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The Numbers Inside Me

Please stop touching me Sometimes I lose all concept of my actual age. I spend my days with Laylee and Magoo and I KNOW I'm older than them. But somewhere along the way I got mentally stuck at age 21. I'll see some young college student and think, "Yeah, we're about the same age," only to find she's 7 years younger than me.

Dan and I talk periodically about my website name, Daring Young Mom. I wonder how long until I outgrow it. Is there a point, somewhere in my late 40s when people will look at me and say, "Yeah. RIGHT!"?

The thing is, I can't ever picture myself feeling old. Someone will probably have to tell me when it's time to hang up my daring young hat because if I always feel 21 on the inside, I'll have no internal indicator.

Laylee is obsessed with age and today we had this conversation:

Laylee: Magoo is one and I'm three because three is what I was on my last birthday but next time I have a birthday I'll be sixteen because I'm getting so big and big and bigger.

Me: Actually, on your next birthday you'll be four.

Laylee: Why?

Me: Because that's the way the numbers go. You were one. Then you were two. Then you were three. Then you'll be four. Then it will keep on going.

Laylee: But Mama, I can't really feel the numbers inside of me.

How about you? Can you feel the numbers inside of you? Do they hurt? Itch just a little?

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