In the world of the short, the chick with the stepstool is Queen.
~Erin Lee McBride, 2011
short (shôrt)
1. Having little length; not long.
2. Having little height; not tall.
I’m short (that is, not tall, and having little length). 5′ 3″ exactly. Though Canadian statistics tell me I’ve only missed being classified as ‘average’ by 1.5 inches, I know the truth.
It’s obvious in my kitchen. Yesterday, the visiting neighborhood kids wanted popcorn. The bowl is in the corner cabinet, nested inside the big wooden salad bowl. Not thinking, I did what I always do: a little alley-oop up onto the counter, holding on to an open cabinet shelf for extra vaulting power. One kid gave me some pointers for safety, you know, because he has to do the same thing, being about four feet tall. Thing is, if that same kid is coming over when he’s 12, I’ll probably be asking him to reach it for me.
It’s obvious in my closet. In the name of useful space, we switched from a single to a double (upper and lower) clothes rail. More room for new duds! Joy, right? No. Laundry day used to be so exciting for me, putting away all the clean stuff; it was as if I had a whole new wardrobe…”Hey! That shirt! I love that shirt!” Now, it’s an exercise in humiliation, as I set the basket on the bed and trudge off to the kids’ washroom to borrow their stool so I can get the hangers up top.
It’s obvious in my shower. We have these lovely shower hooks. They make life so much easier than regular shower hooks, you know, the usual plastic rings whereby the ends connect and hold the curtain? Well, no more having to click them into place, because these luxury stainless hooks, m’dears, have no clicky bit. They’re open, you see:
Thing is, they always get pulled off because they catch on the middle bit of the shower bar and then dangle precariously. I have to slowly and carefully go way up on my wet toes and r-e-a-c-h to hook ’em back on, praying I don’t slip and break my neck, because, really, who wants that to be their obituary?
It’s funny, you know – growing up, I wasn’t short. I was just growing. In grade five, I was about the 4th tallest girl in my class (the others were Amazons). Then…I stopped, and all the tiny little girls kept going. One of those ‘tiny’ girls I know to this day, and whenever I look up at her (I’ll estimate she’s 5′ 7″ or so), I marvel at the fact I used to look slightly downward to speak to her. I also remember when my Granny Lee and I discovered we were the same height – oh, happy day! I felt as though this were just the beginning: “Today, Granny, tomorrow…my dad!” It was a very powerful feeling. By my twenties I had to accept that the only other kin I would manage to vertically surpass was my other Granny (and eventually my mom, but only because she’s shrinking, now).
Now I look at my own little sprouts and marvel at what beanstalks they’re becoming. My daughter is already getting excited about exceeding me in height one day, which I don’t doubt she will. We have a gag, my kids and I, about when that day comes that they’ll have to crook their necks down to talk to me. It goes like this:
Me: Clean your room! This place is a sty! Who drank all the milk? Get off the phone! NO, you cannot go to the movies tonight….!!!
Them (patting me gently on the head gently and crooning as condescendingly as possible): Aww, Little Mama!
We practice, now. I sit on a chair, and they pat. I may as well be ready for it.
Erin's Clishmaclaver 