It was another ordinary day when my mom asked me to head to the bathroom wall, next to my favorite growth chart at the wall in the bathroom, where she marks my height periodically. Typically this occurred once every couple of months as I grew up. And no slouching here: She made sure I was completely parallel to the wall and held up a book to measure my height. The highest height she’s measured so far: my current 5’8” stature.

“You are growing consistently, Andy!” my mom would often tell me.

It all started when I was 5. I was at my annual check-up, and they measured my height. After a while, the doctor showed my growth chart to my mother, and then my mom started keeping track of my height. 

Year after year, my mom became obsessed with the growth chart the doctors provided. She wanted to predict my average height for my age, and how tall I would become as an adult.

One of her many theories to “help me grow tall” was to drink milk, while constantly using 6’3” professional basketball player Jeremy Lin as a role model. She’d also advise me to hang on the pull-up bar for a few minutes just to “stretch out my height,” half-jokingly (or so I thought). 

During my annual check-up, my mom asked the doctors “How much more can he grow?” and “Are there any routines or practices that can possibly help him grow more?”

Every time I tell her, “It’s not within my control, it’s all genes after all.” And looking at the genes, it would be surprising if I even grew to around 6 feet. 

Recently, my mom has stopped caring so much about my height. I’m glad she’s moved on. However, I can’t lie — her occasional comments of “You’re still growing I can see it,” and “You’ve definitely grown taller” still hearten me. Who knows, with an unexpected growth spurt, I might even reach 6 feet.