J is obsessed with how old people are now – given that he is about to be six. SIX! If you have anyone in your life who will be six one of these days, you probably know that to the five-year-old, turning six is an amazing accomplishment, that surely few people have managed to achieve. When you’ve become a doctor, climbed Mt. Everest and raised two Rhodes Scholars as a single parent, you couldn’t possibly be more proud of yourself than you are when you turn six years old.
My nanny is fifty-something years old. She’s also a tiny little thing – not any bigger than a minute. Couldn’t be five-feet tall and told me that she’s trying to gain five pounds by drinking milk shakes every day, because she’s down to 94 pounds. (No, I don’t actually sympathize, but I try. I do. Really.)
The other day the kids and I were at the mall, and J said, “Nanny’s 29 years old.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah, she said she’s only 29.”
“Yeah,” he went on, “and you’re 37 – that’s why you’re so much bigger than she is.”
(We’ll have to work on this sort of thing before he starts dating, I suppose.)
I said, “You think that’s why?”
“That would be cool,” I said. And then as I washed down my salted-dipped-in-gooey- “cheese” pretzel with a chocolate covered strawberry and a full-fat latte, tucking my recently-purchased Van Duyn Truffles in my bag for later, I admitted, “But I think there might be another reason…”