By Diane Ako
My kid is getting to the age when she's telling people how old I am. And she's not always accurate.
I was at Uncle Tootie's house, at the kitchen table with Olivia and Auntie Olive. I'd left momentarily and upon return, Auntie Olive said to me, "I didn't know you're 42."
"I am?" I asked quizzically. "Why do you think that?"
She answered, "That's what Olivia just told me."
"Why?" I asked. We had not been talking about anything remotely close to age.
"I don't know. She just blurted it out randomly when you walked away," replied Olive. "She said, 'Did you know my Mommy is 42?'"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not 42 yet. I don't know how she arrived at that figure," I clarified.
This is a kid who can't reliably count past the number 20, and who thinks 52:13 is a good answer to What time is it?
I gave the correct age to Auntie Olive then turned to Olivia. "If you're going get my age wrong, at least make me younger, not older. Tell them I'm 30," I scolded.
"Twenty nine," laughed Olive.
The next day, I tested Olivia. "How old is Mommy?" I asked.
"Sixteen," she said.
"Oh, a little older," I hinted.
"Twenty four," she guessed.
"Oh, just a smidge older," I encouraged.
"Twenty five?" she asked.
"Great job! Let's go with that!" I applauded. So, I'm 25 if anyone's asking.
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