You are so old!

My husband and I aren’t as old as the hills, but we may as well be when it comes to young children.
Our ancient-ness began at such an early age. For my husband it began at less than 35 when the oldest child asked him, “Daddy, how long after that flood were you born?”
“What flood?”
“You know, Noah’s flood.”
After he quit chuckling at the child’s simplistic grasp of time, my husband used a piece of plywood and drew a time line that reached from Noah’s flood to my husband’s birth and then the child’s birth. The big gap from one end of the plywood to the other was followed with a sliver of space between father and son’s birth dates.
Last week, that son celebrated his 40th birthday and became an official member of – what the under 10 crowd calls – old people.
Those still in the one-digit years cannot comprehend being a two-digit number – let alone that anyone could live to the impossible realm of over 30 years old – the dark ages of the now distant future.
My 7-year-old granddaughter underscored that reality last week. She asked me how old I was. I should have demurred and told her that I was young enough to be her grandmother. Instead, I answered the child’s simple question with a simple answer. I told her I am 52 and added that her grandfather is 64.
For the rest of the day the child went around muttering, “I can’t believe you are 50 and grandpa is 60. I can’t believe you are 50.”
“I’m not, I’m 52,” I repeated, but the rounded number was all that mattered. To her, I am officially, astoundingly, REALLY old.
I am not old enough to be in my dotage, but I am old enough to notice when my adult children treat me as if I were. Recently one or the other has informed me:
• that my favorite clothes make me look like a frumpy grandmother. I’m cleaning out my closet this weekend.
• that I have gray hair – actually I’ve had it since my last child was born, but suddenly everyone has to point it out, as if I did not already know it.
• that all those family pictures and the un-coordinated collection of knick knacks I’ve acquired make my house look untidy. All right, okay, I’ll get rid of clutter – just don’t stop by next week and ask me where I put the stuffed animal you dragged around when you were 4 years old.
The youngest grandchild, a 3 year-old, really put me in my untidy corner.
She was taking care of her clothes – which I had helped sort and fold. She carefully shook out and refolded each item into a precise package and neatly stacked the shorts, shirts, socks and slacks into separate stacks, not allowing the piles to touch. I tried to hurry things along and tossed in a pair of shorts.
“That’s messy,” she wrinkled up her nose at it.
I left the rest of the clothes for her to put away. The next time she visits, I’m locking up my clothing drawers in shame. Then again maybe not. Maybe I will ask her to help me tidy them, after all I am her old-as-the-hills grandmother and I need all the help I can get.
(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times.)