Kids are not Perceptive

While there is an extensive and detailed list of things that Katie and I love about each other, like any couple, we have our share of charming foibles that drives the other bonkers.

Katie will mention, innocently enough, I suppose, "Man, we really need to get XYZ Job done soon." What I hear is: "Hey, lazy, sack-of-poop Husband! Stop blogging and organize the basement/organize the garage/pick up your socks!" I immediately get defensive and stammer about time and kids and how can you expect me to do anything? How? That's my foible.

I'll be preparing something for dinner, chopping some carrots, let's say. Katie'll come into the kitchen, look at the recipe, look at what I'm doing and ask, "Is that really the way you want to chop those?" Bonkers! Makes. Me. Bonkers! Playful, pain-easing, shorthand for this has become, "Critique! Critique! Critique!"

Oh, the fun we have in this house.

The other day, Katie, Max and I were hanging out and she mentioned one of those "XYZ" jobs. "Blurt! Blurt! Blurt blurt blurt!" I said. Katie responded by doing a little pantomiming dance of my over-reaction, complete with a dopey-sounding defensive voice. Very entertaining. She then turned to Max and asked, "Max, who am I?"

Max wrinkled up his nose and growled, "Daaa-deeeeeeeeee!"

This, admittedly, was pretty funny.

That seemed a little too easy to me, though. So as a control experiment, I did a crazy dance while pointing at Max's shoes, pants and shirt, said, "Critique! Critique! Critique!"

I stood up and asked, "Max, who am I?"

"Maaa-meeeeeee!" Growled back a wrinkly-nosed boy.

We've really got to pull these "how-to" books about parent psychosis diagnosis out of his bedtime rotation.