Where the Hell is the Fountain of Youth?!?

So yesterday, I got the mail from the box and there was a flyer advertising family portraits. Thinking of Christmas card goodness, I put the flyer on the small desk in my kitchen. My kids come in and spy it, asking all sorts of questions. "Who are these people?" "Is this baby me?" "What are they doing?" Blah blah blah.

I, of course, only half-hear them as I'm in the middle of making dinner. I hear them "pretending" that the family in the portrait is our family. "Hannah, this baby was me," one of my daughters says. Then, I hear Hannah reply, "This is what Mommy looked like before she was OLD."

**crickets**

W-H-A-T?? Old? MEEE? When the hell did that happen, and why wasn't I given the memo? I turned on my own children, cursing the day I ever bore them forth, waving my cooking spoon about the kitchen like the Devil's own pitchfork. "You are not my daughter!" I cry, shocked that my own flesh and blood would stab me in the back so ruthlessly. She giggled with demonic glee, reveling in the fact she'd gotten under my skin, EVIL seven-year-old that she is.



I do not have children. I have DH's spawn. That's my story and I'm sticking too it. I refuse to believe I'm an old woman at 32.

As if that wasn't bad enough, my youngest daughter asked me a few minutes later if that baby on the portrait picture was my **get this** granddaughter. How old do my kids think I am?!?!?
Granted, 32 *is* old to a 7, 6, 5, & 3 year old. Might as well be Methuselah. But holy moly, people. I was ready to bust out my cane and start whacking people over the head with it.

I am NOT old, dammit. >:(



~~Becka