"Mom, how old are you?"
I can hardly believe this question is coming up already. After all, he's only 3. But age is becoming important to him, even at this tender age. It affects with whom he gets to play at church; he and his sister are separated from some of their friends into different classrooms by how old they are. How we are taught and how we learn is dependent on our age. We are grouped by age on surveys, or when registering for sports teams. The cost of admission, or tickets to an event is often set by age. How we qualify for insurance and how much we will pay for that insurance is partially based on age. When we start school; when we join the work force; when we are eligible for a pension is predetermined by our age.
One thing that always intrigues me when I feel the need to complete a survey is where I fall in the age category. Admittedly, I'm relieved when I can check the box that isn't grouped with the senior citizens. I'm most happy if I'm grouped in with 30-year-olds... all the better! To be truthful though, my age doesn't really phase me at all in the day-to-day mundane. It's not on my "List of important things I think about" or even on my list of "Things that cross my mind in a day." What is important to me is that I don't feel old. I have my health. My kids are young and I'm still able to run around after them. God has been and continues to be good to me that way.
So, I don't often think about age. Then, out of the blue, my 3-year-old son asks me, "Mom, how old are you?" Now all of a sudden it matters! Do I tell him? What do I tell him? What will he think? He doesn't even know numbers go
that high--yet. It seems strange to me, that at that moment his reaction to my answer makes me more nervous than I'd care to admit. Now, I'm not proud of my response and I answered the way so many of us tend to answer that question: "Well, how old do you think I am?"
"Are you 2?"
"No."
"10?"
"No. Do you want to guess again?"
"Yes."
"Alright, how old do you think I am?"
And he smiles at me then answers, "Pretty."
After some reflection, I realized it wasn't knowing "the number" or even how old I may seem to him that ever mattered in that moment. What mattered in that moment was how my son considered me. I may not give much thought to my age, but I am thoughtful toward how my children see me. Do they see a loving, fun, happy mom? More importantly, do they see a mom who prays for them? A mom who isn't grumbling or complaining, but is thankful and resting in God's provision? A mom who is patient and kind toward them? A parent who provides a secure and loving place to grow, try something new, or figure things out? Sadly, that isn't always the case. I understand his definition of 'pretty' at this age isn't the usual definition of pretty. When a child that age says, "Pretty," he means he knows I love him. I make him feel safe and assured, and that makes him feel good. When he says, "Pretty" it makes me feel good.
There is a rumour going around that says a smile can seemingly take years off one's face. So, I "smiled" him one of my best smiles back.
I love my son.
Lord, Help me to always strive to be "pretty" on the inside; to regularly check my heart against your Word, no matter how far along the age category scale on surveys I slide.
