Today, my seven-year-old grandson surprised me with the question:
“Grandma, were you born old?”
I guess it was a legitimate question since he’d only seen me in this senior’s disguise. Our grandson, with his limited range of life experience, has only known me as I am today. For him, I’d always been old. I might have answered that today I’m the oldest I’ve ever been, but the youngest I’ll ever be again, though that might just add to his confusion. Adults often say confusing things.
What number would I pin on my lapel if there were no mirrors? Would I care? I’ve looked into it, and aging seems to be the only way to live a long life.
That same day, our grandson asked his father, Sam, age 36, who has grown a very healthy beard and rather long hair, if he had ever been a monk. Sam, straight-faced, said that according to his memory, he had never been one, although old folks like himself tend to forget things.
It brought me back many years ago when this same Sam at our dinner table once asked if I had ever been a nun. I recall my husband choking on a long bean. It turns out the kids had been watching the 1990 movie, “Problem Child Two,” which involved nuns tasked with coping with “junior.” I could relate. Looking around at our six children with their expectant faces, I realized that to fit their parents into their limited range of life experience, I needed to have a label that was more than just mom. I think I’ll settle for Rocketeer. That way, I can imagine myself with a jet pack (or at least a broomstick) as I race to keep up with the grants.
I wonder how old I would be if I didn’t know how old I was.
