So that's the problem

YaYa can count to eleven. Topher, Chinua and I say to each other, when one of the kids does something that we think is particularly smart, like when Leaf started pooping on the toilet or when Kid A opens his mouth and some sparkly brilliance comes forth. (Not spit, though that happens also.) Topher, like on Little Man Tate, when Jodie Foster hears her toddler son saying "Topher" and thinks he is trying to say saucer, but then turns the saucer over and it says Topher on the back. Ooooh. Goosebumps.


So, I was trying to get YaYa to show my mom and dad how she can count to eleven, while we were eating dinner the other night. YaYa only ever does anything like that if it suits her, though, so I resorted to some sort of psychology to get her to show her skills.

"Come on YaYa, how does it go? One, five... seven... two," I said, thinking that she would correct me. If she was Kid A, she would have. He is so particular and the smallest bit, how should I say it... oh yes, he's a KNOW-IT-ALL, and so he would have jumped in immediately to let me know that I was doing it wrong. And he was trying to, except that I was silencing him with my finger pressed to my lips, eyes bulging. Let YaYa answer. YaYa was perfectly happy to sit across the table from me and watch me count like an idiot. She sat there sucking her fingers while I continued, "One, one... one... one..."

And then, suddenly, Kid A broke in, "Mom, you're running out of batteries."

Oh, I am, in SO many ways, Kid A. Already my kids are smarter than me.