Stilts. Stretch. Lurch. We’ve heard them all — the amusing nicknames reserved for those of us in the 95th percentile for height. And, in our family, we sincerely laugh along because our God-given stature provides a source of entertaining “tall” tales and affords us opportunities to help others.

My husband and I were born super-sized. We graced the back rows of our class photos throughout elementary school and towered over friends in junior high. My shoe inventory consisted of assorted flats, and every high school dance became a personal sock hop. I longed to blend in.

But age brought wisdom. As a young adult, I recognized the silliness of trying to hide my height, and resolved to pass this enlightenment to our three tall children. My husband and I encouraged them to embrace their size and appreciate the humor and insight it generates.

Our son’s initiation began on the soccer field when an opponent’s father bravely yelled to our first-grader, “Hey kid, where’s your birth certificate?” Over the next decade, rival coaches regularly demanded proof of our child’s birth date. We’d smile, wondering why, if a team wished to sneak in a ringer, would it choose a youngster who dwarfed his coach?

Satisfying moments in the sport balanced those times. While one mom loudly voiced her displeasure at having “that big kid” on the opposing team, her spouse enthusiastically recruited our son to play community basketball. And, when a high school teammate injured his leg, our teenager hoisted his friend and carried him to a waiting car. No adults on the field could lift the boy.

At times, the serious business of driving turned humorous for our alpine offspring. A policeman in a large Eastern city stopped our daughter for zipping through an intersection on a long yellow light. After “running her license,” the officer sternly requested she get out of her car. She complied, asking if he’d found a problem. He laughed and assured her, “No, but it says here you are 6 feet tall and I just wanted to verify that.” She left with a warning and a chuckle.

Our son experienced a glitch with his driver’s license photo. The first attempt at snapping his permit picture captured only an unidentifiable chin and neck. Once he sat down, however, distinctive facial features came into view.

Height issues arose at school, too. Band membership meant special- order concert dresses with extra length. During the dreaded gymnastics unit in gym class, our kids held their breath as they tightly tucked ostrich-like legs, hoping to execute vaults without smashing orthodontically enhanced smiles. And the SAT seemed interminable for long-limbed bodies squeezed into typical classroom half-desks.

Yet, thanks to his dimensions, our son found unconditional acceptance during a high school service project. As students planned a holiday party for a city kindergarten class, he and a fellow sky-scraping friend saw hilarity in volunteering to portray elves. (Costume shopping reinforced the absurdity of the “one size fits all” label — it doesn’t include people measuring 6 feet 5 inches or their size 14 feet!) During the festivities, the unbiased 5-year-olds ignored the size contradiction and endorsed them as genuine elves. Our amazed son appreciated this unexpected chance to “fit in.”

We receive continual reminders of our sizable blessing. Recently, at the grocery store, a petite grandmother asked me to reach a jar from a high shelf. “You are so lucky to be tall!” she declared. Though short in stature, she spoke nothing short of the truth.