“Tree, meet Apple.”

There’s a funny Eileen story my father likes to tell me. When I was a little girl, about 3 years old, I desperately wanted to take ballet lessons. My school was offering classes as an elective (for lack of a better word), and I so wanted to be in the class.

“Tell me why I should sign you up for this,” my father demanded.

My reply was simple. “It will give me poise.”

My father agreed to the lessons.

Fast forward a few years (and some decades), and I’m dealing with a precocious child of my own.

A few weeks ago, we were playing the Great Piggy Bank Adventure at Epcot. The Boy and I had just finished the game, and the screen prompted us for information. If we wanted to continue playing the game at home, we could enter an email address. I pressed “No”, but The Boy insisted we press “Yes”.

“We don’t need to play this at home,” I said to him.

“Yes, we do!” he insisted.

I relented. “Fine,” I told him. “I’ll tell you what to type for my email address.”

He shook his head. “No, Mom. I need to put in my email.”

“You don’t have an email address.”

“Why not? I need one!”

“No, baby, you really don’t,” I replied, thinking of the spam that hits my In Box daily. “Why do you think you need one?”

He looked at me earnestly, large brown eyes peering up at me.

Mom,” he said, very matter-of-factly, “I can write sentences, and I can read.”

Why do I try to argue with logic like that?


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