The thing that is hard about raising Simon is remembering his age. Right now he is 5 years old. He’s a 5-year-old. Kindergarten-age. Where they eat glue and wet their pants because they are afraid to ask to go to the bathroom (if they are in school).
But it gets confusing when the kid who cannot tell which side of his shirt is the front and which is the back is also saying things like, “Now, how many seconds are in an hour? Sixty times sixty? So three thousand six hundred? Oh, yes, that is right.” (<—-True story.)
So you see where the difficulty lies. We don’t know how much credit to give him. Is he really capable of giving people accurate directions? He has the whole subway map memorized . . . . But then, do you want to trust someone whose idea of humor is saying things like, “The sky is . . . RED!”?
Yeah, probably not.
That’s where we’re at these days with that kid. He’s 5. Except for when he’s 50. And it’s a little bit difficult to reconcile the two.