Jack was studying for a science test. I had scanned the material he was studying and as I was folding laundry I started to quiz him on the phases of cellular mitosis. "Okay," I asked, "What happens during Anaphase?"
"Hey, how do you know this stuff?"
"I know you think you're smart, but where do you think you get those smarts from?"
I should know better than to ask a stupid question. He didn't even hesitate, "Dad."
"What? Dad?!" I cried, flabbergasted.
He backpedaled. "I don't mean I get ALL my smarts from Dad. Just MOST of them." He was not being sarcastic in the least. He means everything he says very literally. I knew he believed it to be true and was trying not to hurt my feelings.
I gave him an out. "Okay, I know you mean that you and Dad are both strong in math, but I'm good at things, too. Different things. Do you know what I'm good at?"
Again without hesitation, "Housework?"
I was shocked like Mr. Darcy after Elizabeth Bennett's rejection, "So this is your opinion of me?" I started to argue with him and then reconsidered. Why did I need to justify my intelligence to a 10-year-old? This is what you get for sacrificing a career to follow your husband around the country. Dad is the smart one and Mom does the laundry. Great.
I retreated to my position of power, "Just go upstairs and brush your teeth and get in bed!"
Realizing that the whole conversation was funny, I related the story to Greg the next day when he returned from an out-of-town trip (probably conferring with a brain-trust or whatever it is "smart" people do when we dunces are at home drooling in our oatmeal.)
Greg thought it was funny for a completely different reason. "Wait," he laughed, "Jack thinks you're good at housework?"