None of our kids is what you would categorize as "husky." Zach, at 13-years-old, has finally broken through the five-foot/90-pound barrier. Charlie is lean and short, and Zoe, at 33-pounds, is the shortest person in kindergarten. But even though she is vertically challenged, her dominant, outspoken, confident personality more than makes up for her lack of size. I happen to love the fact that she's small because I've always been able to pick her up mid-meltdown without breaking my back.
Yesterday, while standing on her tiptoes and reaching for a glass of water on the counter, I gave the glass a little nudge so that she could grab it. She gave me a "Gee, thanks for treating me like I'm an incapable idiot" look, reluctantly grabbed it, and as she walked away said, "I can't wait until I'm taller."
I started thinking about how weird it must be, going through life with guts and asses in your direct line of vision. Her obsession with fart and poop jokes is really not very shocking, considering the fact that she spends the entire day looking at butts, trying to avoid walking into a cloud of fart fog.
It surprises me that her and Charlie don't get along better, since they have a similar sense of humor and he's closest to her in age and height. While going through the pictures on her (SIM card-less) cell phone, though, I realized that they aren't as close in height as I thought, since this picture was taken from her point of view:
Apparently, when you're five-years-old, everyone is a giant. Charlie just happens to be a giant that has small feet and wears checkered tennis shorts.