I’m doing a puzzle on the floor with Graham. His brother is fussing from his high chair because he wants to participate. Graham looks at his brother and back at the puzzle. Astutely, Graham picks up the box and holds it up to his brother, “You have to be three to play with this.” Then he looks at me, “Are you three mommy?”
Hah. “Um, no, Graham. I’m older than three.” He ponders this for a few moments. “Oh. Well then how old are you?”
grimace smile and decide to tell him the truth instead of jokingly tell him that mommy is 24. Mommy can only be 24 for so many years. Plus, I’ve heard that at some point your children start telling other people what you say, and I simply can’t have him telling people I’m 24 when he’s 12. I don’t wanna be inappropriately young.
Anywho, I stray. As I said, I decide to tell Graham the truth, and so I respond, “I’m 32.” Graham considers this than says, “Geez. That’s a lot of weeks!” Yes Graham, yes it is.
I’m 1,708 weeks old. And feeling every week of it.