I Do Not Live In A Tree, Thank You Very Much

I have 3 boys. I always knew they would someday outgrow me, and not in the "my kids are now adults and they're taller" way. No, I was blessed with being height-challenged from my own adulthood, and if I can wear shoes high enough to get me to that 5 feet 3 inch mark, I'm feeling REALLY on top of the world. My husband is 6 feet tall, and while he is directly descended from hobbits, his siblings are tall as are all of my family members, so I knew the general genetic odds were in favor of my boys being taller than me sooner rather than later. As it happened, it happened MUCH sooner than later, with all 3 boys (including my youngest at almost 12) towering over me much like their dad. I made the decision very early on in their infancies that I would make sure to instill that mother of God fear of their mother so that when the time DID come that I had to look up to yell, they would still fear it. Apparently, all of that was for naught as my children look down on me both physically and metaphorically. I overheard my oldest telling his (then) girlfriend, as she commented on how TINY my shoes are, "Have you SEEN my mother? She's a midget!" Funny, not.

Don't get me wrong. I've never wanted to be taller. I like being little. I have always been drawn to men who are significantly taller than I am, and don't even like to wear shoes with heels for fear that almost one-foot gap between Jay & I will seem too bizarre to be attractive.

But back to my tall and teasing teens. My middle son, an obviously reincarnated court jester, has dubbed me the Keebler Elf. Funny the first time. Sort of. My kids know I have a wicked sense of humor, and they know if it's funny, I'll allow it, even at my expense. Know when I won't allow it? When I'm standing on a chair in the middle of the upstairs hallway trying to change a light bulb, which requires balancing with one foot on the chair, one on the TOP of the chair back to get a few extra inches, one hand propped against the ceiling for leverage, and the other trying desperately to unscrew the fixture that my dear overscrewing husband always does whenever he can. (p.s. The overscrewing in this case is of the actual screws, not me. I suppose it COULD also be me, but this particular time was not, it was the actual hardware.) So here I am, in a vertical version of Twister, right hand high blue, left hand backwards yellow, left foot squat green, and right foot Captain Morgan red, right outside Justin's door. Finally realizing God did not grant me with enough appendages (not to mention inches) to get this light changed, I started yelling down to Jay to get his ass up here. Apparently sensing something exciting in the hall, Justin came out to observe (not to help, what an insanely RIDICULOUS notion!) and ask the obligatory retarded question, "What are you doing?", to which I couldn't answer due to the light bulb in my mouth, but I'm pretty sure my face read very clearly to fuck off. Like my innocent puppy when he has no idea he's pushed a cat just a smidge too far and is about to get his face bitch-paw slapped, he very smugly asks, "So, exactly how many Keelber Elves DOES it take to change a light bulb?" and then proceeded to rush downstairs and share his hilarity with the other traitors in my house. 

By the way, Jay did eventually show up to change the bulb for me, but since he was still laughing at Justin's joke, I took the opportunity to take the high road and kept silent, but mentally noted to figure out how to wire the next fixture to shock the shit out of him. Or maybe all of them. Hell, maybe the whole damn over-tall world. So while the original answer was 2 to change the bulb, I know now it only takes ONE Keebler Elf to take out the whole world if pushed hard enough.