A few sessions ago, Noah's speech therapist brought him a Mr. Potato Head. She made a big whole show of how she doesn't usually bring Mr. Potato Head to children Noah's age, but Noah is just so exceptional and she was just dying to see what he did with it -- a speech so loaded with bullshit that was clearly all for my benefit since Noah figured out exactly how the toy worked in about five seconds flat -- and after she left I was immediately on the phone with my mother because OMG MY CHILD IS BRILLIANT, THE TOY IS LABELED TWO AND UP AND NOAH IS LIKE, THREE WHOLE WEEKS YOUNGER THAN TWO OMG.
(Kidding aside, that's a whole other entry I have no idea how to approach, but suffice to say: Noah is starting to creep me and Jason and random salespeople at the mall out with the smartness. The cashier at Sephora asked Noah to give him five yesterday, and Noah shot him a withering gaze, held up five fingers and proceeded to count them, like "dude, you should know this.")
(He counts in his own little alien language, that is, where one = eh and two = eh and three = eeeeeeee and etc.)
(I don't know. Is that smart? Or is he just kind of weird?)
(Don't answer that. Allow me my delusions that while I am accomplishing pretty much nothing with my life, at least I'm changing the diapers of someone smart.)
(Whenhereadshisbooks hecantellmethewhole storyinsignlanguagetoo and tellsjokes and yesterdayhereadtheword "hot" allbyhimself endbragging!)
Ahem. Anyway. My mom got him the Mr. Potato Head for his birthday. (Also, thank you to everybody who emailed photos of their kids doing the same thing with the little glasses. It appears to be a universal and timeless passage of weirdness for two-year-olds.) This is all we have done all morning.
He calls this one PopPop. (Sorry, Dad.)
Aaaaaaaaand. Yes. He's brilliant.
(He is also not napping right now, but is instead jumping up and down in his crib and screaming YA YA YA YA YA YA to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Or maybe it's the alphabet song. Or Baa Baa Black Sheep. All I know is I hope he's read the weight and stress limits warning label on the crib and follows them accordingly, little Mr. Smarty McEngineeryPants.)
(A new content-to-parentheses ratio record! Yes! I knew I had it in me.)