Girl Child: Mom? How old WILL you be tomorrow?
Boy Child: Girl Child! You don’t ask a LADY how old she’ll be!
Girl Child: It’s not a LADY. It’s MOM!
Boy Child: She has a vagina, so she’s a lady!
Me: Guys. Stop talking about my lady parts. I’ll be thirty-two.
Girl Child, looking wide-eyed and horrified: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Boy Child, kicking Girl Child under the table: That’s NOT old!
Girl Child, quickly: No! Not old! Not old at all! It’s not like you are 100!
Which was better than what happened last year.
At Food City, buying myself a birthday cake, October 15th, 2006:
Boy Child, to cashier: It’s our mom’s birthday!
Girl Child, to cashier: She’s thirty-one!
Boy Child, to cashier: Our mom is thirty-one years old!
Girl Child, sings: Thirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrty-one! Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirty-one!
Cashier, who is approximately fifteen: Thirty-one, huh?
Cashier: So, is your biological clock running out or what?
Oh. My. Bob. INAPPROPRIATE!
I did NOT say, “Actually, my ovaries dried up and wizened out when I was approximately twenty-four years old, but THANKS EVER SO MUCH for bringing that up and once again making me feel like an inadequate shrew.”
Instead I just smiled.
And went home.
And ate cake.
That’s how birthdays go when you are over the age of ten, right?