It’s not debatable.
I am not biased.
My daughter is incredibly smart.
But, I am starting to think perhaps I have told her this too often.
I know you’re not supposed to tell your little girls they are beautiful. I do anyway. I tell my son he’s beautiful too.
Pretty girl. Pretty boy.
But, I do try to emphasize their other more valuable accomplishments.
“You’re so fast!”
“You’re getting so good at singing!”
“You’re an artist!”
“You’re so smart!”
The other night Alma and I sat on her bed and had a legit conversation.
I asked her about how she felt about specific things and she answered me thoughtfully and began to expound.
We got on the subject of birthdays and she informed me that her cousin Solange’s birthday was next, then her birthday was shortly after. She then proceeded to tell me what she wore for her two previous birthdays, where we lived at the time, what we did and how old she would be for her next several birthdays.
I asked, “How do you remember all of that?”
Her response, “I know everything, maybe.”
While it made me chuckle, it also terrified me.
More and more lately, she has started using the tone of voice that implies she thinks I am mentally challenged.
The other night I was searching in her room for one of Huck’s misplaced teddy bears. She said without looking up for her computer, “Uhhhh, he took it to school in his backpack, Mom.”
Replace “Mom” with “dipshit.”
That’s how it sounded.
She has even occasionally says, “I know that because I am so smart.”
I don’t WANT to stop telling her she’s smart. But, I am fighting the urge to say, “If you’re so damned smart, why do you act so stupid all the time?”
“Yes, you can draw one heck of a giraffe. Now, why do you throw a hissy fit if your pants don’t cover your ankles?”
“It’s amazing that you can count to 25 and beyond. Now, can you stop calling me into your room every ten minutes to inform me of something I absolutely didn’t need to know?”
(My son is not exempt from that one. The other night, he called me for the umpteenth time to make sure I knew that he… farted.)
“You’re so smart, why can’t you wipe your own hoo hah?”
“You’re so smart, why can’t you take your own shirt off over your head without getting trapped inside?”
“You’re so smart, why can’t you color by yourself, play by yourself, play with your brother, leave me alone????”
My husband has taught her the easiest way to close a marker top with her weak, little stick arms. Clearly, I don’t need to press the marker against a hard surface to put the top on. Every time I just snap it on, she says, “No, mommy. You have to do it like THIS. Ugh. You always forget.”
I love having a smart child. I hate having a smart child. Inevitably “smart” ends up “smartass.”
Living The American Scream 