Last night Wolfgang bolted up in bed while trying to fall asleep and said, “Mom, How old are you?” I didn’t see any way to ditch the conversation or mumble my way out of this so I took the straight up approach. “100 years old,” I said. No, not really. I told him the truth…old enough to be his mother. Anyway, age is a state of mind. Except when I wake up in the aching morning.
“Forty-Seven,” I said.
“Oh no, I got it wrong!” cried Wolfgang.
Wolfgang explained that they were making Mother’s Day gifts and cards. Apparently, the project had an age requirement.
Wolfgang was distraught.
I proffered a solution. “What color is the paper you are using?”
“White,” he said.
“Cut out a small square of white paper and paste it over the old number and write in the new number on it.”
Satisfied with my problem solving, Wolfgang moved on to the next question. “Mom, what do you do again?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Phew, I got that right,” he sighed.
“Really, it’s okay. You don’t need to worry about this now,” I said trying to calm him down.
He ignored me and continued with his questions. “What do I love about you most?” he asked.
That stumped me. Well, if I was Wolfgang I’d probably say the way we joke around. “Joking around?”
That satisfied him. “I said jokes,” he said.
I felt like we were on a surreal version of The Newlywed Game.
“And what is your favorite color? Silver, right?”
Sounded good to me. “Yes,” I agreed.
“Good. That’s what I said. Well, silver and blue because blue is my favorite color,” said Wolfgang.
He paused and I hoped he might be winding down to go to sleep. No such luck.
“Mom, I made the most amazing card for you. You’re going to love it.”
I assured him I would, and Wolfgang cautioned me to act surprised when I got the real thing.
“I will. I promise. Now, there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, trying to calm him. “It’s all going to be okay and we can talk about it tomorrow and think about it tomorrow. Now go to sleep.”