Getting Old

An unintended side effect of all this talk about big kids and growing up is that Ben has become preoccupied with death and the effects of aging. He's very concerned with the relationship between his age and our ages. If he's getting big, then we're getting OLD.

B: Mom? When I grow up, will you be REALLY old?
H: I'll be older. Like Mimi.
B: But, Mom. When you get very, very old, we'll have to put you in a grave because you'll be dead.


The first time we had this conversation, Ben cried. I got teary. It was very Love You Forever (remember that freaking picture book? Jeez.). Now, he asks with a glimmer in his eye as if he's contemplating what will be served at the death banquet after he finishes putting me in a grave.

The "death talk" has cropped up several times in the last few months. When we asked a few questions of our own, we found out SpongeBob Squarepants had an episode where he dreamt that Mr. Crabs was old and dead and they had to bury him. Good grief. I knew I never liked that stinking SpongeBob.

I don't know what Ben watched to bring up his other "old person" obsession. While he was staying with my parents a couple of weekends ago, he climbed up in my mom's lap and had the following conversation:

B: Mimi? Are you old?
M: Well, I'm older than your mom.
B: Awww, Mimi, you're really, really old. Look at your elbows. They're all wrinkly.
(Background noise of my dad laughing hysterically.) Mimi, look... you've got the girl disease.
M: What? The girl disease?
B: Yes. The girl disease. It gives you wrinkles. It's just horrible.

Fast forward to Thursday night when I was tucking Ben into bed. He wanted me to snuggle him (for the sole purpose of getting the cat to stay on his bed for a few minutes-- she'll only snuggle with backup). So, there we were, cozy and quiet. I was just beginning to think that it had been awhile since he'd wanted me to tuck him in...
B: Mom?
H: What, Love?
B: Let me see your elbow.
H: My elbow?
B: Yes. Well...your elbow is kinda tricky. I'll just check your face. (carefully pushing and pulling and poking my face)
H: Check for what?
B: Girl disease. Mom, you just have a little girl disease. It's going to get worse. You're getting old.
H: Good night, Ben. (I left his room and headed straight to the bathroom for an in-depth study of my "girl disease" in the mirror.)