Four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches.
Since I was fifteen years old, I have been four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches tall. I have found a few ways around this. (My license reads 5' thanks to clever shoe choices, and some overly fluffed hair styles.)
I have learned to accept the fact that I am vertically challenged and I believe, as my mother always taught me, that "Short is beautiful." But it wasn't always easy. I thought it would fun (and therapeutic), if I would share some amusing (or sad) moments in the life of one with little height and how they affected me.
In Kindergarten, I came home from school everyday with wet pants. I had been potty trained since I was two, so my parents were concerned. After some interrogation, I admitted that the bathroom door was too heavy. I was too small and weak and could not open the door. I was also too shy and too embarrassed to tell the teacher. So I peed in my pants. Everyday. It was finally decided, after a meeting with the school, that when the designated teacher would take the children who were in Special Education to the bathroom, she would take me, as well. I still remember that the Special Education van would arrive a half an hour after school started and it would "beep." Upon hearing the beeping through the window, the other children in the class, who were cruel, would giggle, because they knew that Jenny, the little girl with braces on her legs, would be entering the classroom soon. I never giggled. I smiled a smile of relief. With that beeping, I knew I would get to go to the bathroom. Besides I loved Jenny. She was just like me and couldn't open the bathroom door, either. She was also very nice and ended up becoming my friend.
Being small taught me tolerance.
I entered First Grade in a new school, in a new state, with no kind Kindergarten teacher and no Jenny. My parents again became concerned when I began arriving home with cuts and bruises everyday. I explained that the second graders loved to play "House" and because I was so tiny, I had to be their "baby." They carried me around the playground at recess. Only these second graders liked to drop me when their arms got tired. My parents told me that I was nobody's baby but theirs. They told me to go to school and tell the second graders not to touch me and if they did, to tell the nearest teacher. I marched to school and told the only "friends" that I had that I did not want to play with them anymore. It resulted in many lonely days on the playground, but I didn't care. My bruises healed.
Being small taught me to stand up for myself.
After two years of unsatisfactory supervision at public schools, my parents decided to transfer me to Catholic school. My favorite way to participate in the Mass was to lector - to read the readings for the Mass on the altar. Of course I always had to request that a stool be placed at the pulpit for me. My parents told me, "You are further away from the microphone than everyone else. Be sure to read in a loud, clear voice, so that the people in the back can hear." Lectoring developed into a love of public speaking, leading to success and national rankings for me on my high school and college speech teams. As an adult, I am still a lector at St. Vincent de Paul Church and every other Sunday, I loudly and clearly proclaim the Word of God. And now, if I wear high heels, I don't *always* need a stool. I love when my fellow parishioners say, "How does such a little girl, have such a big voice?"
Being small taught me to compensate for my size with my other strengths.
Looking back, I wouldn't want to be any taller. Sure, there were bullies who called me names, but they never hurt my feelings. I had so much positive reinforcement at home that nothing anyone else said mattered. I learned to see myself as "big" when I looked in the mirror. And I didn't care what anyone else saw. And, of course, I am teaching my boys the same principles, that I have learned.
I took Jackson, who's four, to the pediatrician a few months ago. There was an 18 month old boy in the waiting room who was a head taller than Jack. When the diapered bully, gnawing on his binky, took a toy out of Jack's hands, Jack shrugged and picked up another. He looked UP at the child and said, "It's okay, you take it. I know that you're just a little baby, who doesn't know any better."
I smiled behind my magazine. The cycle continues...
