It happened in 2011. That was the year my oldest son became taller than me.
The evidence that the transition was coming was undeniable. I’d look at the section of wall next to the bathroom door, with its marks starting about three feet above the ground, each little slash with a carefully labeled name and date.
For years the mark on the wall for my height had reigned supreme as the alpha dog of tall dudeness, a sharp contrast of the difference between a man and a boy, sort of like comparing PeeWee football with the Super Bowl.
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When we first started measuring the boys, they were toddlers and barely able to understand English. We’d urge them to stand as tall as possible, and they would make their backs ramrod straight as they stretched their compact little forms towards the ceiling. Later it became a bit of a chore that their mother would make the kids perform when she wondered if shoveling all this food into their mouths was actually doing any good.
But in 2010, sometime around February, my oldest son grew three inches in two months and soon, he was taller than Sofia. In the lead-up to the end of the height contest between him and his mother, he once again became an enthusiastic participant in the measuring process. He would actually suggest to his mother that it was time to measure his height again … sometimes he would suggest it twice in the same day. And when he would put his back to the wall, you could actually imagine, especially with the grim determination and effort on his face, that he was actually gaining height right there in front of our eyes.
And then he made it. He was taller than his mother.
It was a proud day for my son, and he would look for various opportune moments to stand beside his mother just so the rest of us would notice. Or he would reach up to pluck something off the top shelf by the clothes dryer, “Here, I’ll get that for you, Mom,” whether or not his mother was actually trying to reach anything.
Then, in 2011, the signs were there again. He’d started sleeping a lot, complaining about his legs hurting, and he had a wisp of darker hair on his lip. There was also just an inch or so between his last measurement and my own.
There was one day when the boys were measuring their heights again, and they suggested I check to see if I had grown.
I remember laughing nervously, saying it wasn’t necessary. Though the truth was that I was afraid I might have shrunk.
The thing was, being the father in a family was the first time in my life I’d ever been the tallest person. I’d half-jokingly tried to convince Sofia that we should stop feeding the boys. We could save a truckload of money, I told her. Think of how much we’ll save in clothing alone, I’d point out. But she just laughed and urged the boys to take their vitamins.