I turned 39 a week or so ago, and eh, it's fine. I don't get completely freaked out about age. At least not yet. Talk to me in a year. Or five years.
Anyway, while I am seemingly unfazed by the big 4-0 looming on the horizon, my kids are not.
On the morning of my birthday, Charlie said, "Happy birthday, mama! How old are you?"
"I'm 39, buddy."
"Oh," he said. "Will you still be able to pick me up?"
I assured him that I would.
On our way to school a few days later, Mary Clare asked me if now that I'm 39, does that mean I will be a grandma soon? I assured her it did not, which is the beauty of waiting until your mid-30s to have children.
Fast forward to this morning. As I was tidying up some items in the basement in preparation for Girl Scout cookie storage, Charlie came flying down the stairs.
"Mama!" he exclaimed in that important statement/question style of his, "Were there dinosaurs when you were a baby?"
Sigh. It's going to be a long year/decade/lifetime.