My child is unquestionably a genius. This was apparent even in the womb. From the very date of his conception, we hired out the Stadtpfeifer nightly to play Le Quattro Stagioni directly into my wife's uterus (to preserve his mother's dignity, I will refrain from describing in too much detail the manner by which we ingeniously used a large ear horn to amplify the concerto for the wombling's budding ears).
Several months into his gestation, this embryonic prodigy had already composed several minuets simply by plucking, scraping, and hammering upon his taut umbilical cord. A group of notable critics, including the Kappellmeister of the local parish, gathered for an intimate performance between my wife's thighs and all remarked that the harmonics the lad achieved---despite the embyonic fluid---were nothing less than sublime. Of course, they were also highly complimentary towards my wife's excellent acoustics.
On the day of his birth, the child emerged, quill in hand, with a newly-completed operetta written on the placental wall. Titled Ihr Tanz Herz, he dedicated the piece to his mother. It has been said that Joseph Haydn, upon first hearing it, declared he was done composing. Forever.
When he was just eighteen-months-old, he composed a 483-line satirical poem directed towards a jealous 17-year-old Count in Bratislava who dared suggest that the adagio of his first symphony was derived from a sonata by Johann Joachim Quantz. The poem, Die Zuhälter der Petržalka ("The Pimp of Petržalka"), was published widely throughout the Empire (and beyond); both Goethe and Schiller traveled to our village to hear his thoughts on blank verse.
When he was two-years old, the Empress herself invited him to the Schloss Schönbrunn, where he delighted her entire court with his original Ode to Summer (composed for the occasion) playing the violin with his hands and a tiny harpsichord with his toes (while blindfolded and with wax in his ears). At the end of his performance, he burst through the gauntlet of applauding admirers and leaped into the arms of the Empress, who, when asked if she considered the performance as good as the one young Mozart had given years earlier, simply replied, "Mozart who?"
And now, at the ripe old age of three, the child has declared that he is bored with being a famous composer. What, pray tell, is next for our budding polymath? Astronomy? Sculpture? Classical languages? Golf? After observing the little cretins prattling about in the gifted and talented program at the local public school, we are looking for a suitable tutor. Such a shame Sir Isaac Newton is dead. We may send away to the Orient for one of those Mandarin Tiger mothers.
[Who packs a Size 3 frock coat and breeches with a colonial-era wig on vacation? We do, that's who. Our costume-loving son had a blast exploring the Schönbrunn's rooms and grounds, bringing all that stuffy old history to life]