On Wednesday night my husband and I picked up our 11 year old daughter from track practice.

She excitedly jumped into the back seat, began to buckle herself and without a hint of a greeting blurted out, “Guess what?”

I turned to look at her with her red face and hair falling from her ponytail, “What?” I asked.

“I ran in a 400 meter race against three boys from my class and I came in second. The winner only beat me by two seconds!”

“Wow, honey! That’s great!”

“Yeah. I ran pretty hard and I sprinted really fast at the end…and when it was over I threw up a little bit.”

I don’t know if I have ever been more proud.

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At my daughter’s fifth-grade basketball game on Saturday the other team had a center who was quite large for her age. Actually, large doesn’t even cut it. This girl stood a good foot above the other girls and likely weighs more than my husband.

I, having reached the towering height of 5′ 9″ by the time I finished seventh grade, could feel her pain. Though at least this girl was smart enough to play a sport in which height is an asset. The only thing for which I used my height at that age was hiding out in my basement pretending to be a Solid Gold dancer.

Of course, when my seven year old son spotted the overwhelming presence towering over his sister, he had to say something. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he exclaimed, “Wow! That is a really BIG BOY!”

I quickly hushed him then said, “Hey! That’s not nice. You can’t say things like that.”

He looked at her again, looked at me and said, “Sorry”.

Then he paused before saying, “That is a really BIG GIRL!”

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