Wicked Smaht

My 3 year old seems to think I’m stupid. And embarrassing. Already.

Example #1:
me: Aw! Look at the baby cow!
Zoey: Mom! It’s called a calf.
me: Yes, that’s right.
Zoey: Well, shouldn’t you know that? You’re not a kid, you’re an adult. (pause) You know that, right?

Example #2:
me: There’s a button missing on these pants. I can’t wear them or they’ll fall down . . .
Zoey: Mom, wear a BELT. Belts are for keeping up pants.
me: That’s true . . .
Zoey: Daddy knows about belts. How come you don’t? (pause) I think you should know more things.

In response, I offer evidence that I am still smarter than my child:

  • I know how to wipe my own butt
  • I don’t think it’s a Great! Idea! to make mud pies in the bathroom.
  • I don’t put a blanket over my head, walk into the table and then yell, “YOU MADE ME HIT MY HEAD!”
  • I can read
  • I almost always put my shoes on the correct feet
  • I don’t name my baby dolls Vajayjay
  • When counting, I don’t leave out the number six
  • I can put my pants on without sitting down
  • I can get in the car and fasten my seat belt in less than 13 minutes
  • I don’t try and stick straws up my nose
  • I know that Caillou is a whiney little bastard*
  • I don’t have to wear a night-time diaper to bed
  • I don’t lift my shirt up and say, “Look at my tiny boooooobies!”
  • I don’t sneeze out pesto pasta and then eat it
* This exact phrase as applied to Caillou may have originated with SWMama over at Adjustment and Disorder. I’m not entirely sure . . . so if you don’t like it, it’s not her; and if you do, it’s totally her!
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