DH got back from New York the other day with a story about a homeless guy who’d tried to get some money from him by guessing his age.
I won’t say what age he thought DH was, but it was six years older than he actually is.
“Well that’s ridiculous,” I replied, because it was – and because the last thing I want is for DH to have a mid-life crisis. He already flies the most enormous jet airplane in the world; goodness knows where a mid-life crisis would lead.
At bedtime, I asked BB how old he thought I was.
“Erm,” said BB thoughtfully, giving it some serious consideration while brushing his teeth.
“Really?” I practically yelped, my voice a little too high-pitched.
I came clean. BB has no idea about age, after all.
“Well, I’m not. I’m forty sweetheart.”
“FOR-TY?” responded BB, his brown eyes widening into saucers.
“You mean a four AND a zero? … Oh Mummy!”
Almost incomprehensible when you’re the tender age of seven!