H and I are in the bath, chatting about his upcoming birthday.
“H is almost two,” I tell him.
“H almost two,” he tells me.
“H is almost two,” I say.
“Mama almost two,” H says.
“Mama is almost two?” I ask.
“H almost two. Mama almost two, too,” H clarifies.
“H is almost two. Mama is almost two, too,” I say.
“Mama almost two, too,” H confirms.
I think for a moment about telling H my actual age, but decide against it. Instead we carry on like this for a while, playing with words and enjoying the fact of being almost two, both of us. And then I realize that, in a way, he is right. I may have lived many more years on this planet, but I am, as a mother, almost two.
H is almost two. I am almost two, too. Happy almost second birthday to both of us.