958. My Kids Are Bionic

I never wore glasses.  I can usually hear when a bus is driving up behind me.  I am able to outrun elderly people any day of the week.

Sure, I consider myself gifted.      

But my children?  They’re bionic. 

PROOF:  They tell me when my cell phone rings.  We are in the living room.  I left the phone in the car.   

PROOF:  I go to get a step-stool to retrieve something on top of the refrigerator.  When I return, they have already scaled the refrigerator.  Like Spiderman. 

PROOF:  I sniff the milk to see if it has gone bad.  Short yells out, “Throw it away, Mommy!”  He is upstairs. 

PROOF:  I glance at a timeshare thing that just came in the mail.  My 3rd-grader, Tall, snatches it out of my hands and declares, “You don’t want to do this, Mom.  The fine print says 50K down and then an APR of 21%.  That’s highway robbery.”  Fine print?  Where?  That black squiggly design at the bottom of the postcard, is that what he’s referring to? 

It is humbling to be outdone by your peers, but more so your own children.

I used to watch Lindsay Wagner as the Bionic Woman, with various limbs made out of wires, and artificial eyeballs inserted into her head—eyeballs that could see 500 feet away.  I would watch the 6 Million Dollar Man and scoff at the audacity of those producers to give us such unrealistic garbage to watch.  He can run a mile in 2 minutes?  Yeah, right.

But now I know it was not fiction after all.  Someone in Hollywood was just writing about their kids. 

MOV