Tuesday, July 18, 2006

"Mom?" Gertrude called, running into the living room where I was picking up cups of water abandoned by the kids and dog toys that really hurt when you stub your toe on them.

Gert had an urgent question: "What number comes after eleven?"

"Twelve,” I said. “Eleven, then twelve."

I hoped she was practicing the elusive counting-to-twenty, which always trips her up because she's convinced "fifty-eleventeen" has to figure in there somewhere. But no, she had something more concrete to worry about.

"So Matilda's going to be TWELVE?"

"That's right. On her next birthday."

"She's a lot older than me."

"Well, sort of."

"Great," said Gert, throwing up her hands. "She's going to die before me. Everybody's going to die before me!"

I sputtered something incoherent as Gert turned and ran back out of the room, presumably to get in some playtime with her sister who only had a few decades left to live.

3 comments:

Sachi said...

OK. I'm sorry. But that's so damn friggin' cute that it hurts.

Gary said...

I may be biased, but Gert is so dam friggin' cute that it hurts. You should try living with her. It's like having your own sit com character at your disposal.

Anonymous said...

I would be casting a wary eye for a fish hanging from your door knob