My kids are Smarter than Me!

The other day I came to the conclusion that my kids are smarter than me.  I suppose that this is the semi-sweet desire of every father; to know that the children you are raising are not dumb; to rest assured that your methods of parenting are increasing rather than decreasing the potential of those little people in your care, but! but at the same time to be left behind, discarded, blown off the road by the passing winds of vigorous youth.

How did I come to this conclusion?  How did I realize that I was reaching the borders of my dotage, preparing for the rocking chair and slippers?  It came to me the other day when Rachel was talking about a job she gave to the kids.  She had shown them how to load the dishwasher.  This may seem like an innocent chore, simple enough to complete.  Apparently not. 

Each time I have tried to help out in the kitchen by loading the dishwasher my best efforts are met with a disapproving eye, and a quick re-arrangement.  It's been so bad that I have totally given up even trying to help workout the exact jigsaw puzzle of cups, glasses, plates and bowls that will allow me to close the door and turn the machine on with her seal of approval.

So the day after Rachel showed the kids for the very first time , I came home to the happy announcement that Emma and Elisha had loaded the dishwasher.  By themselves.  And they had met the rigorous standards of organization which have baffled me time after time.  When I mentioned this to Rachel she tried to comfort me. "It's not that they are smarter, they just listen to me better".

So I was right first time.  My kids are smarter than me.

A tale of two Pizzas

This evening, my lovely wife was feeling a little down.  We had a busy evening, going to a birthing center and our minds were occupied by thoughts of the coming baby, health insurance and many other kinds of troubles and woes.  And Rachel's mind was occupied by pizza.

"I want to have some pizza" she told me.  Of course I would!  I'm always ready to play the hero for her, especially when she's slightly grumpy and in need of cheering up.  Our local superstore is Target.  The car was still warm from driving the kids home so in I hopped and off I went.

Now, I should say this.  Picking groceries for Rachel is an interesting task at the best of times.  I clearly remember one occasion when I stood in front of a whole fridge full of different kinds of hot dogs.  5 or 10 different brands stacked in ranks before me, each with 5 or 10 different kinds of sausage.  Franks, Brats, pork and turkey all stared dumbly at me.

Although I am not a man who easily panics, I will admit that a feeling of despondency fell over me.  I knew three things.  First, I knew that I would pick a package of hot dogs.  Secondly, I knew it would be the wrong choice.  Finally, I knew, I just knew that Rachel would tell me I picked the wrong one.  And each one of those predictions came true.

However, this evening I was feeling more hopeful.  Rachel had mentioned one of her favorite frozen pizzas was Bellatoria Supreme.  Not only that, I was fortified by her instruction to "get what is on sale!"  An easy task, even for me.  Driving to the store I felt quite confident that this would be a "home run" as we Americans say.

On arrival at Target I marched right to the frozen pizza section and searched for the Supreme.  I couldn't see it.  "Never mind, old chap", I said to myself (as Englishmen do).   I searched for the weirdest sounding pizza that seemed normal enough to eat.  This has been a good rule of thumb I have employed when buying food I am going to share with Rachel.  If I am buying for her alone, I just get the "Chicken Freshetta Paravolia on Nam bread with jigo berry sauce.  So I chose sweet Italian Sausage.

I took it home.  We cooked it.  Rachel took two bites and sadly said "This isn't hitting the spot".   Our  "Sweet Italian Sausage" Pizza had been cooked with Alfredo Sauce!  The horror!  Back into the car I dove, back to the store I drove, and back home I came with a meaty, cheese stuffed crust, Digioirno frozen pizza.  This is the kind of pizza made for those times when mother steps out of the house for a tea-party and dad is left with 2 or 3 kids between the ages of 5 and 12.  It's the kind of pizza you cook for watching movies when mommy does not want to watch because it's too stupid or violent or dumb.  Its a guy pizza, but it does have a red sauce!

Rachel loved it.  I guess that my little boy growing on the inside may have had something to do with that.  But I ended up being my sweethearts hero once again.  Yay Pizza!