I recently celebrated my forty-second birthday. I think that I'm aging well, but over the past few weeks, events have been conspiring to make me wonder if I am deluding myself.
The first time, we were out for dinner for Sacha's birthday. Sacha was sitting next to my mother, adorning her with kisses. A woman with a large bouffant and over sized glasses sitting at an adjacent table, leaned toward our party and said, "He sure does love his grandmother!" As my mother agreed, the woman looked to me, and added, "I see he loves to kiss both his grandmothers." My mother explained that I was his mother, not his grandmother, and we shared a laugh at her ailing vision.
The following week while I was on line at the market with Sacha, a little girl behind us struck up a conversation.
Girl: Hi; I'm three!
Me: Wow, you're very big!
Girl (nodding at Sacha): How is is he?
Me: He's almost five.
Girl: I'm three!
Me: That's just what I would have guessed!
Girl: How old are you?
Me: I'm forty-one.
Girl: Are you his grandma?
Me: No; I'm his mother.
And then, on the morning of my birthday, as I snuggled with Sacha, we had the following exchange:
Sacha: Mama, today is your birthday.
Me: Yes, it is.
Sacha: Happy birthday!
Me: Thank you!
Sacha: How old are you?
Me: I'm forty-two.
Sacha: Whoa, whoa, WHOA! That's old!
Me: Actually, it's not really.
Sacha: No, it is. Forty-two is really, really old.
Me: How about we go brush our teeth?