Recently my twelve-year-old daughter said to me out of nowhere:
"When I grow up I want to marry a man who is smart. But not too smart. Daddy smart."
I wondered, how does she know how smart Mike Brady* is? She doesn’t really understand what he does for a living. None of us do, quite frankly. Mike helps her study for tests at school, so she sees he’s smart in 6th grade science and social studies. Perhaps that’s it. She also sees how well he works the TVs, Xbox, and Wii in the house. If having a green thumb means you’re smart, then Mike Brady would be in Mensa and I’d be in special ed. Maybe she notices that and has forgotten about her shirts he’s ruined doing the laundry. He can’t seem to decipher the care instructions. Ever. After the third shirt he ruined, I begged him never to do our laundry again. At the time, I thought he wasn’t smart at all. Now I’m not so sure.
Mike likes to say I’m smarter than he is. But then he’ll point out that it was very smart of him to marry a woman smarter than him. Lately though I don’t feel so smart. I’ve gotten lost recently. Twice. This is extremely upsetting to me. I fear it’s the start of dementia or a brain tumor.
“I’ve always had an excellent sense of direction!” I cry.
“Just decent,” Mike corrects me.
Despite my current mental decline, Mike still maintains his wife is smarter than he is. Which makes him one of the smartest men around.
*Not my husband's real name but one he reluctantly agreed I could use for this blog.