Some people have a big reaction to certain birthdays – the “big” ones, usually ending in a zero, for instance. I’ve never really minded, because I never feel whatever age I am on according to my driver’s license. (And possibly because I have a hard time remembering how old I am and often have to ask my husband to be sure.)
I even have a hard time with my kids’ ages, because they are at once infants, toddlers, preschoolers, kids and teens in my mind’s eye. That said, my youngest just turned 18, and this summer my eldest will reach the ripe old age of 21. Which is weird, because I just finished high school, and I just graduated to the grownup table at holiday gatherings.
I have a theory about why my age is not a big deal to me, besides my inability to subtract from my birth year as it ends in a 9 and requires regrouping — which should instantly tell you my age is old enough to use “regrouping” instead of whatever Common Core Math uses — my days are filled with preschoolers, who keep me perpetually young.
That “perpetually young” theory has been put to the test recently, and according to the small people I interact with on a daily basis, my youthful bloom has begun to fade. I was sitting at the lunch table with my little group of 3- and 4-year-olds, passing the bowls and reminding the kids to use both hands to pour the milk. Okay, now go get paper towels. No, you’ll need more than one. Do we put spoons on each other’s heads? No. And then the little friend on my left was slightly leaning on me.
I turned to her, puzzled, and she smiled up at me. She gave my upper arm a gentle, affectionate wobble and said, “Just like my grandma!” Then she gave my arm a fierce, loving hug.
Because I speak preschooler, I recognized the interaction as the benign, positive compliment it was, and I smiled down at her instead of being horrified. I did tell myself there was a chance it was because my skin was nice and soft, instead of wobbly and slack, but I’m pretty sure it was a little of both.
A few days later another child was telling me all the important things she wanted me to know. “My shoes light up, see? And my roof outside leaks!” (Which, upon follow up questions meant there was a drip on the covered patio of her balcony, for those of you concerned.)
She was standing directly in front of me, well within the personal bubble space, because 3- and 4-year-olds are still working on those sorts of concepts. Suddenly, she reached out and gently feathered my hair back and up, a look of wonder on her face, and lit up with a delighted grin.
“You are getting so old! You have white!”
I laughed, and said, “Yes, I have some gray hairs. They’re my fancy sparkly silver!”
“No! They’re white,” she insisted, laughing at my obvious delusion, and a moment later she scampered off to play.
Despite her vehemence, I still don’t have enough gray — pardon me, white — to parlay into the interaction my dad had several years ago when he first moved up to Paradise, which had a lot of retirees. A clerk was getting ready to ring him up, and she paused, looking up at his white hair. She cautiously asked, “Do you get the senior discount?”
My dad promptly said, “Well, I drove here with my left blinker on the whole way. Does that qualify me?” He got the laugh, and the discount.)
I may have (slightly) wobbly upper arms and (barely any) white hairs, but luckily, I am blessed with a (clearly inherited) sense of humor. As I age, I hope I remain delighted by the observations of the little ones, whose filters are permanently set to “OFF.” I bet the laughter adds to the crinkles on my face, but it also adds a sparkle in my heart.
