"I just love getting Dada in trouble!"As has been previously discussed at length, my daughter is a super-baby genius, or perhaps now she would be better described as a super-toddler-genius, which in super-genius terms is a whole new level of geniuosity. She inhales words for breakfast, digests meaning for lunch, and then by dinner is ready to have a lengthy discussion about what she learned that day. This discussion usually involves her singing loudly at the table while we eat.
Her hunger for knowledge is unquenchable, and so, rather than let her exert extra energy in negative ways, like by chasing the cat, or making a mess, or plotting to overthrow the world, I divert her curiosity into learning new words, phrases, and long Wordsworth poems.
To be sure it is an exhausting and heroic task, one that often involves repeating new words 2,320 times before Natalie is satisfied that she can pronounce it properly, and which turns my brain into a lumpy mush by the time Sara returns home from work.
I generally enjoy this noble and necessary job of protecting humanity from a potentially lethal super-toddler genius but there are times when my efforts to teach Natalie about her surroundings backfire.
Witness a week or so ago.
Natalie and I were busy shopping for a small gathering at our house over Memorial day weekend. We busied ourselves with procuring all the necessary list items, Natalie gleefully chirping out directions for what I should buy from the shopping cart. Luckily for our guests I managed to sneak in something other than goldfish crackers, cheese, and cheerios.
Natalie remarked upon all the various vegetables and fruits we bought and yelled "Hiii!" to anyone who passed. There were innumerable, "Hiii, Ladies" and "Hiii, Mans" and most of the time she correctly guessed the person's gender...
We began to checkout, and I placed our veritable cornucopia of food on the belt and waited for, as Natalie would call her, the "Checkout lady." However, at this precise moment Natalie was not at all concerned with the "Checkout lady", no something much more interesting beckoned her eye from the conveyor belt.
Of all the many things that sat on the rubbery surface, of all the things she could have remarked upon, she began, quite near the top of her lungs,
"BEEEEEER, That's BEEEEEER" pointing to a case of brew.
"Yes, Natalie." I said rather sheepishly. But she continued...
"BEEEEEER, BEEEEER, that's Dada's BEEEER."
At this point I blushed and tried to point out a much more interesting and less embarrassing box of Cheerios. She wanted nothing to do with it.
"BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER! Dada drinks BEEEEEEER." The checkout lady was laughing, the woman behind me chuckled, "I guess she knows what that is!", but I knew somewhere a child-services worker was lurking, or at least taking notes.
I hustled Natalie to the car, sped home, unpacked the groceries and while Natalie played in her pretend kitchen, cracked open a cold one.
"BEEEEEER" I said. "That's BEEEEEER."
Hey, I deserved it.
Editors Note: If any child-services workers are reading this blog, please know I didn't actually drink a beer until my wife got home...then I had five.
Her hunger for knowledge is unquenchable, and so, rather than let her exert extra energy in negative ways, like by chasing the cat, or making a mess, or plotting to overthrow the world, I divert her curiosity into learning new words, phrases, and long Wordsworth poems.
To be sure it is an exhausting and heroic task, one that often involves repeating new words 2,320 times before Natalie is satisfied that she can pronounce it properly, and which turns my brain into a lumpy mush by the time Sara returns home from work.
I generally enjoy this noble and necessary job of protecting humanity from a potentially lethal super-toddler genius but there are times when my efforts to teach Natalie about her surroundings backfire.
Witness a week or so ago.
Natalie and I were busy shopping for a small gathering at our house over Memorial day weekend. We busied ourselves with procuring all the necessary list items, Natalie gleefully chirping out directions for what I should buy from the shopping cart. Luckily for our guests I managed to sneak in something other than goldfish crackers, cheese, and cheerios.
Natalie remarked upon all the various vegetables and fruits we bought and yelled "Hiii!" to anyone who passed. There were innumerable, "Hiii, Ladies" and "Hiii, Mans" and most of the time she correctly guessed the person's gender...
We began to checkout, and I placed our veritable cornucopia of food on the belt and waited for, as Natalie would call her, the "Checkout lady." However, at this precise moment Natalie was not at all concerned with the "Checkout lady", no something much more interesting beckoned her eye from the conveyor belt.
Of all the many things that sat on the rubbery surface, of all the things she could have remarked upon, she began, quite near the top of her lungs,
"BEEEEEER, That's BEEEEEER" pointing to a case of brew.
"Yes, Natalie." I said rather sheepishly. But she continued...
"BEEEEEER, BEEEEER, that's Dada's BEEEER."
At this point I blushed and tried to point out a much more interesting and less embarrassing box of Cheerios. She wanted nothing to do with it.
"BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER! Dada drinks BEEEEEEER." The checkout lady was laughing, the woman behind me chuckled, "I guess she knows what that is!", but I knew somewhere a child-services worker was lurking, or at least taking notes.
I hustled Natalie to the car, sped home, unpacked the groceries and while Natalie played in her pretend kitchen, cracked open a cold one.
"BEEEEEER" I said. "That's BEEEEEER."
Hey, I deserved it.
Editors Note: If any child-services workers are reading this blog, please know I didn't actually drink a beer until my wife got home...then I had five.
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