When my daughter was two years old, I received some surprising news at her well-child visit. You know, one of those appointments where they weigh your child, measure their height, and then make sweeping predictions about their adult future.
The news came after the pediatrician measured her height and consulted the official growth chart. “Your daughter is in the 75th percentile,” the pediatrician smiled as she reported the results to me. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. I’m 5’11” and have been solidly “tall” my entire life. I practically lived off the chart when I was growing up. In fact, my mom still brings up the years that I maxed out the growth chart and supposedly charted even greater than the 99th percentile.
So when I heard my daughter’s pediatrician say “75th percentile,” I blinked in confusion. Then I adjusted my Size 10 Long jeans with a 34” inseam, the ones that I was forced to pay an extra $10 for because they were a Tall size.
“Does the 75th percentile today mean the same as the 99th percentile back when I was a kid?” I asked. The pediatrician gave me a quizzical look. For a second I swear she said, “Huh, crazy lady?” before politely responding with, “Pardon?” “I mean,” I tried again, “with better nutrition and stuff now, is 75th today like the old 99th?”
“No,” the pediatrician said slowly, the way I speak to my daughter when she tries to eat Play-Doh. “Seventy-fifth percentile means she’ll probably be about 5’6” as an adult.” Wait. What? My daughter—the child of a 5’11” mom and a 6’2” dad—was going to be pretty much average height? I nearly fell out of the chair. At my height, that would have been a long way to go.
How could we be related? What kind of recessive gene treachery was this? I had mentally prepared for my daughter to be taller than average like me. All the terrible moments of being the tallest girl in school flashed through my mind. These were moments I thought my tall daughter and I could commiserate over. There was standing in the middle of the last row of risers for every class picture from kindergarten through middle school. Or having strangers ask me constantly if I played volleyball or basketball. Then there was being invited to slow dance in middle school by boys because they knew their heads would rest on my chest.
And it was no picnic being a taller than average woman as an adult, either. Anytime I squeeze into an airplane seat my kneecaps practically touch my chin. And I can never buy pants off the rack because they are always too short. (I pray that ankle length pants will always be in style!)
Yes, these defining moments of being tall were moments I thought I could share with my own tall daughter, times we could bond over, perhaps while we visited the grocery store and helped retrieve canned goods off of the high shelves for short people.
My daughter was going to be a nice, normal, slightly above-average height. How? Why? Dazed, I barely heard what the pediatrician said next. “Her head circumference is in the 95th percentile,” she stated. Oh? “She’s got a big head like her mama!” I cried with glee. I got this.
