Stumped: How to Parent When Your Kids are Taller Than You

My height has always been a bit of a vanity with me. I'm not spectacularly tall, mid-sized really, but ever since I was ten years old, I've been taller than my sister, my mother, my grandmother, several of my uncles, all of my aunts and most of my girlfriends.

I took great glee in rubbing my superior height in most people's faces and I have even discriminated against short men. (As in, I flatly refused to date them.) There is nothing I love more than to strap on a pair of tall heels and know that at one point or another I'm bound to be taller than someone I cross paths with.

I like being tall. It was my biggest heart break as a teen that I didn't grow taller. I envy tall women and wish for their size. I like being able to reach the top shelves at the supermarket.

I always knew, thanks to my horny desire to procreate with one very over sized man, my children would in turn, be tall. They wouldn't stay small forever. They would grow into over-sized Scandanavian giants just like every member of my spouse's family.

They would outgrow me.

They would look down on me.

They would not fear me as they knew I could no longer reach them with my pathetically short monkey arms.

But like the delusional mother I am, I always thought I'd have more time to lord my size over my children, tower before them with my height and generally use my stature to my advantage in my parenting quest. I knew there would be a day when I would wake up and realize my children outsize me but it was always abstract, like knowing one day I'll have more facial hair than my husband. It's something I know will happen but not something immediate to worry about.

Except, that morning finally arrived and it's now my reality. (Not the facial hair part. That I'm still working on.)

My son is now as tall as me with no signs of slowing down in the growth department. My daughter is nose to nose with me and threatening to outgrow me.

I've officially lost the most effective parenting tool in my arsenal. My size.

No longer can I glower down on them and wither them into submission with one of my scary mommy looks.

No longer can I threaten to sit on them when they become unruly.

(Nor can I keep my daughter out of my darn shoes, which is a total side note, but shoe lovers everywhere will be sympathetic.)

My children have eclipsed me size wise and it's screwing with my mommy mojo.

I don't know how to parent being the short one in the family. (Jumby doesn't count because he's supposed to be short. He's six. I'll worry about him in ten years.)

Suddenly, at 5'8" I'm the short one in my family.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to effectively lecture a teen boy when you have to look up?

I'm shaking my fist to the ceiling, hopping around like a mad wet hen, just trying to catch his attention while his head is obliviously stuck in the clouds. My daughter, the cheeky monkey she is, just marvels how she can now see into my eyes and when I'm trying to discipline educate her as to why it's inappropriate to whip Frac with a wet towel for no apparent reason, she's too distracted by my eye makeup to pay attention to my parental threats advice.

"Are you wearing eyeliner? Your makeup looks a little bland today Mom."

My head keeps popping off but they are no longer phased with fear by it. What am I going to do? Grab a stepping stool so I can reach them to shake the sense into them?

I knew, when they were wee babies, my time would come. My mother outgrew her mom, I outgrew mine, and it only made sense that one day my children would sprout beyond my height. But it happened so suddenly. I'm unprepared for this.

How does one maintain parental control when suddenly she's responsible for people who are bigger than her? Worse yet, how does one maintain her maternal authority when her children now routinely refer to her as 'Shorty?'

And how did I manage to create such brazenly cheeky children who would dare taunt me? I mean, for the last 14 years I have worked hard at instilling a healthy sense of fear respect in them just so that when the day finally came and I had to look up to see them, they would still be under my dominion.

All of a sudden I'm negotiating and discussing instead of threatening and disciplining. It's the type of parenting I've avoided for years, mostly because I'm lazy. I freely admit I thoroughly enjoyed my time as their iron fisted dictator.

I'm not enjoying this new parenting stage. My children are emboldened with their lofty heights and now they laugh. at. me. They want to sit in the front seat of the vehicle with me and no longer can I use the excuse that they aren't tall enough when they are as big as me. Suddenly I'm forced to play the mean mom card and tell them they can't sit in the front seat because they'll want to touch my stereo.

Their height is making me look bad and I'm not appreciating it.

This is entirely unacceptable. My height was one of the few advantages I had in this parenting gig and now it's gone. All I have left to rely on is my wit and intellect and to be honest, that's not much. I'm pretty sure my children have me beat in that department too.

Which leaves me stumped. (Pun intended.)

I don't know how to parent as a short person.

Puberty is hell.

And I need a step stool.

Want Whine?

I'm still here, I promise.

I'm just up to my eyeballs with sick children, a snot monster who has decided to take up residency in our house instead of someone else's, and a room makeover gone horribly awry. First off, the paint chip did not match the actual paint, secondly as quick as I can put in on the walls the damn dog wants to lick it off, which actually works in my favour since I apparently suck at math and bought way too much of this hideous coloured paint. Apparently my dog is just trying to help me use up the extra gallon or so of this liquid nightmare I've got laying about.



And no, I'm not telling you what colour the room will be, but I will post pictures later this week.

I'll be back tomorrow, with actual content, for the few of you who have remained around this abandoned blog.

But first I have to change a diaper, fold five loads of laundry, wipe some snot, do some physical therapy with Jumby, oh, and finish painting that damn room.

I think at this point, I'd rather roll around on a bed of porcupines than pick up a damn paint brush ever again.

/whine.

Tips To Surviving A Medical Emergency

With great power parenting comes great responsibility. (Thanks Spidey. I always knew that quote would come in handy one day.) We are responsible for the safety and well being of our offspring and it's our duty to try and grow these children into happy, healthy productive members of society. Which means, for the most part, keeping them out of the klink, off the stripper poles and well, alive.

