Cheyenne shared with me a couple of weeks ago that I was the oldest mother in her class.  Of course I immediately queried how she knew that. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: "How do you know I am the oldest mom?"  (Is it time for plastic surgery, a cane, what?)

Cheyenne: "I just know." 

Me: "How do you know?"  (This is a big statement and empirical evidence should be required.)

Cheyenne: "No one else has grown up kids like you."

Me: "How do you know?  Do you know everyone’s whole family story?"  (As if parents of kids over 20 wear a scarlet letter or a monitoring anklet.)

Cheyenne: "Mom!  Trust me you are the oldest mom!" (Time to take a different approach…)

Me: "Well you are lucky – I bet no one else in your class can say they have a sister who is 28 and two brothers who are 27 and 21."   (Surely that counts for something!)

Cheyenne: No words – just a look of disdain that conveyed that I must be mentally handicapped.

Me: "Plus, I know the other kids in your class don’t have a nephew that is four." (I mean seriously…that counts for something right?)

Cheyenne: "Of course not – their parents aren’t old enough to have grandkids." (Okay, time to take a different approach…)

Me: "Do you wish you had a younger mother?"

Cheyenne: "Mom…don’t be all weird about it." 

At that point I gave up.  Old and weird were enough for my ego for one day. I wonder if I’ll still be the oldest mother in sixth grade?  She will be going to a bigger school – perhaps there is hope.  Unfortunately, the weirdness is likely to remain.  Do you think I should explain the joys of heredity to her now or later?  😉

Day two hundred and eighteen of the new forty – obla di obla da

CC