I’ve watched it happen. I’ve waited for it to happen. I’ve measured it repeatedly. Measured us against one another.
And he’s come close. But I’ve remained. His mother. Taller. By a lot. And then a little. And a little less. And a little less than that.
I saw it coming…
He’s been home sick. On the couch. His neck. His chest. Some how broadening, right there, in front of me. His back, his silhouette, becoming a man’s, swiping the child inside.
This morning I sat in the kitchen, and he passed me, noticing… something.
“You look small,” he said. “Stand up so that I don’t feel so tall.”
And I did.
And then, we did, what we’ve done, all year long.
Stood back to back.
Called for someone to come compare us.
It was his older brother who broke the news. We held our breaths. He chided his younger brother to stop tilting his head to make himself taller. And then he spoke the words that I’ve been waiting for. Been resisting. Known would come.
“Aidan is taller.”
A wide grin broke across my 13 year old’s face.
I took a seat.
(Tears sprung to my eyes.)