Last night we went to the mall to buy Emma a new bathing suit. Last time we bought her one (about 4 months ago) I made the mistake of buying a size six. I thought this was a smart move, considering she’s five and a half years old.
It was almost too small from the start. And when the straps started digging into her shoulders and leaving long red welts I knew it was high time to get a new suit.
The one she has now is a size seven, and it fits just right. There is some room to grow without it being baggy. She liked it so much she danced around the fitting room. I called it her racing suit. She told me solemnly that wasn’t sure if she was going to be doing any racing. After all, she can barely float and is just getting comfortable putting her face in the water for extended amounts of time.
I told her that I used to race. And it’s true, I swam competitively for a number of years.
“Did you win mummy?” I think she was remembering back to the Olympic swimming events that we watched together this past summer. Perhaps she was thinking I was hiding the gold medal in my closet.
“I won sometimes, but I also I lost a lot. In fact, it’s very hard to win all the time. But it helps to be tall if you’re going to swim and play these kinds of sports.”
I throw that in for good measure. I’m trying to cultivate a love for her height in hopes of grooming a healthy self-esteem. She’s always been a tall girl. When she was born she weighed 10 lbs 3 and has always been at the very top of the growth charts at every stage of her childhood. She takes after me. I’m 5’10” and I was practically full-grown in elementary school, as is documented in my class pictures. I hated the fact that the short girls got to sit in the front row Every Single Year, while I stood in the back row centre, or for godsakes on the floor opposite the teacher. This was just GREAT for someone like me.
For many many years I was taller than all the girls, and 90 per cent of the boys in my class. It bothered me. Sure it did. Especially during school dances. There were very few boys who wanted to dance with the shy tall girl. I was knobby kneed and self-conscious of the fact that I towered over everyone. My mom tried to tell me that it was good to be tall, but I didn’t believe her. I just wanted to be like everyone else: one of the short girls who was good at doing cartwheels, graceful and cute as a kitten as opposed to a huge gawky awkward giraffe such as myself. It didn’t help that I was wearing grey boy-cut cords when everyone else wore bum-sculpting Santanas. It also didn’t help that my roller skates had yellow wheels when in fact they were supposed to be red. *sigh*
I’m not sure when I figured out it was actually cool to be tall, but it wasn’t until I went to university that I became comfortable in my own skin. I arrived at a place where I could start from scratch. People liked me for who I was. The height thing was no longer an issue. I was pleased to discover that I liked myself.
I hope Emma reaches the same kind of understanding, but not so late in life. I want her to be proud of herself no matter what. So I’m going to continue to give her high-fives when she grows out of her clothing and reward her with hugs when we make another mark on the wall.
You’re TALL Emma! Tall like mum! Perhaps if I start now she’ll never feel the way I did when I was growing up. Perhaps when someone calls her a giraffe she’ll be able to stand up for herself instead of dwelling on it and letting it get her down. I guess I can only hope, right?
