This Saturday, Younger will celebrate his fifteenth birthday.
For the last six months, he’s been telling me while standing nose-to-nose with me, “I’m taller than you, Mom.”
And I reply, “I want you to grow taller than me, Younger. Boys should grow taller than their moms.”
“Yeah,” he will say with his special smile, “but you don’t want me to be taller than you, yet.”
Dang, but someone raised him to be smart.
The other day, he was at the grocery store with me, trailing behind me when I pushed our cart into the aisle filled with chips. Immediately, I noticed a lady about halfway down the confined space struggling to reach a bag shoved several inches back on the top shelf. Since the shelf was made of interwoven metal mesh, she would poke the very tip of a finger through one hole and inch (more like micro inch) the bag towards the edge and then poke her finger through the next hole and inch the bag towards the edge.
“Can I help you?” I asked when I reached her.
She eased back on her heels with a laugh. “Are you taller than me?”
Behind me, I could practically feel Younger vibrate, ready to prove himself when his mother could not retrieve a bag of chips from a top shelf. Ignoring him, I grabbed the chips, offering the lady the bag while resisting the urge to toss the deflating Younger a look.
Just because he’s going on fifteen doesn’t mean I’m short.
It just means I’m old.
And I’m trying really hard to be okay with that.
And maybe a little bit okay with him getting taller than me — if he was, which I can’t admit because he reads my blog.
Happy 15th Birthday, Younger!!