Even if that is the benchmark, I'm still pretty convinced of this kid's smarts. It's not uncommon for us to get pretty wrapped up in deep conversations about baseball, the cosmos and/or how we'd react if our neighbors started hitting toilets over into our yard like tennis balls. (We'd cry.)
Sometimes, it gets a little out of hand. A couple of weeks ago, we were discussing the Rookie and trying to determine whether he/she would be a boy or a girl.
Finn: "Maybe we'll have a boy and a girl? Because you're having a baby too."
Me: "Actually, Mommy and I are just having one. We made one together."
Finn: "How did you do that?"
How did we end up here? That's not cool. I'm not ready for this. Let's get back to discussing why home plate is the only base that doesn't have "base" in its name.
Me: "Um, we'll talk about that some other time."
Finn: "I want to talk about it now."
Me: "Um, no. Um, we're having hot dogs. Eat your hot dog."
Luckily that was the end of the conversation, probably because I reached over and stuffed the hot dog into his face, and he hasn't brought it up again. And perhaps that's because this was just a brief moment of clarity in an otherwise toilet-tennis life.
Kitty had an appointment tonight, so I took him out for our semi-regular Daddy/Finny pizza night, during which we played pinball, drank beer/apple juice and had some great conversations about his friends at school. On our way out to the car, he stopped at the side of the road and turned his foot sideways on the ground.
Me: "Finn, what are you doing? We need to cross the road."
Finn, in a slow Southern drawl: "I had to put my skin down on the road."
Me: "Um, why did have you have to do that?"
At this point he slowly looked up at me and while staring me straight in the eyes just said: "Just had to put my skin on it. Rub a dub dub." And then he started walking away.
Now that's the kind of four-year-old conversation that I can handle. Rub a dub dub indeed.