It is time to sell my daughter to the gypsies, for she has officially reached the age where her toys are too complicated for me to figure out.
I consider myself a reasonably intelligent human; I hold several degrees; I have been tying my own shoes for years.
I have been bested by a pony. Chickadee was relying on me to make all clear, and I spent an hour with the directions and the knitting needles uttering useful things like “well THAT can’t be right” and “the hand in the picture is doing something that I’m pretty sure is impossible unless you have more than the usual number of fingers.” Thankfully, she was a good sport about my stupidity.
Perhaps in an attempt to convince myself that I really am an adult, later in the evening I ended up having not one but MULTIPLE conversations about whether or not “size matters.” (With other adults, sicko. I won’t be having that conversation with my daughter for years, yet.) Because when you cannot triumph over a yarn pony, it’s time to spend a few hours contemplating penises. Apparently.
I had an incredibly busy (and in some ways, illuminating) day. And yet, this is all I have for you.
I am one big waste of brain cells, sometimes.