Bagel Tigers

Luca, who turns eight tomorrow, thinks he's the authority on all things grammar, spelling, and, well, just about anything.  Like everything else, this is probably my fault.  I'm the one who encouraged books and reading, starting at 6 months.  No shocker that he was reading on his own at the age of four, deciphering words through their context, learning pronunciation in a highly precocious way (what four-year-old knows how to pronounce "consequential?").  I can't accept all the blame, of course (although I was a California Spelling Bee champ growing up and went on to win the National Memory Championship three years in a row in my 20s); but I digress.  My point is that Luca comes from a long line, on both sides of his parental lineage, of irritating smarty-pants.

So it's hardly unexpected that he feels compelled, in a way that can only be described as School Marm Sardonic, to correct his little brother's pronunciations and pronouncements.  This itch, this need, to correct, can be grating.  I, of course, do all my correcting in a super charming, and totally appropriate way.  This skill, one honed by years of rolled eyes and death stares, is not easy to teach, as the filter necessary is one acquired with much heartache and the realization that there is, in fact, a wrong time to mention that it's actually "oriented" and not "orient-ated."

Anyhoo - Dash is still at the age where his understanding of things differs, often, from the reality of things.  And I encourage this lack of understanding because, well, I think it's pretty fucking cute when he says, "Bagel Tigers" when we've been watching a program about Bengal Tigers.  And frankly, I don't ever want him to stop saying, "Will you snuzzle wiff me?" 

So I ignore the look of incredulity and outrage on Luca's face, and tell Dash that yes, in fact, the Bagel Tigers are very big, and loud, and we should be careful if we ever see one.

And just in case we do, I carry a vat of cream cheese with me everywhere now.