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
