Lately I've been obsessed with the length of Pipsqueak's pants. It seems like at least twice weekly I'm telling her that her pants are too short and she won't be wearing them again. Strangely, this obsession is rooted some three decades or more ago.
There wasn't a lot of money in my household growing up. Frankly, I have no idea how we had what we did have. I was an exceptionally tall kid and grew fast until I stopped in my mid-teens. It was hard for my mom to keep me in pants long enough, so I would sometimes get teased about my short pants. "Expecting a flood?" is what I got asked most. It didn't bother me to the point where I huddled in a corner crying, but I didn't like it.
Once I started buying my own clothes, I was always sure my pants were long enough. Now it appears that I'm trying to protect Pipsqueak from the same fate of being teased. Of course, there are a million other things she could be teased about, but it won't be short pants. Not on my watch!
Another moment in history that scarred me for life was in eighth grade. I was sitting on the bleachers next to my female P.E. teacher waiting for my turn in whatever torture she was dispensing in the gym that day. She slapped my thigh with her hand and said something to the effect that I was carrying some extra weight there. Just what a barely teen girl needs to hear, right?! To this day, I hate my thighs. When I was going through a divorce and lost twenty pounds from the stress, I looked gaunt, but I still thought my thighs were fat.
Childhood teasing can be brutal and even drive a kid to suicide, but even the little stuff can't haunt them for life.