You can tell my five-year-old son is treading in the murky waters of numbers at school as he’s become obsessed with everyone’s age.
Which is OK if you don’t mind sharing your age with the public at large, but not so good if you’re trying to pretend you’re still the right side of 40.
A good friend of mine has just celebrated her 40th birthday and you can almost feel every cell in her body clench up every time Dan delares: “you’re older than my mummy aren’t you?” like he’s being really clever for recognising that thirtysomething is smaller than fortysomething and should have a sticker or a pat on the head or chocolate (which is what he’s usually angling for).
But I could actually feel the wrinkles etching themselves into my face at grandma’s house recently when Daniel announced that “grandad is the oldest, then mummy, then grandma, then daddy . . . “ etc etc.
Hello? I may feel like a million years old but come on son.
Of course there is an upside to being considered the oldest in the family.
Hubby: “You can watch Jungle Book later.”
Dan: “But we (he always trots out the royal ‘we’ for him and his sister when he wants something. He thinks it strengthens his arguement) want to watch it now.”
Hubby: “We’re having lunch first”
Dan gives a withering look, a sort of ‘you’ve really got no idea have you’ look, sighs, shakes his cute little head and declares: “Well mummy’s the oldest and so she’s in charge of EVERYTHING in this house so let’s ask her.”
I will try not to let the power go to my head.