One great thing about being a parent is the chance to be a witness to a child’s mental development. The physical part’s pretty cool, too, but I’m hoping my fat gene doesn’t ever kick in for them. That would just be another thing to blame on me when my kids’ psyches are raked through the coals during therapy in young adulthood. For the record, my fat genes didn’t show their puffy face until I was about twenty-two; it’s amazing what a positive effect drinking and not exercising can have on one’s life.
As I was saying about mental development, my daughter’s skills and abilities have grown astronomically this year. I’d like to give credit to her teachers at preschool for these amazing advancements, but I won’t, because it’s probably just a coincidence that this has happened since she’s gone there. I know that I’m the catalyst that triggered her brilliance to come to the forefront. I can’t back this statement up with facts, but take my word, I just know it to be true. How could it not be?
With my son’s advancement, I think it’s my wife’s doing, because I have to blame someone. I don’t mean to infer that he’s not doing well, because he is… in his own way. This week he loves letters, not the paper kind with threats of retribution on them that arrive in envelopes once a week; the kind that make up those futile words. Actually, he loves a letter: W. I don’t know why, but his whole world’s about “W”. “W” this, “W” that. I’m sick of the freaking thing. It’s not even in his name, first, last, or middle. I tried getting him to appreciate all the letters by subjecting him to my singing the alphabet song in F-flat, but that proved to be futile. He tunefully sang back at me, “ABW KLW RWS WOP XYZ W”. What’s a parent to do?
The bright side of this is that he’s progressed, because last week his favorite letter was 3.
Copyright Linus Mann 2008