My birthday was this past week, with no big page-turning feeling accompanying it, though. The reason is idiocyncratic. I was born in 1960, a year which ends in "0," which makes it easy to remember how old I am. Because the last digit of my age matches the last digit of the year. In case I forget. Because I’m not a Bright, obviously.

But the thing is, because of that, I start thinking of myself as that age on January 1. So, if you’d asked me three months ago how old I was, I would have immediately said, "47. No, wait. 46." 

That being said, it’s still very hard for me think of myself, on an existensial level, as being past 45. Having two little ones does that to you, which is a blessing, even as it lets you live in fantasy land for just a bit longer.

But my age must be starting to show. Michael’s gotten the "What a nice grandchild you have" a couple of times, mostly when he’s had his heavily grey beard. I got it for the first time a couple of weeks ago, when we were in a Publix in Florida – the checker asked, "Are these your grandchildren?"

Ask Michael what my internal, unspoken response was. He knows. No, scratch that – don’t ask.

Well, anyway, the context of this next anecdote is that I’ve forever gotten the unbelieving stares when people learn that I have sons in their 20’s. "Wow, you must have started young" is the standard issue statement.

Today I was at the playground with the little boys. A Hispanic man was pushing his son on a swing beside us. I only mention that he was Hispanic because it sort of explains why, as he was texting on his cell phone, he looked up and asked me how to spell "crazy."

And then one of my children said, "Mommy," and he looked up again. "Wow," he said, "Are they yours?" Yeah, I said.

"You must have started late, huh?"

Like I said.

C-R-A-Z-Y.