Dear Daughter loves birthdays. She loves other people's birthdays about as much as she loves her own. She loves the cake and ice cream. Blowing out the candles. The presents. The whole deal.
Tonight, as I snuggled in bed with Dear Daughter in the dark after stories, the following conversation transpired:
Me: "Did you know that Mommy's birthday is coming up pretty soon?"
Daughter: "Yeah! But how old are you gonna be?"
Me: "Well...how old do you think Mommy will be?"
Daughter: ""I don't know...! ...45?!"
Me: (giggling) "...nooooo....not that old"
Daughter: "Well, then, how old?"
Daughter: "Oh!" (pause) "Well...36 is old!"
Me: (giggling again) "You just keep digging that hole deeper, don't you?"
Daughter: (giggling too) "What hole are you talking about, Mommy?"
Both of us giggling
Daughter: (still giggling) "You really crack me up, Mommy!"
I'm not entirely certain that the "crack me up" pun wasn't intended, given that Dear Daughter estimates my age to be just shy of a decade older than I really am. I didn't bother to ask Dear Son. I already know what he thinks.