Family tradition arrives with higher stakes in 2021
People who read this column for the first time either put the paper down and say, “Well, I’ve had enough of David Sedaris meets Erma Bombeck,” or they read it every week, like when you spot a car wreck that takes your focus off the road because you need one more peek at the carnage.
So, if you’re in the second group and have been following for a while, you know that the first regular column of the year is not about New Year’s resolutions. Rather, it is about the Talling of the Boys.
The Talling of the Boys, for the newer readers, occurs on Jan. 1. We have a blue laundry marker, stored in the second drawer of the china cabinet, and my husband, Brian, marks the spot on the bathroom door that indicates each of our sons’ heights. There’s a thick black line, at 5foot6 ½ , that represents for me the demarcation between youth and adult status — the boundary between Never Never Land and the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior.
It was also my height, recorded on the day we moved into the blue bungalow in August 1999. Gravity and its effects through the years have made me lose about half an inch since then, but last year, Zane leaped over that line.
I’ve been dreading this Jan. 1 for a few months now. Aidan’s been shooting up, but oddly enough, just his legs. His torso hasn’t caught up yet. But I could tell he was getting there.
Not sure why it was so important for Aidan to be taller, other than 15 is the age in which even the most neurotypical sons want to exceed their fathers. Not sure why it was so important to me that he be shorter, but God knows I did everything I could to stunt Aidan’s growth. He just didn’t seem to take to coffee and cigarettes.
Maybe I’m just used to being taller. I haven’t been the shortest person in the family since 1973, when Nurse Vivian and Hap took me to Disney World. I’ve told the story before that I was such an ugly child that Nurse Vivian refused to take photos of me. But the camera is inescapable at the Kingdom of the Mouse. We snapped a Polaroid of the three of us in front of Cinderella’s castle and there I stood, in my polyester jacket and bell bottoms, half an inch taller than my mother.
It didn’t make me any smarter than her. Didn’t make me any kinder.
Fortyeight years have passed since that trip, and the moment of truth was here. On the first morning of this January, the boys and the dogs let me sleep in. This meant I woke up at 7: 30 a. m., and by 8 the cinnamon rolls were in the oven, as no one should face measurement on an empty stomach.
Both boys have curly hair, which gives them a competitive advantage. I would swear that Aidan had fluffed up his mane during the night, so I patted and patted and patted his hair down to get an accurate number. Zane came in at an even 6 feet, and Aidan was 5foot5 ½ , just a few follicles shorter than his dear old Dad.
Of course, on the other scale, no Fisher Paulson will ever outweigh me, but there’s a lot less competition for that distinction. I’d been tempted to make this the last Talling of the Boys, so I could go out on a win. But alas, tradition is tradition.
“I’ll catch you by June,” Aidan boasted.
“Nope. The Talling is the Talling. For the rest of this year, I will remain taller than you. This is what maturity is all about,” I told him.
Speaking of wins, the following persons got pretty much the same answers as I did for the annual quiz: Roderick Arriaga, Bill Burns, Cathy Peloquin, Arden Hamilton, Charlie Aaron, Barbara McClure, Jean Patterson, Julia Molander, Janet Johnson and Gary Molitor. Congratulations! You may not be taller than me, but you’re certainly smarter.
Not sure why it was so important to me that he be shorter, but God knows I did everything I could to stunt Aidan’s growth. He just didn’t seem to take to coffee and cigarettes.