13 years old, six foot three, 204lbs. Those were my stats when I entered grade nine and tried out for the high school football team. The coach quickly named me Baby Huey, which, if you didn’t know, is an old Paramount cartoon star about the adventures of a giant duck with diapers. The name stuck for a couple of years until a new nickname erupted, Ogre, which is what all the high school ladies are looking for, the guy who can shotgun a beer and Big Mac at the same time. Now I am just ‘Big Guy’, the generic moniker given to someone over six three and now well over 204lbs.
My sons are both tall. My eldest is five foot four at 10 years old and my youngest is tracking at the same height. They are both are the tallest kids in their respective grades, with Tasman a full head taller than some of the kids in his grade one class. Combine that with his girth and he looks like Shrek running around with his friends on the play-scape. Thankfully his smile is as big as his feet so he does not scare any of his peers during a simple game of tag
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I like being tall. I don’t really like being heavy and tall. Would rather be lanky or gaunt or even a hockey stick with hair. But the tall part I really dig and I think my boys do too. But the downside to being tall growing up is the there is an expectation of age to match the height. Hud is 10 but looks about 13. Tasman is six but looks about nine. Both my boys are emotional so tears come easy, whether heart or physical hurt. Even I have to remind myself of their ages when they do something that I think is beneath their maturity level. I level stop and think, wait a minute, that crying because he forgot to eat is pretty much spot on for his age, put down your leather strap and tumbler of scotch big guy and just relax..
Sometimes Hud just looks so….teenage. His long body draped all over my couch, hair askew, chewed ragged t-shirt flashdancing off his shoulders. His massive dogs, huge toes (even the baby one, looks like little hoof) poking up into the lampshade. His head down, immersed in Sup chat with his 22 Instagram followers, mouth only surfacing to be filled with goldfish crackers or to ask if he can download a new DJ mash up app.
Tasman is so big he doesn’t even fit his own body. Hips always bumping into the sharp corners of counters (ouch) or his too small socks covering only his toes, making him slip and wipe out between the side table and wall. He is like a walking Three Stooges episode, eyes being poked by his own nose picky fingers, shins being whacked by radiators (that have not moved an inch in 75 years) or just tripping over nothing during his beautifully uncoordinated waddle. I have to hide my giggling while coddling him, the sweet little oaf.
I know it’s only a few years before these monsters begin trudging through the house, pinning me against the wall and demand I make them a hearty casserole.
I never ever wanted to rush the aging of my boys, but mostly I was thinking about innocence lost. Now I just want to halt their growing up (and out) to preserve my furniture.
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