I haven't always been 20 years old, you know. It's true. For shame. As I sat at my nannying job yesterday, playing Hungry Hungry Caterpillar with the goofy and irresistibly charming 2-year-old, it was brought to my attention.
"Are you small?" he asked me, sock puppet dangling threateningly close to my mouth.
"I was one time."
He pauses to ponder my words, as if it must be by some great feat that I am now, much bigger than him.
"But you're big now?" he asks, just for confirmation.
As if I need to be reminded of my recent induction into adulthood.
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