My life as a dad would be immeasurably easier if my two daughters, ages 6 and 4, each had an IQ that was 20 points lower or if I had one that was 20 points higher. Because, quite frankly, I'm starting to feel outgunned. And I have the feeling that it's only beginning.
Every parent desires for their children to be incredibly bright. We pray for a child genius, play Mozart for the baby while they're in utero, bombard them with Little Einstein videos while they are toddlers, and wait for their little neurons to start firing.
But I'm here to tell you that having a child prodigy has a decided downside; and having two of them biding their time while they plot world domination is starting to take its toll on this father and his "mid-level" intellectual capacities.
Don't get me wrong; I like to think I'm a little sharper than the average Joe. I've read Shakespeare (he's the one who wrote War and Peace, right? Not that I read that one. I read the other book he wrote, the biography of Larry Bird) and I know the word "escrow" (I don't know what it is, but I know the word) and I've seen all the Lord of the Rings movies and read five pages of the first book.
But I'm starting to feel the pull of my limited IQ in conversations with my daughters, Princess Supergirl and Princess Genius. Just the other day, my six-year-old had to remind me that a killer whale is actually really called an "Orca" and that Orcas never make it to the Antarctic; that's just a myth. Penguins really fear seals.
"Seals?" I said. "I don't think so. Let's go check."
After Princess Supergirl helped me log onto my computer, she guided me to a Wikipedia article and, lo and behold, she was correct. It turns out Orcas don't like the freezing waters of the Antarctic. I was stunned. My inner three-year-old wanted to say, "You're grounded, missy," but the more reasonable angels of my nature won out and I kissed Princess Supergirl on the top of the head and said, "You are the smartest kindergartener I have ever met."
It's good to have kind, genius daughters. Because they take it easy on their poor, limited papa and generally guide me through most of their higher-end discussions, like the one they had the other day about the feminist motifs found throughout the new My Little Pony cartoon series. They applauded me when I said, "I like the purple one with the wings."
"That one's called a 'Pegasus', Dad," Princess Genius replied. "It's a creature out of Greek mythology. It was said to carry the Greek gods around on their various missions."
I smiled back at her and nodded. I find that, if I smile and nod a lot during their conversations, I can create the illusion that I'm following the flow. But, in reality, I'm wondering things like, "Does Captain America sleep with that shield in his bed or does he have some sort of super briefcase that he puts it in at night?"
And then the other day we got the expected phone call from Mensa. (I immediately took my newfound Wikipedia skills and looked up this brainy organization.) When they realized that they were talking to someone who was basically 100 points below the bell curve, they asked to speak to my wife.
It was then I realized where this intellectual capacity came from: my wife, Special Sauce Caldwell! My children were the recipients of her cracking, recondite mental gifts. From me they inherited a large, round nose (they both wear it very well), a round head, and, thankfully, not the gene for male pattern baldness. Also, I have taught them how to make noises with their armpits and the secret way to always win at the game "Paper, Rock Scissors." (The secret involves waiting a split second for your opponent to show their hand.)
My wife talked for a half-hour on the phone with the Mensa folks and used lots of large words like "propagate", "recitative", and "membership". I made popcorn and washed the dishes. (I like to pretend the dishpan is a battleship and the cups are submarines, and it's World War II in the sink.)
It turns out that (as my wife explained to me) the girls had "won" an all-expense-paid trip to New York City to attend a "special ceremony" that she and the girls would be attending. I could either sit on a bench outside the Mensa headquarters or, if I wanted to, the folks at Mensa had kindly thrown in a free pass for me to go to Madame Tussaud's wax museum where I could spend the day pretending I'm giving the Queen of England a noogie.
I've opted for the museum pass and the family is eagerly awaiting the trip to the Big Apple this summer. (The girls even kindly explained the etymology of that NYC nickname. It turns out that it has very little to do with apples.)
So, I'm proud and confused all at the same time. This feeling, I'm sure, will not go away anytime soon. The girls are already talking about some sort of prize that the King of Norway gives away each year. (I made a Norway pun using the term "no way" that caused the two of them to rub my head and say, "Good for you, Dad!")
I'm so proud of my girls. Confused and proud.
