I knew this day would come, but somehow it still took me by surprise when it did. My baby boy is officially taller than me.
Yes, the baby boy who I grew in my belly, bounced in my arms, toted around attached to my body in an UppaBaby, distracted with a quick pick-up, point and snuggle, and kissed and cuddled and laughed with until my face hurt. The baby boy who adorably clapped for himself when he took his first few tentative steps and eventually broke out into full-fledged runs, going headfirst into the world. The baby boy who would jump every night in his crib before bedtime for hours (literally, hours) before falling asleep, yet still woke up the next morning with a smile, and by the time he was 18 months old, woke up reciting the name of every instrument he knew. (And he knew a lot.)
Yes, that boy.
Of course, I saw this coming, especially with him. If you remember, he was my giant child. He was always huge for his age, to the point that we had to remind teachers and assorted strangers that he wasn’t as old as he looked so they didn’t expect more from him. It wasn’t their fault that they forgot. He was practically double the size of most kids his age!
I always used to think of him as a big puppy, and actually still do because this kid is still GROWING. But he always had these big hands and big feet—way too big for his body, like a golden retriever puppy. That puppy would eventually catch up to his big paws, and so too would my boy. And they’d both stumble over them goofily and adorably until they did. They also had absolutely now idea how big they actually were, or how strong.
Granted, my baby boy is no longer a baby, I suppose—he is 12 and almost a teenager (still in denial about that one!), and we have been almost-there with this height thing for so long. He’d do the thing all kids do: Make me put my hand against his to see whose was bigger. Then measure our feet in a makeshift footsie war. And, of course, stand head-to-head with me and move his hand from the top of his head to mine … somehow angling it up and over mine to seem taller.
And every time I would say: “Nope, sorry! Not yet, kid! And let’s not rush it—one day, you’re going to be taller than me and then you’ll be taller than me forever. So let me have this moment for just a little while longer, OK?”
We’d play this game again and again, arguing about whether I was slouching and whether he was on his tippy toes, about how wearing shoes vs. being barefoot mattered, until he was legitimately taller than me. There was no more angling, because it was official. And that happened after the hands and the feet had long surpassed mine in size.
It happened one day in March, and yes, I have only gotten my emotions under control enough to talk about it now, four months later. He was so excited. I was so excited that he was excited … and also semi-devastated. (Don’t worry—I didn’t show it, though I may have gotten a tiny bit teary.)
And that’s it. We have passed this milestone, and it all went by in the blink of an eye. I know it’s such a cliché to talk about how it all goes so fast, but it really and truly does. This kid of mine—this amazing, awesome kid—is on the verge of being a man, and all I can do is sit back, watch and go along for the ride.
He may be taller than me, and will be a lot taller eventually, but he will always be my baby. Full stop. And because of that, I’m OK.
You may want to check in on me, though, when his voice changes.
Tell Us: How are you handling your kids getting older and—gasp!—puberty?
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