“Call me in.” Not a request, and said with without the benefit of even a fake cough or a stomach clenching moan—no simulated vomit in the toilet either.
This is what happens when you allow your children to grow taller than you. There is something empowering for them, and prohibitive for me in this disparity of vertical achievement. I fought it for a long time. My shoes graduated from ballerina flats to hooker platform stilettos in vain. Ridiculous for anyone, absurd for a middle aged woman who spends most of her waking hours in a polyester uniform.
That improvidence however isn’t what made me give up the fight. My decision to surrender the shoe stratagem was twofold: hammer toes with no sick time at work to have them straightened out, and “they” (elf cobblers?) don’t make shoes tall enough to bring me to the summit of my sixteen year old son’s head.
So, I crane my neck to look up at my child…who was born just an ounce shy of 10lbs and in need of a shave, and I try to look…I don’t know… authoritative, and with the most plangent sound I can pull out of the depths of my soul, I say: “No.”
Back to my coffee.
November 17, 2016