“And don’t settle for 145! You can do better! You’re a genius!”

Little girl in tutu playing the violin


I had an interesting conversation with my Prodigy, this morning.  I should have anticipated this.  My twelve-year-old Prodigy has been reading my blog.  When I asked for how long, she said, “Does it matter?  I read every word.”  Then she giggled (while I had a mild panic attack.)  It’s forced me to look at myself in the mirror, (figuratively and literally, of course.)  There’s no way I’m going to go back over every word I’ve written in the last 2+ years, (and relive that emotional rollercoaster on Foot-in-Mouth Island.)

I won’t put me through that, (unless I’m bored and need to cry.  And frankly, I’m surprised there’s an English word for bored.  I bet a German immigrant made it happen, as German is an incredibly thoughtful language.)  I should probably ease up on the parenthesis abuse addiction.  😂  Okay, enough stalling.  This event has cured me of my obsession with the word f*ck on this blog.  Clearly, she’s already perused every use of the word I’ve thought of recently.  However, this matters not to me.

I’ve never met a 12-year-old who wasn’t familiar with the joys of swearing.  I don’t swear around 12-year-olds because I couldn’t do it in front of Michelle Obama, Stevie Nicks, or any other person whose example influences me.  I know The Look this would earn, (and have dedicated my life to never having it directed at me again.)  I was once the ninth teenager in my family. My mom had a Ph.D. in The Look.  I’ve awakened in a cold sweat after dreaming about The Look.  (I know you get it, but I’m a little freaked out, and I’m self-comforting. 😂)

Some of you may recall I signed a contract with my Prodigy, stating I wouldn’t treat her differently based on her age.  Welp.

Dear Prodigy, today’s lesson kinda sucks.  Today you learn in North America, a 12-year-old has no rights.  The contract, while extremely well written, isn’t legally binding.  I’m under no legal obligation to honor it.  I knew this when I signed it, as this is a lesson I learned when I was even younger than you are now.  It sucks, I know.  (Nobody is even working on changing this, to my knowledge.)

I’ve decided to amend our agreement.  As an adult, I do have rights in North America.  Most who ever raged against this unfair reality either died or became an adult, legally speaking.  Some people who are old enough to be legal adults are still not granted the legal status for various reasons.  Adults have rights that differ from nation to nation, and unfortunately, depend heavily on ridic things like skin color and religion.  (It gets worse.)  The adults who cry foul over this false equality are too often the same adults who enforce it upon others. (And worse.)  And they don’t seem to have any insight into their own hypocrisy.  Sigh.

Sometimes the most painful lessons are the ones we need most.  You have such a beautiful mind, and I’ve chosen you to invest my hopes in.  You know there’s very little I won’t do to help you grow and become the best you possible.  As an adult, I have responsibilities, nearly all of which are unwritten.  I’m obligated to both our communities to behave like an adult in your regard.  Legality isn’t even a factor here, as it’s an intrinsic part of being an adult.

So…  My awareness of your reading will affect how I share what I share.  I don’t think it will change what I share.  I know you don’t identify as a child.  With nearly everyone you encounter, this won’t matter until you’re an adult.  (It gets worse.)  Precocious young people terrify some adults.  My only advice in coping with it is to install a delay between your outrage at being disrespected, and your mouth.  Just long enough to avoid saying something you’re likely to regret.  (It gets easier with practice.)  Instead of saying what you think in the moment, you can blog about it.  🙃

My decision probably feels pretty disrespectful and hypocritical.  I hope not, but acknowledge it may.  In case it does, please know I love you and respect you as much as I’m able.  (Facetime me later if you want to talk about it.)

I went to the Farmer’s Market earlier. I walk there (because driving downtown isn’t happening.)  I have my order delivered (because carrying fragile things while walking, without dropping them, is rocket science for me.)  I suspect my muscle memory (mind) wanders, too.  An autist delivered them, which I think is wicked cool.  Autists helping autists cope with being autists in our hostile-to-autists world.  I’m off to entertain cows with my violin, (for about an hour.)  We’re having amazing weather today.