Title: Who the Bleep cares about your genius child?
By: Selma Carvalho
Source: Goan Voice UK Daily Newsletter 26 Sept. 2010 at www.goanvoice.org.uk
I'm going to bash my head against the school wall, the next time a
school-mum tells me about her genius child, which mind you would be every
day. It seems every school mum has a genius child apart from being a child
prodigy in art, a virtuoso in music and a David Beckham of sports.
It's bad enough that I suffer from constant invasion of the super-skinny
supermodels that convince me the world is populated by thin, glamorous women
on stick, who go on to have three kids by Seal or some aging rock star and
then have fabulous careers on the side. If that isn't enough to give me a
serious hunchback with the chip I'm carrying on my shoulder, I now have to
contend with these super-mums who are all raising the next Einstein. Does
anyone have normal, average kids anymore?
"I bought a lovely blouse for my daughter" I say.
"Oh really, I have to shop for two sizes larger for my child." Comes the
reply.
"Goody, you're raising a giant" I say, watching her pipsqueak disappear
behind her skirt.
"Lauren really likes reading." I say.
"Gundu is doing so well in his reading, his teachers are amazed. They just
can't believe how intelligent he is."
"Great, has Mensa called yet?" I ask naively, watching Gundu pick boogers
from his nose.
"I've enrolled Lauren in a theatre class" I volunteer nervously.
"Timmy went last year. Now he can order pizza like Lawrence Olivier," comes
the reply.
"That's wonderful. I'm hoping Lauren learns to tell the teacher she wants to
potty." I respond, keeping my expectations to the bare minimum as usual.
I'm not a hit in the school-yard fraternity of "Mum With Gifted Kids".
I don't have a genius child, and I suspect neither do they. I have an
average, normal child who thinks body functions are funny and can be easily
lured or bribed, depending on the occasion, with chocolates.
What is this obsessive need to believe kids are so special? Alright, I'm
pretty sure we're all genetically designed to believe our kids are special,
otherwise we'd abandon them on a river-bank somewhere, much like kittens,
and hope to pick them up when they turn 18. It's only the sliver of hope
that we are raising potentially good and gifted people that goads us on into
taking them for theatre classes and after-school math, without seriously
contemplating doing recreational drugs. But in our hearts, we know the
actual potential of our child; surely we must know. Otherwise somewhere out
there is a room where the dreams of all velvet track-pant clad school mums
go to die, as their kids turn into boring accountants and construction site
managers.
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