My daughter – who, I will remind you, is only three – is basically a genius.
Now, I know you’re skeptical. I understand that all parents are proud of their children. Every child is special in the eyes of the mothers who laboriously squeezed them into this world and the fathers who just kind of stood around and tried not to get in the way as they did so.
But my kid … well, not to brag … but my kid is, like, really special. You know how some parents are always talking about how amazing their children are, but the entire time they’re going on and on about how that spaghetti-mess doodle John Luke made is supposed to be a giraffe, or the way Krystyn can almost sit still through an entire five minutes of “Our Planet” on Netflix? And the entire time they’re rambling on about how incredible their kids are, you watching the little cretins run around the Big Lots scream-singing some nonsense song about chickens and cows. You know what I’m talking about?
Well, that’s not Arlie. No, Arlie Dot Armour … my progeny … the one who carries the blood of a thousand generations of Armours in her veins … is truly something special. Her mind operates on a different level than those of her contemporaries, a plane of existence we common folk can hardly comprehend.
What? You require proof? Fine. Take, for example, this nugget of wisdom, which struck her in the wee hours of the morning. While her father was still tucked into bed, stupidly dreaming about video games and beer, Arlie was up contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos. Which, upon awakening me with the frantic cries of divinely inspired, she imparted to me thusly:
“Daddy, don’t put poo poo on your toothbrush.”
I just feel bad for all the other parents. How can their children possibly compare?