My eldest - heir to the throne - just had a birthday into another double digit last week. He's what you call a "tween" or so my mother tells me. Not preteen, but not so much a kid any more.

Well last night I discovered, his hands and feet are bigger than mine. OH MY! I rushed him to the height chart inside the coat closet door - wheshew he's still 2 1/2 inches shorter than I. WAIT less than 3 inches?!?!?

That can not be. He's my baby. My first born. But it is so. I am totally freaking out. And he's loving every minute of it - jumping every time he's next to me. Commenting on things he says he can see over my head - sheesh!

As a child, my mother always threatened my brother and I that when we got taller, we had to move out. Napoleon complex you know =) I slumped and slouched for years once I hit twelve and passed her the barest of inches. But obviously that threat wasn't to be taken seriously as my 5'10" brother still resides in her humble abode. If only I could sit up straight now.

I think there is a natural adversity to your child growing taller than you. They are closing in on that flee the nest. You maternal mortality shakens and even though it won't stop your mothering, heaven knows my mother hasn't - love ya mom - it unbalances the neediness.

And then... then your youngest will flip over on his kiddy chair and bonk his head, cry furiously and drip his breakfast all over your shirt as his mouth hangs agape and the world rights itself again.
- Not to worry, he's okay. My shirt ... not so lucky.