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Well, I have never, ever written three posts in one day! Guess today must be a banner day. My kids are out of school today. Teacher something or another day today. Since I can arrange my schedule accordingly, I’m at home with my Tribe. We just had an interesting exchange about age after getting back home from grabbing some burgers for lunch. Actually, we’ve been having age conversations throughout the day today. My son’s birthday is coming up…he will be twelve years old…and I guess that is why he is doing a lot of thinking about age here lately.
This morning my soon-to-be 12 year old asked me, “Mommy if you could stay a kid would you?” I told him “Heck no! Being a kid sucks.” That led to a lively discussion, as I knew it would, with all three of my little ones telling me about how wrong, wrong, WRONG I was. It was kinda neat to hear them tell me about all the the wonderful, fantasic, incredible things there are to being a kid. Guess that means life is going pretty well for them. Yay!
A little later in the morning my son asked me, “Mommy, what was your favorite age, ever, when you were younger?” That was easy–seventeen. Then I went into this long harangue about leaving home and going to college and being on my own and making good decisions and enjoying school and on and on and on. Actually that exciting period of my life lasted well past age seventeen, but that was definitely a milepost marking the beginning of a very good time.
So, we’re almost home with our burgers and fries and he asks me, “Mommy, what do you think the best old age is?” I thought I’d turn the tables on him and find out what he thought. Somehow that led to him telling me what he thought the best ages were at different phases of life instead of just one designated best old age. His take? Thirteen is the best teenage year. Don’t ask me why, he didn’t have an answer to that. Twenty-four is the best grown up age to be. Fifty-five is the best old age. At this point he asked me, “Are you fifty-five yet?” I told him that I was not. He responded with relief, “Whew! Oh. Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because fifty-five is well, old?”
“Really?”
“Yeah!”
“And?”
“I don’t want you to be old?”
“But, I’m gonna be old one day.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want you to be.”
“Well did you think I was already fifty-five?”
“No, I keep forgetting how old you are. Forty, right?”
“Noooo. I’m forty-nine.”
“Wow! Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You’re almost old. But daddy is just…”
“Younger than me.”
“Yeah, anyway. Fifty-five is a good old age to be. I think eighty is a good old, old age.”
“How old do you think you’ll live to be?” I asked him out of curiosity.
“I hope to live to be 100!”
That’s it. That was the end of the conversation. Go figure. He doesn’t want me to be old, but he wants to live to be 100. Argh!
The thing that I find interesting is that something had to have been driving my son’s internal thought process on why these particular ages were “good” ages to be, but he seemed totally oblivious to what that process might have been. I am curious as heck, though. I would love to know what it is.
I always thought 37 would be the perfect age. That year sucked for me.
I kinda like being 47. I’ll be sorry when it ends… 48 should be good though.
Kid ages? I hated it all pretty much – except certain memories like learning to ski, I was a misfit and didn’t do school well at all.
Love being an adult though.
I liked being 35… it was a good year for me… but so was this year age 38- the year I became a Mom.
He’s half right about 55 … it’s a great age, but 80 is old.
In my mind, I’m 42. That was my best age.
I didn’t like 11 at all. And my 20s were tough, but that was partially circumstancial. It wasn’t an age for making the best decisions, though. Too much pressure.
And to think Sam can’t wait to be four!