My mind reminds me of a bog, or tar pit. Memories of days gone by are sort of mummified in the depths, forever preserved, and every now and then a bubble of shifting gas brings something long buried to the surface.
Okay, that metaphor needs work.
My point is, I was watching Babby knock blocks together and then suddenly laughed out loud as I dredged up this old memory:
I am a bored teenager, pawing through my parents’ bookshelves for something I haven’t read a zillion times. On a high shelf I find a book about how to raise and nurture your gifted child!
I walk around feeling good about myself for a while, and then casually mention it to my mother.
Me: “Hey, Mum, I spotted this book about raising gifted kids on the shelf. Why do you have that?”
Mum: “Oh! I bought it when you were little, just in case I ever needed it.”
Mum: “I didn’t.”