A MOTHER is driving her little girl to her friend’s house for a play date.
“Mummy,” the little girl asks, “how old are you?”
“Honey, you are not supposed to ask a lady her age,” the mother replies. “It’s not polite.”
“Okay,” the little girl says, “What colour was your hair two years ago?”
“Now really,” the mother says, “those are personal questions and are really none of your business.”
Undaunted, the little girl asks, “Why did you and Daddy get a divorce?”
“That’s enough questions, young lady! Honestly!”
The exasperated mother walks away as the two friends begin to play.
“My Mum won’t tell me anything about her,” the little girl says to her friend.
“Well,” says the friend, “all you need to do is look at her driver’s licence.
It’s like a report card; it has everything on it.”
Later that night the little girl says to her mother, “I know how old you are. You are 32.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I also know that you used to have brown hair.”
“How in Heaven’s name did you find that out?”
“And,” the little girl says triumphantly, “I know why you and Daddy got a divorce.”
“Oh, really?” the mother says. “Why?”
“Because you got an F in sex.”