Cain, Abel and... Merle?

So, I'm hanging out with Brady, my grandson. Something I do pretty much every Friday afternoon, since I don't work on Fridays and he gets out of school early on Fridays. I pick him up, we run a few errands, get something to make for dinner (I'm teaching him to cook), and hit Starbucks. Yes, he actually drinks coffee. An odd aperitif for an 8-year-old, but the boy loves the mochas (decaf, of course) and I, as the grandma, reserve the right to buy them for him. No matter what his mother says.

Anyway, we're driving around town and he starts asking random questions, as little boys are wont to do. Finally, after asking about the number of miles on my car, and how old you have to be to get married (I told him 37), and why cats can't talk, among other things, he hits on a topic that holds his interest.

"Gramma, when were you born?"
"1959, honey."
"I was born in 2000, right?"
"Yes, you were."
"When was Ma born?"
"1941."
"And she's 67, right?"
"Yep."

On and on and on we go, down the entire family list. Mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws... finally we get to this:

"When was Gigi born?" Gigi being his name for my grandmother, who had recently had to cancel her trip to visit us due to weather and who is, at 88, the oldest person Brady's ever personally met.

"Gigi was born in 1920." I say, hoping he'll ask questions and I can explain some things about how the world has changed in 8 decades. You know, mochas and history, right?

"Wow! That's a long time ago!"
"Yes, buddy, it sure is."
"She's really old, isn't she?"
"Well, 88 is getting up there, that's for sure."
I can hear the gears turning and almost smell the smoke as he cogitates on this for a minute, and finally...
"Is she the first baby born?"

Sorry, Grandma, I don't make this up, I just report it.