One and a Half and My Common Sense in Tatters

My level of silliness both amazes and amuses me sometimes. It is no wonder that I am—rightly—the laughing stock of my family. Last evening, I was at a neighbour’s to celebrate her birthday. One of the invited guests was a toddler. No sooner had the toddler arrived than he—squatting down—opened a box of toys containing kitchen paraphernalia. As I watched him play and respond to others who participated in his game, I wondered how old he was—a question that typically arises in my mind when I watch a child. Unsure whether the question I would pose to his mother concerning her child’s age should mention the number of years or the number of months (as is typical to be mentioned in such a question in the local language here), I continued observing the child to ascertain his approximate age and also, in the meantime, to frame the right question in my mind—that is, a question that would not reveal my idiocy and ignorance. Finally, I asked the mother, simply, ‘How old is he?’ ‘One and a half’, she replied. ‘Oh, okay’, I remarked, with no delay.

I must abashedly admit that I believed that the child was one and a half months old, until I went to bed that night, when—as I was evaluating my demeanour at the evening gathering—I mortifyingly remembered that I had first seen this toddler five months ago, and hence he was one and a half years old!