Out of the Mouths of Babes

It's quite clear that the purpose of many of these blogs is to illustrate that the author's progeny is the cutest, most brilliant, clever, perceptive and introspective human in training ever to draw breath.

To be fair, I realize that nature, in her infinite wisdom, planned it that way. Parents are supposed to think that their children hung the moon. Parents are supposed to be blind to the faults and flaws of their offspring. Its why human mothers don't eat their young. A mother bird, confronted with a crippled chick, will simply push it out of the nest, but a human mother will nurture and protect her disabled young with a ferocity unlike any other. If human mothers were posessed of this same type of grim pragmatism, human children would not likely survive beyond one of the many milestones with which we mark the passing of their lives. For mine, that would have been the realization of autonomy.

Yes, kids are a hoot. Yes, I have some, and they are undeniably endearing. Until they got old enough to understand the power of sarcasm, and wield it with uncanny exactitude and inordinate frequency, (what can I say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree) I often found myself chuckling softly behind a demurely raised and impeccibley manicured hand at their precociousness or ignorance er, I mean innocence. And even though my children have elevated the fart joke to an art form and cultivated the art of embarassing me to almost noble perfection, I can still appreciate the instrinsic humor of bodily functions, sex, and childlike candor.

So, though I can appreciate a particularly poignant, droll or whimsical verbal gem from any child, I, and everybody else can do without are the 27 lines of monosyllabic discourse leading up the piece de resistance. Seriously. Human beings, and in particular, the sort who browses the internet looking for...whatever it is they are looking for...are not particlarly adept at or inclinced towards, delayed gratification. After five lines of "uh-huh" and "why?" they are likely to either nod off, or go in search of more stimulating fare.

So do your precious younglings a favor, and do their sweet little aphorisms justice. Give us the goods, let us appreciate their brilliance, and let us all go on with our lives.

(Dedicated to all the children, who are sometimes frightnely insightful, prescient and wise)