Growing Pains? Tell Me About It.
My daughter, Bethany, is approaching fifteen and will insist on having growth spurts. So much so, that it won't be long before she'll be able to conquer Everest without the aid of a ladder. Admittedly, she is a growing teenager, so it shouldn't be a surprise to me that she stretched one morning and forgot to spring back.
Normally you don't notice kids have grown unless you see them infrequently. In my younger days I lost count of the number of times I was patronised on the head by elderly relatives and had to smile benignly as they uttered the immortal phrase, 'Ooo, hasn't he grown?' Usually this was accompanied by an innocent yet - for a teenager conscious about their body image - distinctly embarrassing recollection along the lines of, 'I remember when you ran around naked and did a wee in our pond.' Obliged to suffer their comments in silence, what I really wanted to do was shout, 'I was three, that was twelve years ago. Get over it!' You know it's time to leave when they follow up with, 'I think I have a photograph here somewhere...'
Growth spurts are known to cause aching limbs in youngsters and, if they last long enough, a guaranteed place on the school basketball team. What isn't so well known is that they can be a right pain to parents as well.
It's not my daughter's height that's the issue. At least not for me. I'm confident that I will occupy the physical and moral high ground in our house for some time yet...at least until my wife gets home. When it comes to height comparisons, I have genetics on my side. I know that my male XY chromosomes stand me in higher stead should my daughter attempt to challenge me for the top spot. Not so for Gillian and the other females in my family. Take my mum for example. She claims that when she's photographed next to her granddaughter these days, it makes her look like a dwarf. I made the mistake of saying, 'Don't be Grumpy.' Which didn't make her Happy either. I stopped short at suggesting she grow a beard to complete the image.
As for my wife, Gillian feigns indifference but I've noticed she wears heels more than she used to. Slightly hypocritical I feel, as we don't let Bethany wear such footwear in case she trips and injures herself. Gillian better watch out though as our young girl is smart. Going by the amount of volumising shampoo she gets through every week, Bethany is clearly exploring other routes to attain the mum-daughter height top spot. I haven't the heart to tell her that the slogan 'Head and Shoulders above the rest' means it's a brand leader not a promise.
No, height in itself isn't the problem. It's the side-effects that are.
Let me put it this way. If your head gets bigger it either means you are a celebrity or you need a larger hat. If your legs get longer, you're either a tripod or it's time to rename your trousers to 'shorts'. And if your waist gets broader - like mine over the last few years - you either buy a longer belt or tell everyone you have big bones. But what you don't do is go on wearing what you wore before. Not unless you mind looking like a shrink-wrapped model who drank a Watney's Party Seven* thinking it was one better than a six pack.
So every time one of my kids has a growth spurt, as a considerate parent and househusband responsible for any form of shopping that isn't prefixed by the word window- or fashion-, I'm the one who ends up visiting the school uniform section of our local department store. The trouble is, it's become an all too regular occurrence. Keeping my kids attired in the right size of school uniform is like trying to dress a mannequin on a conveyor belt - everything's on the move and just when you get the arms sorted the legs don't look right.
Which is why I had to take my daughter shopping yet again last week...
'I thought school skirts were supposed to be longer than that?'
The shop assistant - who looked like she wasn't long out of compulsory education herself - exchanged a knowing smile with the one person present who held the real purchasing power. My daughter smiled back.
'Daddy! Everyone wears them this length.' Bethany smoothed the sides of the skirt she was wearing but it didn't get any longer. She gave a twirl in front of the free-standing mirror outside the changing rooms. 'It's perfect for the hot weather,' she said. 'Besides, I can't wear my school trousers any more as they give me major jack-ups.'
In my day, a 'jack-up' was when one of your mates cupped their hands to help you climb over a high fence to get your football back from a neighbour's garden. Now it's teenage slang for trousers which have rather too much ventilation around the ankles - a cardinal sin according to my daughter (Gok Wan has a lot to answer for). At least it explains why all those youths wear their trousers halfway down their underpants. After all, it wouldn't do for them to have jack-ups would it?
