My son is amazing.
Obviously he’s amazing to me. Just his existence blows my mind. I can’t make a paper aeroplane. I can’t make the TV remote work. The idea that I could somehow make a creature that can ride a trike and laugh at his own farts at the same time is preposterous. And yet there he is, grinning at me from his trike and farting. Amazing.
Turns out, though, my son might also be amazing to others too. His Mum thinks so, anyway.
Returning from a play date my wife is glowing with pride. Not the effect I normally expect my children to have on anyone. I’m more accustomed to them creating feelings of confusion, exhaustion and helplessness.
“Everyone was impressed.” My wife tells me excitedly. “He was playing with the Doctor set. He actually took people’s temperature!”
I’m impressed too.
“It gets weirder.” She says, eyes wide. “He was taking people’s blood pressure.”
“He’s two.” I say sceptically.
She nods a fast, excited nod. “I know! It’s amazing isn’t it.”
I’ve watched more episodes of ER and House than is probably healthy, and I couldn’t take someone’s blood pressure. The closest thing to a medical emergency my son has witnessed is when Bing Bunny stepped in a dog poo. Still, I don’t question my wife’s interpretation of events. Her eyes are too scary.
“Maybe he’s a genius.” She says. Maybe he is. I start to imagine him winning a Nobel prize for medicine. Maybe he’ll make lots of money and buy me a sports car for my retirement.
We watch him eat. He pushes aside his scrambled eggs and starts shovelling ketchup into his mouth with his fingers. He looks at his fingers, they’re covered in ketchup. He wipes his fingers on the edge of the table. He looks at the ketchup on the edge of the table. He looks at us. He starts licking the ketchup off the edge of the table like a dog.
We probably shouldn’t let him treat anyone just yet.