My track record for the alive part isn't the greatest, but I'm working hard on the happy productive part of the deal. Two out of three and all that jazz.

Every parent will at one point experience a health scare with their child, whether it's a broken arm, a split chin or a dangerous fever. It comes with the territory of raising wee ones. They like to test our internal fortitude by scaring the dickens out of us with midnight vomit sessions and jumping out of trees whenever they can. Kids can't help it. It's hardwired into their DNA to age us prematurely.

As the parent to two disabled children (and yes, the dead kid still counts) I've had more than my fair share of health scares. Between the older healthy children falling out of bunkbeds and splitting their chins open and trying to slice their thumbs off while peeling apples and the younger children deciding to spontaneously stop breathing and aspirating their own body fluids so they start to drown in their own lungs, I've seen the inside of the pediatric emergency room more times than I care to count.

When I showed up yesterday with the Jumbster, the nurse asked if I had a frequent flier card. Because gallows humor is sometimes the only thing that will keep a panicking mother from having her head pop off and explode into a cloud of confetti.

Luckily for my family, this particular emergency did not end up with me walking out with only a plastic bag containing my child's clothing instead of my actual child. I'm hoping that is a scene never to be repeated. No parent should ever experience that horror.

However, every parent should know what to expect when faced with a sudden emergency and have the tools to handle what will likely be a very stressful situation. I know I would have appreciated it if someone had written a guidebook to parenting during medical crises. A list of do's and don'ts to help tiptoe your child and your sanity back to health, if you will.

Since no one else seems to be stepping up to fill this need, I'd thought I'd offer my valuable insight and considerable knowledge to the parenting public. All for the low, low price of well, nothing. Because I'm cheap and I know you are all cheap and well, like attracts like. (However, my husband would like me to add if you have any unused or unwanted Canadian Tire money you are more than welcome to forward it my way.)

Tanis's Top Ten Tips To Survive A Medical Emergency.

• If you're in charge of your child's safety while the other parent has to leave to take care of business and your child manages to injure themselves when they are supposed to be in bed (and you were playing video games) don't neglect to mention the accident to the other parent when they call to check in. Otherwise, you may accidentally run into said other parent at a gas station after you squired your child to the Emergency room to get sewn up. And no child will be able to resist pointing out his/her's new war wound to their other parent while bragging about how the injury occurred. This will not cast you in a good light, especially when it's revealed that you bribed said child with ice cream in exchange for a promise not to tell Mommy.

(Ahem Boo.)

• If offered the choice between riding in the back of the ambulance with your unconscious and/or unaware child or following behind in your vehicle, chose the later if at all possible. If it won't upset your child, it's easier to have your own wheels available so you won't be stranded at the hospital upon your child's eventual discharge. Also, riding in the back is much the same as being bounced around inside a giant tin bread box. You won't be able to stand up straight for a week.

• If you do ride along in the ambulance with your child, don't ask the paramedic if they'll stop so you can buy a slurpee. Even if your child is just being transported for an appointment and it's not an actual emergency, paramedics tend to get all sensitive and touchy when treated like over-paid cab drivers.

(For the record, I was only joking. I didn't actually expect them to make the pit stop, but if they had I would have generously ponied up and treated them to their own slurpees too.)

• Refrain from making jokes when surrounded by other panicked parents in a waiting room who are unaccustomed to medical emergencies. It tends to freak them out and as a cranky old nurse will remind you, "Not everyone enjoys black humour, Tanis." The smarter option is to remain silent while shooting sympathetic looks to the other parents and save your good material for the person you know will appreciate it. Like your kid's doctor.

• Always be prepared for the unexpected. And by that I mean, there is always a crazy old man wandering around in a hospital gown with his arse cheeks hanging out. The sight of which will either burn your retinas or send you into hysterical giggles at an inopportune time. Forewarned is forearmed, I say.

• Never call a young doctor Doogie Howser, no matter how young they look or how badly you are itching to do it. All it does is highlight how old you really and make the professional responsible for healing your child think you are an idiot.

• Apparently hospital hallways are not an appropriate place for wheelchair drag racing. No matter how much it makes your child or yourself giggle.

• Sometimes you must leave your child alone, to go to the washroom or to grab a cup of coffee. Don't feel bad about this. Try playing some of your children's favourite music off your iTouch while you're gone. Just make sure to check if your playlist has any inappropriate music on it. Other wise you may come back to your kid's room freshly caffeinated only to discover your child's surgeon, nurse and medical resident staring at you in horror as your child rocks out to the Flight of the Conchords Mutha Uckers.

• Pudding cups and jello always taste better in a hospital setting.

• On occasion you will cross paths with a very attractive doctor/nurse/professional involved in your child's care. Try to keep your tongue in your mouth. If you find yourself blushing like a school girl, well, welcome to my club. Try not to flirt. Or at least do it better than I have ever managed. Because you are already dealing with a stressful situation as your child recovers. You don't need to be humiliated by a hot Doogie Howser who just killed your ego as he heals your child while you're at it.

There you have it. The best tips to surviving your child's health crisis. It really is a bit of a mystery why people aren't beating down my door for more advice, isn't it?

Have any tips of your own to share? Let me know. Because I'm fairly positive Jumby is going to keep me on my toes and I need to be on my A-Game for him.