I am thirty-six years old – thirty-seven on Sunday, if you’re the birthday-wishing type. Which means that I’m an old man, or relatively old – relative to, say, Mia. And I have read tens – nay, low hundreds – of books in those thirty-seven years, some of them numbering as many as 300 pages, many of them chapter books! I do not boast; it is just the truth. I am a phenomenal reader. Easily among the top two in my house.
But not for long. One year ago, Mia walked into kindergarten with a pretty good handle on the alphabet and the ability to read, like, simple five-word sentences. Yesterday? She read “The Wizard of Oz.” 200 pages.
Yesterday.
So, to recap, three takeaways: I am getting old; my six-year-old is smarter than me; and my six-year-old is smarter than me.
