange since we’d never say such things to an adult: “Nice to meet you. You sure are tall.” As she got older, the dresses were replaced with jeans and the hair naturally darkened, but she kept getting bigger. So the dominant commentary she has heard throughout her life has always centered on her size.

I’m just as guilty as the rest of the world, perhaps more so. Unlike stangers, I know there are many more interesting measures of her true growth that are actually worth talking about. She is a veracious reader and analytical thinker. Ever since she saw the final Harry Potter movie, she has been re-reading the books and critiquing where the movies fell short as well as where they triumphed. She is also developing a real sense of humor and understanding of irony. Her must-see TV is MAD Magazine, which has inspired her to start writing her own parodies. She loves music, but increasingly turns away from the main-stream trashy bubble-gum-pop in favor of deeper, more soulful broodings of bands like Cold Play and The Script. She is trying a new sport – lacrosse. And, she recently discovered that she likes sushi, mushrooms and pickles (but not all at once).

While you might pick up on some of her underlying personality complexities from her non-trendy wardrobe choices, shaggy hair and quiet demeanor, you can’t help but talk about her size. I can’t either. She hasn’t even started 5^th grade and she can look me square in the eye. She is taller than some of my friends. While last summer we could still share flip-flops, her feet are now a full two sizes bigger than mine. She is big. Giant. Mammoth.

Fortunately, she has always been pretty comfortable being bigger than other kids her age. I am the one who has had trouble. She hears, “Wow, you are really tall.” Then she goes about her business of playing with a sense of triumph and success in doing her job of growing. But I am left standing there to field the follow-up questions: “Where does she get her height?” “How tall do you think she’ll be?” “What are you feeding her?”

No, we do not have a tall, handsome milkman. While my husband is a “normal” 5’11”, his dad is 6’3” so maybe she takes after him? I guess I should be thankful that she doesn’t take after my dad’s mother who was barely 4’10”. If she were tiny, would we all be talking about that? I do not have a magic crystal ball that will predict how tall she’ll get, but if you do, please tell me! And, no, I did not feed her excessive hormones. I followed the organic milk and hormone-free meat rulebook adopted by my generation. But as much as we like to feel good about the choices we make, it didn’t slow her growth a bit.

That is ok, because it is pretty great to be tall. I’ve always wanted to be tall. I can only imagine the confidence you must feel when you walk into a room and look down at people’s scalps instead of up their noses. Yes, there must be an immediate sense of superiority that comes with stature. Maybe that is why they call it stature. I want my daughter to have what I never could, regardless of any amount of hard work and determination. I want her to have better views at concerts, to be able to reach the top shelf without shimmying up onto the counter, to buy jeans without having to have them altered. I want her to be a professional beach volleyball player. Yes, it would require me to shuttle her to tournaments in all of the world’s tropical playgrounds, but I would do that for my little giant.

So as much as I used to worry about her being big, I now worry about her not being big. I’m starting to wonder what will happen to her sense of identity if she stops growing sooner rather than later. What happens when your whole life you’ve heard, “You are tall,” but then you actually cap out at 5’2” or 5’3”? Will she feel like a failure for not living up to the expectations of “big” that she’s heard her whole life? What will happen to my, I mean her beach volleyball dreams?

I guess it will be OK because, like all of us, there is so much more to her than meets the eye. Her height, like her hair or clothes, may be what you notice first, but is not what you will remember about her. You are far more likely to remember the way she made you look at something from a different angle or laugh at something you hadn’t noticed. You’ll observe her acute sense of empathy and see she is more interested in seeking justice than power. All-and-all, you are far more likely to sense her gentle vulnerability than her towering strength.

And because of that vulnerability, I will continue to do the one sure thing I can do to bolster her confidence in a world where appearances do indeed matter, but don’t really tell you much. Yes, for her, my gentle little giant, I will continue to be short. No matter what else happens in her life, she can rest assured that she will always be taller than me. It is the least a mother can do.

The next time we stand back-to-back to be measured, I will relax my posture and finally let her be taller. I‘m just not quite ready to do it yet.