Sweet B, leaning on my knee between bunks in our little tent/cabin on St.John: “M?”
Me: “Yes, B?”
B: “M, are you really, really old?”
Me, taken aback—my father’s still alive and kicking at 88, after all, so the double really may be overstating the case slightly: “Well, uh, hmm.” Surrender to convenience, reality, or both.“Yes, B. I guess I am.”
B: Quick nod of affirmation and back to play.
She later asked her grandmother the same question, got essentially the same answer, then followed up: “Are you 100?” I believe laughter and snuggles followed.
A few days later, she asked me why she cried when she popped out of her
mommy’s tummy. (I wasn’t present at that exact moment, but I’m famed on
multiple continents for a much-praised imitation of her screaming
12-hour-old self.) This eventually led to a reenactment of her birth,
using a sheet as the womb. Demonstration of warmth and comfort therein,
shock of bright light upon emergence, mock, tickling demonstration of
busy pulling and poking by doctor and nurses, eventual discussion of
umbilical cord and placenta (she’s a doctor’s child, after all, and has
heard, if not registered, all of this before). We wound it up with expressions of amazement and joy at her current happy perfection, and kisses and a raspberry on her belly button.
I must say, she’s a lot more
fun for really, really old people to play with now than then.
So that’s what I did on my vacation.
(Pix eventually...they’re in New Hampshire.)
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