My son’s a genius, and I think it’s because I’m so awesome.

Really.

Look, I’m the first to assert that serial killers, bullies, and medievalists are the fault of their parents. So may I take credit for the following?

Peanut and I were talking last night, in a rare moment of the-toddler-fell-asleep-early-and-we-can-take-a-breath-and-have-a-normal-bedtime bliss. We talked about the Universe’s vastness and how the outrageously ginormous solar system is relatively diminutive. We talked about the SETI Project and ways they’re listening for life beyond the planet. We talked about how life elsewhere might look like germs or octopi or monsters, and my brilliant six-year-old interrupts me.

“Mom,” he says. “If we find something out there, if it’s germs or aliens or fish, they’re going to think *they* are people and that we are aliens.”

My dear, sweet, amazingly empathetic six-year-old: you just surmised, all by yourself, what I hoped to teach you over the course of your young life. Look at the situation with someone else’s eyes.

I marveled at his revelation, and, for good measure, threw in a bit of “that’s why when we think of ‘other’ people from another culture or country or who look different, we need to remember they’re people, too, and we need to see things their way.” But I didn’t need to. Because I’ve already done such a good job that he’s wise beyond his years in such matters.

My work here is done, people. I think I just earned a leisurely evening of confections and John Hughes films for my awesome luck parenting.