He asks me, "Why were your born short?"
Indeed that is the million-dollar question. I'd like to know the answer myself.
But I say to him: "Do you want the easy or the hard answer?"
He goes for the easy answer first. I tell him that none of us gets to choose how tall we are.
Then he asks for the hard answer.
I tell him I have a missing chromosome. I think most people have 46.
I'm not most people.
The chromosome talk quiets him down. He doesn't quite know what to make of my revelation.
Someday he'll realize how lucky he is that he doesn't have my DNA.
In the meantime, since he will soon be looking down on me, I'll have to come up with some creative discipline techniques, like threatening to hug him in public, or biting him on the knee.