Younger has always wanted to be six foot tall and bullet proof. He has somewhat accepted he will never be bullet proof. He still has hope for the six foot tall.
While at the doctor’s office the other day, the nurse indicated for Younger to position himself against the measuring tape. And I grinned because that is the straightest I ever see that young man’s back.
The nurse went up on tiptoes and declared, “Five-eleven.”
And total frustration wrinkled Younger’s face.
But as I went to hug him last night, having to reach up to encircle his shoulders, I said, “I love you, my five-eleven son.”
Grinning, he hung his head a little. “Was I that obvious?”
“You did grow an inch, though,” I encouraged him.
He shrugged. “I think that was my hair.” He tugged at his no-longer-blond locks with his fingers. “It was pouf-y.” Then he frowned. “But she could have rounded up. How hard is that? Just round up, lady.”
One day, he will accept that his height is perfect for him, at whatever inch he stops growing.
And one day, I will accept that he is no longer measured in inches and does not fit in the crook of one arm.