Dear Professor Black

I recently found out that Jack Black’s parents are rocket scientists. Since I am a goof ball who has somehow given birth to a future physicist, and I find it comforting that this particular cosmic joke plays both ways—but I also sympathize. I can just picture Jack’s proud parents giving him his first chemistry set, and Jack using it to make fake farts.

I can also imagine the questions Jack’s poor mother had to answer.

From the neighbors:
When did you first notice he was . . . different?
Where on earth does he get his wonderful sense of humor?
Be honest, do you hot house him, forcing him to watch endless re-runs of Saturday Night Live?
Have you always secretly wanted to be funny?

From random strangers in stores:
Does he understand that what he's saying is hilarious?
Did you eat something funny during your pregnancy?
Can you say something funny?

From his preschool teachers:
Do you put pressure on him to be the class clown?
Perhaps if Jack spent less time making people laugh, he would be better at rocket science.
(I know. That's not really a question.)

These are the questions I would ask Prof. Black about raising Jack:
Did you ever feel at a loss, wondering how you could nurture such a prodigious talent?
Did Jack have trouble fitting in with the other rocket scientists’ kids?
Did you ever worry Jack would one day be bored by you?
Are you intimidated by the circles Jack moves in today?

One question I wouldn't have to ask:
Professor Black, are you proud of your son?