They grow, my kids. They grow a lot.
S. has consistently hovered around the 90th percentile for height, and consistently grown about four inches a year. That may seem reasonable, but when she went for her well-child visit at two or three, the nurse casually remarked on it, because, “They don’t usually get taller at this age.”
And, since she’s the youngest in her class, it doesn’t really show. Plenty of the kids are her height. About twice a year, she eats and sleeps more, then we notice she’s taller. Perfectly normal.
So, she’s a foot shorter than I am, exactly, and a size two shoe. It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. Everyone I’m related to ends up taller than I am. I did manage to get married before my youngest sister outgrew me, so I’m content.
And I don’t even mind comments like, “Can you pick up that [item on the floor]? You’re closer.” Or, every single time I reach into a cabinet—even the bottom shelf, “Can you get that? Do you need help?” Besides, S. can reach the cabinets now. I’ll just make her do it!
Little A., though—whoa. When he lined up with his class for all the end of year events, he was clearly the tallest kid in his class. He runs in about the 95th percentile for height, and he’s grown 5 ½ inches a year. But his shoes…size eleven and he’s busting out of them.
And He. Never. Stops. Growing.
Understandably, he eats way more than S. ever did. Occasionally he’ll get in one of those toddler moods and not want to eat…then watch out! He gets majorly cranky. His sweet teacher even moves up snack time when he gets really grouchy.
Really, other than the shoes, it’s mostly a curiosity now. But the size of those paws promises huge things to come—huge grocery bills, huge clothes, huge shoes…and lots of them!