My husband is tall. I am not tall. It’s fair to say that my 9-year-old is nearly the same height as me and my 7-year-old is not far behind. For someone who likes to look people in the eye when I’m talking to them I may need to rethink my footwear and get the high-heels out. Or book myself in for a neck massage every other week.
My lack of height has become more apparent as we unpack boxes in our new home and put mirrors, coat hooks etc back on the walls. In the boy’s rooms they need hooks for their school bags, dressing gowns (goonies as we call them) so we set to work. “Where would you like your hook wee C?”. “Erm, how about there Mum, it means we can both reach it”.
Yes, you can see how my life is panning out. I wasn’t sure whether to be cross with him for being unintentionally cheeky or thank him for thinking of me and my short legs. Wait a minute though – its his goonie – he should be hanging it up!
Heading upstairs, I look at the attic space that is now home to our weary heads at the end of the day. I survey the low, jaggy ceiling and smile. I smile because I know that I’m not the one who’s going to bang their head off it every time I get out of bed. No – I’m the one that will throw back the covers, leap to my feet addressing the morning in my usual – why-oh-why manner while spectacularly avoiding any kind of cranial damage.
Being vertically challenged does have its good points you know.
Feeling rather pleased with myself, knowledge is power after all, I wander downstairs, chest full of pride that I will not be involved in any head knocks from the bedroom walls.
As if sensing my good mood, I am brought down to earth with a crash by a measly piece of plastic that probably 99% of people own but not for the reason I do – the IKEA step. I hear you, all those people around the 5ft tall mark, the sharp intake of breath and knowing nod. I understand and feel your pain.
I enter the kitchen as the IKEA step, yes, meant for kids to reach things, welcomes me in as its mocking blue dots glare up at me from the white plastic blob that clutters my kitchen. Grudgingly I pick up the smug kidney-bean-shaped entity and use it to stand on.
Otherwise I can’t reach the bread bin…or the microwave…or the cups…not the cups, I hear you say! A tea-less writer is not a happy camper and a short camper at that.