Bratchild may be smarter than I am. Me talk real good though.

So yesterday I posted about how I’ve taught bratchild everything she needs to know.

Ummm, so yeah. She MAY actually be smarter than I am.

She and J enjoy watching educational crap on tv together which I can sometimes deal with but I have a short attention span. And you know what? Dancing with the Stars, The Bachelorette and even Keeping up with the Kardashians? Totally educational programming. For instance, I  now know that the perfect spray tan can pretty much fix anything. (Conversely, a shitty spray tan can totally fuck up your life. Cough, choke. Vienna and Jake. I am all about the scientific method-look at me with my “case studies.”)

 And I’ve learned that I  need to become famous because I would be an exceptional competitor on Dancing with the Stars (okay, so maybe I need to become famous and then less famous to be on DWTS.) I am ALL ABOUT the dancing, there’s lots of sparkly stuff and Maks is freaking hot.

I also figured out at a very young age that I was never going to need math or science. Not that I couldn’t do it, but I found it boring. I ALWAYS told my parents I would NEVER need algebra/geometry/calculus; and other than addition/subtraction/multiplication that’s been pretty true.  I can figure out how much something would be on sale IN MY HEAD-I seriously could have stopped in like 6th grade. And while I got a 98 on my cat practical in biology, I’ve never so much needed to be able to identify cat innards. Shockingly, this doesn’t come up much. I enjoyed French and English and history and art history. (I graduated with lots of extra credits but barely had the ones I actually needed. My college experience was almost an odyssey.)

BUT had I not taken those four “useless” art history classes at Auburn, I would not be able to pick up on important Lost details. The Bocklin dude moving the coffin? Was totally an artist that painted numerous paintings called Isle of the Dead and 8 of his 14 children died. This vast array of knowledge enabled me to decipher in the first few minutes of Lost that everyone had died (AFTER leaving the island for many of them. No, they didn’t all die in the plane crash. Don’t believe me? Read this. P.S. I had it ALL figured out before I stumbled upon this article today.)

ANYWAYS, so bratchild is smarter than me. Possibly. She got accepted into her school’s Space program. Obviously. Cause she’s a genius and stuff.

She understands all about the different types of clouds whereas I don’t know enough to even discuss it here.

Today, we went to Connor’s for diner and had this exchange:

Bratchild: “Ow, I hit my funny bone.”

Me: “Yeah, that stinks. I wonder why it’s called your funny bone. It’s not funny, it hurts. I don’t get it.”

Bratchild: “It’s called your funny bone because it’s connected to your humerus.”

Me: “It is not. Your humerus is a leg bone.”

Bratchild: “No, it’s in your arm. Really.”

Me: “I’m going to google it. I don’t know how to spell it though.”

Bratchild: “H-u-m-e-r-u-s. Humerus.”

Me: “Oh wow, you are right, it is an arm bone.”

And then while watching The Bachelorette:

Me: “I wonder why that guy is drilling a hole in the snow, that seems ridiculous.”

Bratchild “It’s so he can ice fish. You have to drill holes to get to the water and the fish.”

Me: “Really? How do you even know that?”

Bratchild: “I just do.”

(Moments later the goofy dude said he was, in fact, ice fishing.)

Okay. So I think I’m off to read the encyclopedias so I can catch up.

However, if she wants to discuss art, literature, French, etc. I am totally her man, errr mom.

© Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.