There is a myth that children move quickly. The reality is, children only move quickly when they don’t want you to catch them. The rest of the time they move at a glacial pace, and they slow down even more when there is a line of people waiting on you, waiting on them. None of that is what I am talking about, but no one is paying me to write this blog and I can be all non-sequitur if I feel like it. If any of you want to pay me, I’m listening.
When I picked up my children from school today, they crawled into the car at a leisurely pace, offering bits of video game trivia and the usual riddles-I’m-not-allowed-to-guess-correctly. And then Brynn handed me an adorable little craft she made. “It’s for you!” she said excitedly, “because you’re FORTY-ONE!”
I choked a little. “I’m 41?” I asked, “Do you think I’m 41?”
“Well,” she countered, “aren’t you?”
Toby chimes in, “She won’t be 41 for a few DAYS, Brynn.”
“Will you be 41 on your birthday, Mom?” she asks.
“I’ll be 41 in… seven birthdays,” I answer, weakly, because that seems very soon. As I go back over the calculations, I realize it is six birthdays. I don’t tell them.
We head down the road toward home.
“How old are you, Mom?” she asks me, not realizing I am aging as we speak.
“35. 35,” she counts, gaining speed. “and then you’ll be 36, then 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44! Then you will be 44!”
I’ll be in my room, guys.