Peanut Bonaparte

Poor Peanut. Not only does she have the stinkiest birth position in the family (second middle AND middle girl), she's, well, we'll call it petite.

She has no hope of catching up to Princess, who is the tall side of average. The Cuddle Bear, who is on the average side of tall, is only a breath away from being the same height. All last year, when Peanut was in preschool and still went grocery shopping with the Cuddle Bear and I (until the fateful day of Screaming and Kicking while Walking Barefoot Through Meijer With One Hand Clamped to the Cart and Her Flip Flops in Aisle Six, anyway), I was asked if they were twins at least five times per trip, and trust me, Peanut remembers. And resents. I have a bad feeling in the bottom of my stomach that she has mental pictures of every single person who suggested twinness, and has sadistic things planned for them someday.

She has compared every body part she owns to her sisters', and somehow finds them favorably larger: "My arms are sooooo long! Look how long my hair is! My legs reach ALL THE WAY TO THE GROUND! My butt is big and yours is only small!" We're the kind of awful people who amuse themselves at their childrens' expense. So if it's a slow night in out household, one of us might casually mention, "wow. The Cuddle Bear's legs are sure getting long." The record so far is about 200 feet, or the dining room to living room. Peanut will swoop in from wherever she is like some kind of crazed squirrel and spaz, "MY legs are REALLY long!" She's amazing. She can hear height comments from a supernatural distance.

Conversely, if she's in a bad mood or having a hard day, all one of us have to say is, "Peanut? Have you grown? Your pants look a sixteenth of an inch shorter." She'll pull herself up to her full (short) height, her cheeks will pink, and she'll strut around the room beaming. Such an easy fix.