BY THE TIME I started kindergarten, my family had moved from our first apartment in downtown Orlando to a nice ranch house on a hill in one of the many planned communities that were popping up all over the greater Orlando area. My father’s new job as a route salesman for Orange News Company paid better and meant we could afford to buy something bigger, and my mother loved the idea of living in this type of neighborhood. The communities were self-contained, family-friendly, and offered lots of recreation and social events. They also had catchy names. Ours, called Rosemont, was on the shore of Lake Orlando and only about a twenty-minute drive from Disney World and downtown.
Barbara came with us when we first moved, but then, after my grandparents divorced, my grandmother and aunt Chrissy came to live with us, too. My mother didn’t mind her mother and sisters living with us. In fact, she enjoyed it, as they were a big help. I grew up very close to Chrissy and Barbara. They were not only great as babysitters and playmates, but they would also let me accompany them on their dates with boyfriends or to their high school outings. This was a sign of just how much they loved me.
Soon after my grandmother and aunt Chrissy moved in, my aunt Barbara moved back to St. Petersburg to be with her high school sweetheart, Jack, who would later become her husband and my favorite uncle.
No matter where we lived, my mom always enjoyed making sure our home felt lived-in and comfortable. She was a fantastic decorator, and to this day, I wonder if she missed her calling as an interior designer. Her flair for detail and organization meant every room was dressed to the nines.
My bedroom was no exception. My wallpaper had delicate flowers that climbed the walls from the floor to the ceiling, making it seem like I lived in a garden. Today, I might not find that floral look so attractive, but it was the rage in the early eighties. Need I say more? I had a four-poster bed decked out with a white eyelet ruffled bedspread and crowned with a matching canopy. The nightstand and dresser completed the bedroom furniture set. My favorite stuffed animals and dolls were usually lined up along the built-in shelves, as my mom was a bit of a neat freak and liked me to keep them orderly. To accommodate my short stature, my dad put a lower rod in my closet, not only making it easy for me to get to my clothes, but also doubling the space.
There were definitely enough adults around that my parents didn’t need to hire many babysitters. Because my father worked during the day, my mother chose to work at Walt Disney World at night, thereby assuring one or the other would be at home with me. If my dad worked late, my grandmother would take care of me. It was nice to have her in Orlando with us. We became very close, and she became a true confidante to me as I grew up. Chrissy always helped, too. She and I were only eleven years apart, so she was more like a big sister than an aunt. Although she went to high school during the day, she went out of her way to spend lots of time with me after school and on weekends. She loved photography and writing and wanted to become a journalist. We would dress up in all sorts of crazy outfits and take silly Polaroid pictures for hours. I have pictures of us dressed up as cowboys and Indians, Elvis and other entertainers, tennis players, you name it—we did it. We even set up a photo shoot with me hidden in the middle of all my stuffed animals, kind of like Where’s Waldo? Chrissy had great taste in music. She taught me how to sing the Beatles, Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs,” and Elvis songs. We even made voice recordings of me impersonating famous artists as I sang some of their popular tunes. As we were both growing up together, my aunt Chrissy and I became best friends.
My grandmother had always been a stay-at-home mom. But now that she was divorced, she really wanted to get into the workforce and make some money. She found a job at Disney World as a telephone operator for Buena Vista Communications. I used to love calling her on Disney’s main phone line and requesting “Lorraine Shipman, please.” I admired how she had gone back to work after dedicating all her time to raising her kids. I also admired how much pride she had in her job and how seriously she took it. Like my parents, she worked full-time, but her hours were regular enough that she would be home in time to make dinner when my mother was doing her night shift.
My grandmother was someone I went to for advice and just pure comfort, especially if I had gotten into an argument with my mother and father. She somehow always knew the right thing to say, and if all else failed, she would rub my back with “tickles” to make me feel better. She might have spoiled me just a little, but I loved her for that.
When my mom worked, she often came home after midnight. My dad was incredibly thoughtful, and not only would he wait up for her, he would often make her favorite meal, breakfast for dinner with bacon and eggs. My favorite nights were when he would let me wait up with him. I’d keep him company in the kitchen while he set the table, prepared his pans, and tidied the kitchen.
Mostly, though, I was to be in bed with lights out long before my mother got home. This was my parents’ one chance to be alone and decompress together. Our home was always neat as a pin and filled with love, but this was not an easy, pressure-free household. There was stress, both financial and emotional, on many fronts. There was the juggling of job schedules, surgeries, and travel for me, and like every family, dynamics to manage. However, somehow, my family always made sure I came first.
• • •
I DIDN’T REALIZE I was a Little Person until I was six or seven years old. It didn’t really matter much to me, however, and I did all the things most kids at that age did. I went to birthday parties of kids in the neighborhood, played outside, and sped around the block on whatever bike I was currently riding, with my dad or Aunt Chrissy following closely behind. Like most kids, I loved pretending, and dragons and fairies were my favorite characters. It was not unusual for all the neighborhood kids to gather on our lawn while Aunt Chrissy, Dad, and I started a game of “dungeons and dragons.”
My school, Rolling Hills Elementary, was directly behind our house, but in another subdivision called Pine Hills. It was too far for me to walk, but too close for busing, so my mom or Grandma would drive me there and back, which wasn’t horribly inconvenient for them. To get around the hallways, I had my Chubby Chopper, a tiny plastic yellow tricycle that fit me perfectly and moved like a speedboat. My best friend was a girl named Cara, who lived so far at the outskirts of town that her property was like a farm, with tons of farm animals. I always looked forward to playdates at her house for fun with her family’s horses, cows, and goats.
