The five year old can read. It's adorable to watch him sound out all the words in the "Bob" books. He can also write. He's been working hard on a letter to Santa. We've been working hard to decipher it and read it phonetically. We're almost there. He can also count. Mostly. Usually up to ten. Except he skips ten and goes to sixteen, back to fourteen, and then who knows from there.
During dinner my kids and I were sharing counting stories. Apparently, my ten year old could count to 100 by the time he was three. In fact, 3 was a banner year for him. Most of his accomplishments (in retrospect) happened "when I was 3."
My weirdly photographic memory places me outside with two older girls, sometime before I moved to the small, unincorporated town. This places my age somewhere around 5 or 6. The older girls were having a competition to see who could count the highest. I wanted to join in, too. I already knew how high I could count. It was pretty high. When it was my turn, I showed off my great and enviable skills.
I counted all the way to 29. I was so proud.
At the end of my story, one of my children quipped, "Oh! That's why you keep having birthdays and never get older than 29! You still can't count any higher!"