Don't Ask

“How old are you?”

I knew how old he was. Almost 4. Ditto, obviously, his carbon copy brother. Their mother had just told me how old the dynamic duo was as she explained to me that she was seeking the correct dose of cough medicine for her little imps.

They were cute, oh, so cute- caught in the transition from ‘chunky toddler’ to ‘little boy,’ they each looked like a cross between a Botacelli Cherub and Christopher Robin.

I laughed. “Way older than you!” I replied.

This by no means satisfied the curious twin, who once more seriously demanded, “How old are you?” His brother, not to be left out, echoed the question, whereupon the stereo tots were immediately ‘shuss’d by their harried mother.

“Y’know,” I said as the little tribe departed, “They must be constantly asked- by strangers, family, friends, etc- how old they are. How strange they must think it that the very same query out of their little mouths meets with evasive and indignant replies. Welcome to the puzzling world of social communication, my dears!”