Postcards

Yesterday I went to pick you up at the sailing club. You asked me if I could buy some chips for you (you said they were “the best chips you'd ever eaten” and I had to try them.

I asked how your day had gone, and it sounds like you'd had a good time. But there was one kid who had upset you.

You said he hadn't believed you were eight years old, and told you you were actually six. Despite your protestations, he insisted you were six years old as you had a “baby face”.

I don't know why the only thing kids have to ask each other when they meet is how old they are, as if they want to assert a pecking order, but hey...

You asked me if I thought you had a baby face. I said you didn't, but that you were a bit smaller than your friends. I told you a story about a guy I used to know who was much shorter than me, and then when I met him as an adult he must have been a good 6 foot 3, towering over me. I told you there was plenty of time to catch up, and people grow at different times.

The truth is though that you are small for your age. You're a good head-or-so shorter than your pals, and that might make other kids think you're younger than you really are.

I don't care if you're shorter than other kids. I just want you to feel confident about yourself, and I don't like to think people might pick on you.

Mum and I try to encourage you to eat more. You just peck at your food, and leave a lot of the good stuff. We don't really know what to do about it, as you claim you're full. All we can do is tell you that you'll run faster, be stronger, grow taller if you eat more than you do at the moment.

It's weighed on our mind for years, since you first started going to school and we noticed you were smaller.

I worry that as you get older it might become more of an issue – teenagers can be mean, and call people names. I just want you to be happy.

Love you, Dad.