The One Where She's Tall and I'm Short

Do you remember what it was like to be 5? I do, though it's vague and a bit hazy.

I remember being in kindergarten (which was in the basement of a local church -- elementary school didn't start until you hit 1st grade in my day), having nap time, snack, and though I don't recall my teacher's name, I do remember she had short, curly brunette hair.

I also remember feeling very small. Truth be told, I was very small. No matter what age or grade, I always was the shortest kid in class. At just 5' 0" I'm still pretty much the shortest person in any group. And, as my sister loves to remind me, if I were just two inches shorter I could officially meet the height requirements to be classified as a "little person" (thanks, Eva). My 5' 8" husband isn't exactly a tall guy, either. In fact, he's often one of the shorter men in any group.

So, you can understand my continual amazement that our daughter is tall.

Seriously tall. Not just "not short." She's taller than most of her friends, and she wears the same size shoe as her friend who is in the third grade, though my daughter is just 5 years old. (Really. Just look at the photo and check out the size of her feet!) My question? Who was this mystery relative who carried the tall gene to my kid? I've tracked most of the family in the past two or three generations, and I can't figure it out.

This morning my daughter came over for a cuddle (which is just about one of the best things EVER). She sat sideways on my lap and tried to nuzzle her head under my chin, the way she's been doing since she began walking. Only, she doesn't really fit anymore. I could feel her trying to scrunch her body lower to tuck her head neatly into the crook of my neck, and even when I stretched as far as I could, the top of her head roughly came to the bottom of my ear. I pulled her in tight, and she didn't seem bothered that we no longer fit together like puzzle pieces from the same box, so I tried not to be, either.

This whole parenting thing? It goes fast. Well, actually, it often goes slow. Incredibly slow. Frustratingly, mind-numbingly, invisibly slow. But it also goes fast. Crazy fast. Lightening speed, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, heartbreakingly fast. Unfortunately, it often seems the hard parts go slow and the amazing parts go fast. Funny how that is.

My daughter will be taller than me, that's a given. But for now, we can still cuddle, head to ear. And soon enough, when she's asking to borrow my shoes (next year, at this rate) I'll be the one to fit under her chin.