By Andrea Isaac Adams
“Stupid is as stupid does.” from
Forrest Gump.
Is there anything more obnoxious
than parents bragging on how smart their kid is?
It’s literally the most grating thing on the planet
— worse than fingernails on chalkboard, worse than
shrieking alarm clocks, worse than two kids
complaining that one is touching the other in the
back seat during a road trip for about 100,000
miles. It is worse than all those
things, and even a little bit worse than that.
Because at least when those really
bad things like nails and chalk boards and alarm
clocks and touchy-whiny children are the source of
grinding irritation, you are expected to show your
strong dislike. You can cover your ears and moan
through all of it, at the very least. When your
coworker starts in about how little Samantha is so
smart she taught herself to count to twenty in
Latin, you’re supposed to act impressed and even
supportive. When what you’d really prefer to do is
... cover your ears and moan.
“Oh, please! Not little Samantha
again! Anything but her,” we’d like to say.
Or, “Yeah, big deal. She still can’t change her own
diaper can she? No? Still not driving yet, eh? Well,
hold off on the prize money, we may not have a
winner.”
Why do we typically have such a
strong reaction? Because it means nothing when a kid
shows a little smarts. It’s like me holding up a
chicken’s egg and telling you, “If I were to
incubate this baby, we’d have a chick. Maybe
a prize rooster. Maybe a rooster so very
smart he’d know how to pick up bugs extra fast.”
“Umm ... yeah, that’s great,
Andrea. Way to go ... with that egg ya got,” you
might say, making a mental note to avoid any
discussion of poultry or eggs with me because I tend
to go on and on about them. Like some people and
their brilliant, egg-like children.
I have the greatest admiration for
a close friend of mine, who was patiently nodding
and smiling while an acquaintance told her of a
clever deed the acquaintence’s little boy had
performed. The woman said to my friend, “So how
old’s your boy Caleb? Three? What’s he into now?”
With dead-pan expression, my friend said, “Oh,
Caleb? He’s a little slow.”
My kids? The same. Each and every
one, bless their little hearts, is a little slow.
And they get it honest: me, dumber than fried
onions. Their dad? Dumber than a tractor bolt. My
four year-old thinks the alphabet consists of
“numbers.” I’ve tried to tell her differently, but
she stubbornly persists. My second-born calls
everything a “baby” or a “butterfly.” Everything.
The baby? She’s a baby — who knows what’s going on
in that little noodle of hers.
They have bright moments that I
could tell you about, but really, I’d hate to think
of you covering your eyes (I don’t think ears would
work in this instance) and moaning. Mostly, they are
just children — and children, by their very nature
don’t know more than they do. Isn’t that the case
with all of us? Hey, and none of them know how to
drive or change their own diapers. And if yours
does, please, spare us.
About the Author: Andrea Isaac Adams writes
from Grapevine, Arkansas, where she shares her home
with three daughters and a husband who are really a
bit brighter than she'd have you think. You can
contact her via email
click here |