When I was seven, my brother was born. My parents later told me that they had held off having a second baby until they had genetic counseling to determine the odds of having another child with dwarfism. Since neither of them was a Little Person, and my type of dwarfism is a dominant trait, the likelihood of the same genetic mutation was nominal. As much as my parents adored me, my mom didn’t think she was capable of raising another child who needed so much medical attention. I think she still feared for my own happiness and long-term potential, and didn’t want another child to have to go through the same struggles she saw me having to endure. It was very emotionally taxing for her and had taken a serious toll on her coping skills.
The morning my mother went into labor, I went to school, knowing that I was soon going to have a baby brother. My parents named him David Eugene, and even though he had my dad’s first name, he wasn’t officially a junior. His middle name was chosen in honor of my grandfather Issac Eugene Shipman. My grandfather, whom I called Papa, had four children—one son, my uncle Wayne, who was the eldest, and after that, three girls. He had always wanted another boy, whom he wanted to name David Eugene. My papa had a heart attack days before my brother was born, so when my mom delivered my brother, they were both in the hospital. After the delivery, my mom called Papa, and the first thing he said was “How is my David Eugene doing?” That was how my brother got his name.
A year later, my papa had a second heart attack, and this one took his life. Even after my grandparents’ divorce years before, I had stayed very close with my grandfather. He meant so much to me that some years after his death, I had a dream that I went up to heaven to visit him. I sat on his bed where he was watching football, which he loved to do, and we had the most amazing conversation. He told me about the afterlife and that he was watching over us and that most important, he was all right.
My brother was a full-term, average-statured newborn without any presenting medical issues after birth. He was home with us in twenty-four hours. My parents were thrilled to have a second child, especially a boy, join the family. I don’t recall being particularly excited or upset about having a baby brother, but I did know that I loved him from the moment he came home. He was a very cute newborn, and I liked holding him, but once he started walking and running around like a typical toddler, slowly morphing into a menace who liked to make a mess of my room and crash my slumber parties, it was a different story. Turns out brothers and sisters can be very different, not always compatible, but always lovable.
I think some of the bantering David and I had growing up likely related to our age difference and the fact that he was a boy, which in my mind meant we didn’t have much in common. It also might have been because of all the medical attention I needed. With medical attention came other types of attention from family and friends. I cannot imagine how hard that was for him. Because he wasn’t having surgeries all the time, I was also confused. I actually asked my mom one day, “So when does David have his first operation?” Similarly, he even once asked my parents when he was going to have his surgeries, possibly because he saw me getting presents and lots of attention before, during, and after all of mine. The strain of having a child in the family with complex medical needs can be a challenge for both younger and older siblings.
Early childhood was at times good and at times bad. Yes, the house was more chaotic, and I had to share my family with my brother. But I was also at an age when kids really began to notice differences between one another. My kindergarten graduation was the first time I noticed that I was truly shorter than everybody else. I remember an incident in the first grade when we were playing tag in the field, and another boy yelled at me, “Why do you have such a big head?” I didn’t acknowledge him at the time, but when I came home and reported this event to my dad, his response was, “Next time, tell him it’s because you have more brains!” That was my dad, always quick with funny retorts!
In second grade, the movie Annie came out, and I adored it. My good friend Kristie, who was a budding theater buff, and I were bonded by our love for Annie. We would sing all the songs out loud together and watch the VHS over and over every time we had a playdate. These “girl times” were extraordinary, but when Kristie tried out for the part of Annie at one of our local theaters and landed it, I was a little jealous for the first time. I wasn’t envious in that mean way, as I knew Kristie made a great Annie, and I even got to see her in one of her shows. But I, too, loved the character of Annie so much, and I had even dressed as her the previous Halloween, orange wig and all. I knew deep down that I could be a good Annie. I wondered—if I had tried out, would I have gotten it? Or would they have dismissed me because I was a Little Person? I would never know, because I never tried out. That was a lesson I would learn from this experience. I knew I had limitations due to my stature, but you can never succeed at something if you don’t try.
As a young child with dwarfism, I missed some typical opportunities for fun. My parents wouldn’t allow me to go to water parks, even though all my friends were going, because despite swim lessons, I couldn’t swim, tread, or float in the water due to my skeletal dysplasia. I couldn’t ride certain rides with height restrictions at Disney World. Despite the fact that I really wanted to play the violin, my mom couldn’t find an instrument small enough to fit me.
Things like this were very upsetting, but ultimately I learned I had to deal with these challenges and overcome them in order to be happy. If I was upset, my mother would always remind me that these were minor defeats and there was so much more I could do. She would tell me not to wallow in self-pity, as it wouldn’t do me any good. She told me how much I had to be thankful for. My aunt Chrissy would also advise me that no person or situation made us happy or sad. Our emotions were our choice. As I grew older, I came to realize that if I wanted to be happy in life, I had to make myself happy, or at least not let obstacles or disappointments overpower me. This was the life I had been given, and I needed, more important, wanted to make the most of it.
Of course growing up I had many positive experiences, too. Sports activities were not exactly in the cards for me, but I found other ways to participate in competitions. With my mom’s encouragement, I entered my very first dog, a miniature collie named April, in a special dog race for family pets at the Sanford-Orlando Kennel Club in Longwood. To my delight, she won honorable mention, and we both went home with smiles and a ribbon.
Dogs, judgment-free and unconditionally loving, were a mainstay of my childhood. April was even more important, because she was my dog, given just to me by my parents. Her previous owner was one of my mom’s colleagues at Disney World, and she came to me when she was just out of her puppyhood. I nicknamed her Boo Boo (mostly because I was not a fan of her given name, April) and personally taught her many of her winning tricks. I was so proud when she won the special “Race Your Pet” event at the greyhound racetrack. The best part was that the local newspaper ran a story featuring us. I might not have been Annie, but Boo Boo and I were stars.