Either I am getting taller or mom is getting shorter.
OK, I know, I know. There’s no denying it. The flat fact is, at 93, mom is coming up on the short end of the stick … the yardstick that is.
And, it’s because she is shrinking. I call her the incredible shrinking mom. At 5’1″, I know she has to be at least two or three inches, shorter than she was when I started writing my blog a few years ago.
I have been 5’11” for what seems like forever, and after just finishing checking my height with a tape measure, I still am.
Mom has always insisted I’m 6′. I’ll say, “No, mom, I am 5’11’,” and she’ll come back with, “No, you are not. You are 6′, and that’s it.”
That one little inch she has given me has meant miles to me. I adore her for always giving me that extra inch.
She has always believed I am not only an inch taller than I am, but an inch smarter, more creative, funnier, better looking, you name it … and all of those inches have added up to miles and miles and miles … enough to stretch beyond the moon, the sun and the stars.
Whether it has been benefit of the doubt, encouragement or praise, it has always been inches more than I deserve.
But, now, I really do look like I am miles taller than mom.
When I help her put her sweater on in the morning, I’ll ask her to stand tall. And, as she stiffens to attention, I look down and see that, even though I remain the same, she just keeps getting shorter and shorter.
Then, I remember … my mom taught me “taller” is in the eye of the beholder.
So, I bend down and kiss her on the top of her head and whisper, “You are the tallest person I have ever known. And, that’s it.”