Phoebe Kate

So today, the KITH (Kid in The House) comes home from school and asks me, “What’s Betty Berg’s address?”

“Who???” I ask in return.

“Betty Berg.”

“Betty who???”

“BETTY BERG!” the KITH shouts at me with typical 11-year-old impatience.  “You know her.  What’s her address?”

“I don’t know any Betty Berg.  And I certainly have no idea where she lives.”

“Everybody knows Betty Berg.  She’s famous.”

“What does she do?  Is she some new actress or rock star or something?”

“No, I don’t know what she does.  But she’s famous because of her address.”

“Because of where she lives???” 

(Now I’ve known people who claimed they lived in the Dakota, the NYC apartment building where John Lennon & Yoko Ono lived, or with Hef in the Playboy mansion during a brief career as a Bunny, or with Sean Penn or Johnny Depp or whoever in a Malibu beach house or a Soho loft or a 40-foot cabin cruiser in the Caribbean, or with a ghost of a disgruntled Confederate general in a Savannah mansion.  I take all these claims about as seriously as Betty Berg’s.)

“Yeah,” says the KITH.  “Everybody knows her address.”  Kids of 11 love to make the adults in their world feel stupid.  It’s hotwired into them at birth, along with stubbornness, sneakiness and an insatiable fondness for all things sweet.

“So where did you hear about Betty Berg?” I inquire.

“In school.”

“In what class?”

“History.”

AHA!!!!  The lightbulb clicks on above this blonde-with-dark-roots-and-streaks-of-gray middle-aged head.  Hey, I wasn’t born yesterday.

“History?  Betty Berg’s address?  Do you mean the Gettysburg Address?” 

The Kith blinks and blinks again.  “Oh, yeah.  That’s it.”

“Oh, okay.  So what did you learn about the Gettysburg Address today?”

The Kith looks at me like I’ve just grown a horn in the center of my forehead and replies, “Nothing,” and walks off.

And this child is in the gifted class at her elementary school. 

I said GIFTED, not special.

Sheeeeesh….

 –phoebe kate