I’m painting in my new writer’s haven (read: small corner office in our barn). Isaac is standing right beside me, which is apparently his favorite place.
“Careful Dad, that’s a wasp.”
“It’s a spider, Isaac.”
“No it isn’t. It’s a little wasp.”
“It’s a spider.”
“Son, I’ve been alive for 40 years now, and I’ve seen my share of spiders and wasps. It’s a spider.”
“Dad, I’ve seen tons of wasps. Don’t tell me. It’s a wasp.”
He puts a protective little hand on my arm. “Be careful. He might sting you.”
I always figured they’d realize soon enough that they’re smarter than me, but I always thought my age advantage would carry some weight with them at least into their teenage years. Oh well.