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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.”

Me: “Yeah?”

Mum: “I didn’t.”

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