Let the dog in!

You may know a few people who fudge when it comes to telling their actual age. Our society is youth obsessed, after all. I admit the number “39″ springs to my mind often enough that I’ve pretty much convinced myself that is my age.

Or, I’m just old enough now to lose track of reality and will go with the easy, that-seems-close-enough-not-that-it’s-any-of-your-business answer.

But you might be surprised to know that since I birthed the Kid, my age, or its “real-ishness,” has taken a backseat to a more critical number: my child’s age.

Or, my child’s age in terms of age cut-offs for certain summer camps.

This may not be an issue for you if your child is not, like mine is, at the young end of the school district’s cut-off. This means that many summer camps accepting, say, hypothetically, 6 year olds, will not take my almost 6 year old girl. A girl who’s spent the past school year hangin’, shall we say, with those very same 6 year olds.

With truthful information about your young child’s age, the online registration machine in effect becomes the five foot wide bouncer of whatever today’s Studio 54 is (see how old I am?!). Probably very similar to the real-life reaction if yours truly tried to get into whatever today’s Studio 54 is….

Some “creative accounting” becomes in order.

Besides, I’m old and may not accurately recall what year that was that that baby got ripped out of me. I forget things.

I’m not saying I’d recommend this behavior, or even admit here and now that I might have done this behavior. I’m merely observing and commenting on reality. A reality I’m pretty sure is shared, parent-wide, when signing your child up for camps.

Summer camps. For summer days.

When the days are long.

When you have nothing else going on, except the talking-talking-talking of your beloved child.

I’m sure you’re mature enough to understand.