How old is Grandpa?

I was riding in the car with the kids yesterday afternoon when, out of the blue, my six-year-old daughter says, “Mommy, I know how old Grandpa is.”

“Really?” I said, not paying all that much attention.

“Yes, he told me.”

“Okay,” I said, taking the bait. “How old is Grandpa?”

“Thirty-seven.”

That got my attention.

“Thirty-seven?”

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He told me he’s thirty-seven.”

Hmmm.

Now, that was interesting.

“Jordan, how old am I?” I asked.

“Thirty-five,” she told me.

I paused. She didn’t seem at all phased by this.

“So, if I’m thirty-five and Grandpa’s only thirty-seven . . . that means he was two years old when I was born.”

There was a little more pausing.

“I guess,” she said, not at all bothered by that thought.

I just smiled as I continued to drive. If she didn’t think this whole thing was odd, who was I to argue with her?

And, if my dad could pull off thirty-seven, then good for him.