My youngest daughter is eight and she’s considered by her teachers to be the smartest in her classes. They told me this. As if I don’t already know. I make sure she’s clothed and fed and that she never strays from our plan. Polyglot Neurologist with classical music chops to boot (we figure she can always fall back on being a professional Cellist in the symphony or maybe even a recording artist if there isn’t an immediate position available for that). She holds it all together quite well. Aside from her base-level schooling there’s also swimming lessons on Tuesday and Thursday evenings (Thursday’s are now double lessons at her coach’s suggestion following a rather lackluster and uninspired effort during last week’s meet). Weekends are relegated to language and rollerblading lessons. We want her to speak five fluently at the very least. The rollerblading is just because we want her to do something that will give her some sort of bravado. A genuine x-factor that the top Universities will eat up. “It says here you’re also an incredible rollerblader?” I imagine them saying, barely maintaining the air of formality. Teetering. Right on the brink of throwing down that thick stack of gaudy qualifications “welcome to Yale” they’ll say with a smirk. Shortly afterwards I imagine she’ll be able to buy the family a dryer. [Ryan Nimmo]
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