Perhaps it is only due to a good case of denial or delusion, but I honestly do not often have the fact that I am really old to have kids as young as mine flit across my consciousness. It's not that I convince myself that I am a springier chicken than I am or go out of my way to trick other eyes into seeing me younger than my chronological age, I simply don't think about my stack of years very often and tend to go about my parenting ... and my life, for that matter ... much like I have at the other ages I've been so far.

When I'm out and about with my children, I'm busy enough conducting what business needs conducting while planning five steps ahead in the day, keeping track of where the kids are at every given moment, toting whoever needs toting, spit-polishing cheeks, wiping noses, breaking up squabbles, searching again for my to-do and to-buy lists, and so forth that how old I am ... or how old I look ... very rarely pops into my picture.

Occasionally, however ...

My youngest had a bout of something last week that prompted a trip to the doctor and a course of antibiotics. We've seen this doctor only twice before, so don't have any personal relationship with her, nor she with us. She does know that both Sam and Cj were born in Cambodia, that we adopted both as infants, and that we have no information on their genetic backgrounds or births.

A follow-up visit was required this week, and I was so happy the doctor was to have an encounter with the real non-sick, non-grumpy little girl I know so well.

Instead of reacting to the stethoscope with screams and thrashing as if it were a Gabon Viper about to thrust fangs through her tender flesh, Cj giggled when the doctor "listened to her tummy", and looking in her ears was a practice in tickles instead of the laser beam through the brain it had apparently been the previous week.

Because the encounter was so much more relaxed, the doctor and I had a few minutes for a chat as she filled in her notes and gave me the bill. Some of the usual questions came, as expected:
Why Cambodia?
What is the process like?
Do I have other children?

When I mentioned that I have a six-year-old granddaughter, the doctor looked surprised.

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Normally, I just spit out the five and the six that put me close to pushing 60, but I was feeling playful with my daughter so chirpy and all, and curious.

"How old would you guess?"

A long, thoughtful look had me squirming a bit, and hoping something like one-hundred-and-eleven didn't pop out of her mouth.

"Mid-forties?" was her guess.

Whew ... dodged a bullet there.

"Why, thank you," I answered with no little gratitude, "but I'm fifty-six."

Her response is the point of this post:

I never would have put you over fifty. It looks like having these children is keeping you young.

Indeed.