It’s really hard. Being a child. I remember it. I’m not sure why I remember it so well but I do. And what’s really hard? Being smart. Being a smart child sucks. Everyone your age is generally content to do the same things, and you’re not interested. It’s boring. But there’s no feeling of superiority, it just leaves you asking why you feel so left out.
Yesterday’s third and final visit to the child psychologist confirms what we sort of suspected (at least we did when Noah was still an infant and screamed his bloody head off in a way that clearly stated, “WHY CAN’T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND ME?!”) that Noah is a smartypants. That playing games for three-year-olds with this three-year-old is like offering him pureed meats – there’s no point and he won’t like it. We’ve been advised to play games with him that are suitable for five year olds. FIVE. And wouldn’t you know it, it totally works. He’s blissfully unaware that the TV is off, that Lil G and I are reading a book that does not contain diggers or steam shovels or even a hat-wearing-cat. He’s sitting next to us putting together a puzzle for adults. 350 pieces. I got it started for him and he finished it off. It took a few days. This is what he ended up with, I shit you not.
There’s a piece missing.