A very, very short story that sums up my mother perfectly.

Me, in college with three of my sister’s children. The oldest is twelve, I’m eighteen in this picture after I reached my full height. I’m so friggin’ tall.

I’m a short lady. Like, an excessively short lady. I didn’t skim past 5′ and 1/2 inches until after my first semester in college. I cried tears of relief. Finally, I was super model tall. Everyone could eat it. I was a late bloomer too, and unlike most children, I never outgrew clothes. They just turned to dust on my body and blew away. My mother just had to give the stuff away.

I wore the same red puffy coat for four years because it fit in elementary school. When the other kids started calling me little red riding hood I drew the line.  I refused to wear the coat, and mother finally bought me a different one.

My mother is a giant. A giant with a tiny daughter. When we stand side by side it makes me look smaller and makes her look taller.

When we would go out to eat at buffet restaurants and the waiter would point to me and ask  her,

“Is she she under 12?”

My mom, without blinking, would lie and say yes. I would just stare at her like, “mom, Jesus is watching you, and we all know I’m 15”. Her response would always be the same.

“Wendy, I’m sorry, but unless Jesus has the $12.95 to feed you he needs to take a seat”.

She had me there.

P.S. Does this count as tattling on my mom?


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