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Life at four feet, from a kindergarten teacher in Tampa

Hi! I'm Miss Richardson.

To eighteen five-year-olds, I'm "Miss R." To everybody else, I'm Amanda. I'm 24, I'm in my second year teaching kindergarten at an elementary school in Tampa, Florida, and I'm four feet tall. Exactly four feet. I have achondroplasia, which is the most common kind of dwarfism.

My class thinks I'm the perfect size. I happen to agree with them.

I made this page because people ask me questions all the time: at the grocery store, at the gas station, at parent night. Most of them are perfectly nice questions! I'd just rather answer them once, really well, than forty times a week in the cereal aisle. So pull up a little chair. They're the only kind we have in my room anyway.

What is achondroplasia? · Words · How I do things · Eye level · What my kids ask · Please don't · LPA

What is achondroplasia?

There are a lot of different kinds of dwarfism. Achondroplasia is the most common one. It affects how bones grow, mostly the long bones of the arms and legs, so people with achondroplasia have shorter arms and legs, an average-size body, and often a larger head. Grown-ups with achondroplasia are usually right around four feet tall, give or take a few inches.

Some quick facts, because people always ask:

• It's genetic. It comes from a change in one gene. Scientists identified that gene in 1994, which is pretty recent, and pretty exciting for people like me.
• Most of us have average-height parents. About four out of five children with achondroplasia are born to parents of average height. The gene change just happens, new, and it's nobody's fault. That's my family: my mom and dad and my big brother Quincy are all average height. Quincy is six feet tall and has spent his whole life getting things off high shelves for me. He says it builds character. His.
• It doesn't affect intelligence. At all. I have a teaching degree and a very sharp memory for who took the last juice box.
• Some health things need watching, especially in babies and kids, like ear infections and the spine and legs. If your child has achondroplasia, find a doctor who knows a lot about it. LPA (see below) can help you find one.

Words matter

How I do things

The world is built for people about a foot and a half taller than me. Here's how I work around it:

• Pedal extensions in my car. They bolt onto the gas and brake pedals and bring them up to meet me. I've been driving since I was sixteen, and I'm a better parallel parker than my brother. I said it, Quincy.
• Step stools everywhere. I own seven. Two at home, one in my car, four at school. The one in the teachers' lounge has my name on it in glitter glue, courtesy of last year's class.
• A reacher. It's a long grabber with a trigger on one end and a little claw on the other. I have one in the kitchen, one in my desk, and one in the car. I can pick up a dime with it. I can also pick up a dropped crayon from under a table without crawling, which in my job is very valuable.
• Hemmed pants. Everything gets hemmed, and sleeves get shortened. My mom has done it on her sewing machine since I was little, and now she's teaching me, slowly.
• Self-serve gas pumps are my nemesis. So are ATMs, some light switches, and the top shelf of absolutely everything. I ask for help when I need it, and I don't when I don't. Please let me decide which is which.

Teaching at eye level

Here's the secret: a kindergarten classroom is the one place in the world that's built for me. The tables, the chairs, the sinks, the cubbies, the coat hooks. When I walked into my first classroom, I almost cried. Everything was at my height. I could reach it all.

Most kindergarten teachers spend the whole day bending down, kneeling, crouching to get to eye level with their kids. I don't have to. I'm already there. When one of my kids is upset, I can look them right in the eye without getting down on the floor. When we read on the rug, I'm one of them. Five-year-olds notice that. I think it makes me a better teacher, and I know it makes my knees happier than my coworkers' knees.

The custodian lowered the chalk tray and one of my bulletin boards over the summer before my first year. Everything else I do with a step stool and a lot of practice.

And then there's Pretzel, our class hamster. Pretzel lives on the low shelf by the window, right at eye level for me and for the kids, so we can all watch him run on his wheel. Pretzel is a golden hamster, he is extremely round, and he is the most popular member of our class by a wide margin. He goes home with a different family every holiday. He's a little bit famous.

What my kindergartners ask (and what I tell them)

Every August, on the first day, somebody asks. I love it. Kids ask what grown-ups are too embarrassed to ask, and they take the answer and go right back to their crayons. Here are the big ones:

Parents: if your child stares or asks a question out loud in the store, please don't shush them and drag them away. That teaches them that something about me is too awful to talk about. Let them ask. Or bring them over and let me answer. I'm a kindergarten teacher. This is literally my job.

Grown-ups: please don't

• Pat me on the head. You'd be amazed how often this happens. I am a teacher with a master's degree in progress. I am not a golden retriever.
• Take my picture without asking. People do it at the mall and at the beach and think I don't notice. I notice. If you ask, I'll probably even say yes.
• Pick me up. Yes, really. Yes, adults have done this. No, it was not funny.
• Talk to the person I'm with instead of to me. Ask me. I'm right here. A little lower than you expected.
• Assume I'm a child, or that I can't do something. Ask first, and believe the answer.

That's the whole list. It's not complicated. Treat me the way you'd treat anybody else, and we'll get along great.

Little People of America

Little People of America, LPA for short, is a national organization for people with dwarfism and their families. It was founded in 1957 by the actor Billy Barty and a group of other little people, and it has chapters and regional meetings all over the country, and a big national conference every summer.

My parents took me to my first regional meeting when I was twelve. I walked into a hotel ballroom full of people my size, and for the first time in my life I was average height. I can't really describe that feeling. I didn't have to explain anything to anybody. I could just be a kid.

That's where I met Angela, who's my age and who has been my best friend ever since; we wrote letters for years and now we run up our long distance bills instead. And Sherri, who's about eight years older and was the first little person I ever met who was a teacher, and who told me I could do it when I wasn't sure. And Ronald, who's now in college to be an engineer and who will fix anything you hand him. We still see each other at the regionals and at nationals whenever we can afford it.

If you're a parent who just found out your baby has dwarfism, please, please contact LPA. They have parent groups, and people who have been exactly where you are, and grown-ups like me who are living full, happy, ordinary lives. Your baby is going to be fine. Better than fine.

Questions? Ask me! I really don't mind.
[email protected]

friends who have visited since New Year's Day
Last updated Saturday, September 25, 1999 (lesson plans done, so I'm allowed)
Pretzel says hi.