So tonight at dinner we are talking about all kinds of things. Animals, colors, sounds, and then the conversation turns to numbers.
"How old is Ava?" I ask.
"Two," they both respond.
"How old is Carter?"
"Four," he replies.
Of course the next logical question that comes out of my mouth is, "How old is mommy?" Silence. Confusion. Stares.
"Seventy" Carter says confidently.
"No, mommy is not that old." ( Do I look freaking 70, he's just a child I remind self, he has no idea.)
"Eleven?" he tries again. (Better)
"Thirty-one," I say. I am okay with my age. I'm in my thirties, get over it, I think to myself.
"WOW, that's a REALLY LONG number! I can't count that HIGH," he retorts.
And then he proceeds to try. He makes it all the way to thirty-one and continues to thirty-two until I quickly stop him.
When your four year old counts to 31 it does feel like a REALLY LONG number. I kept seeing the years tick on by as he slowly counted up.
He was proud of his accomplishment and I just felt depressed.
I never should have asked.