'I'm not convinced,' I said. 'Wasn't there something in the school rules about skirts having to reach the knee?' I looked to the assistant for moral support but she hadn't earned her gold-effect 'Employee of the month' badge by turning down a sale. She shrugged.
Bethany sucked in her tummy and tugged at the hem of the skirt until it barely scraped the top of her knee. 'See! It does reach.'
I looked my daughter in the eye. 'I still think it's too short - although I am your father and bound to say that - but if you promise me it won't break any school regulations I'll buy it for you.'
Bethany returned my gaze with confidence and said, 'It won't break any rules.'
I paid for the skirt. And a new sweater, and several blouses. I noticed the assistant didn't shrug then.
A week later, the head-teacher at my children's secondary school returned from a trip to Rwanda - where he'd been on a sabbatical to help a charity establish a new school. On his first day back, he celebrated his return by clamping down on 'breaches of the school's uniform code.' A wise move in my opinion as breeches to me are a sign of a person who mistook the words dry-clean for boil-wash on their wool-mix trousers. Bethany was one of many pupils to receive a detention. Christian was another, but at least his was for a shirt tail which was loose, not a skirt tail without an excuse.
The skirt, having been worn, couldn't be exchanged, so Bethany and I returned to the store to buy a second one in a larger size.
'Right,' I said. 'No messing this time.' My comment was half directed at my daughter and half at the same sales assistant as last time. 'We need a regulation-length school skirt, please.'
The assistant returned with a skirt not much larger than the one we'd bought before. She claimed it was the longest they did in my daughter's waist size. I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Then I gave my daughter the benefit of my doubts when she emerged from the changing room. 'It still looks too short to me.'
Bethany and the assistant performed synchronised eye-rolling. They were good enough to make it an Olympic sport.
'It is longer than before,' I admitted. 'And it does reach the knee, but it won't if you grow even an inch more.'
'But it's the longest they have!' Bethany looked to the sales assistant for confirmation. The assistant nodded. For some reason the assistant's inability to source stock in a wide range of leg-lengths was my problem not hers. 'See!' cried my daughter.
'Okay,' I said, accepting the inevitable. 'I'll buy it, but I want your mother's approval before we remove the tags.' Bethany nodded but I detected a note of concern on the sales assistant's face. She obviously earned her gold-effect badge by ignoring fathers' wishes not mothers'.
At home, my wife delivered her verdict. 'It's far too short.' Bethany raised her hands in despair. Gillian shook her head. 'And what's more, you know it's too short.' Bethany insisted it wasn't. 'Okay,' said Gillian in a tone she normally reserved for queue-jumpers. 'If you're so confident it's the right length, then wear it to school, and if you get a detention you pay Daddy the cost of the skirt out of your own pocket money.' My wife waited until her threat of a possible economic downturn hit home before adding, 'Or we return it to the store.'
When it comes to money, my daughter's incredibly cute, which is why we headed back to the store the next day to exchange the skirt for a pair of school trousers.
'Those trousers fit you perfectly,' I said when my daughter tried on a pair. Assuming we had a done deal, I started to get out my wallet.
My daughter stared at her reflection in the mirror; a look of horror on her face. 'No way! These are far too short. You'll be able to see my ankles when I sit down!'
No one ever warned me that children could be so contradictory. Needless to say, the assistant didn't back me up, and the trousers we eventually returned home with proved great for sweeping our hardwood floors. When my wife saw them, Bethany felt the wrath of an indignant mother. Bethany was allowed to wear them to school, but only after the bottoms had been turned up by two inches. For me, I was just glad that we finally had a uniform that fitted my daughter.
Yesterday, Christian mentioned his PE trainers were starting to pinch. My growing pains are back.
I'm reminded of that mannequin on the conveyor belt...
...only I'm beginning to wonder who the real dummy is.
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* 1970s classic party can containing seven pints of Watney's ale. Most of which sprayed in the air when you opened it! (back)