My son chooses to test my brilliance any time we watch a movie, particularly period pieces. We'll be in the throes of the Civil War and he'll turn
to me and ask, "Mom, was Abraham Lincoln a nice guy?""Well, gee, let me think, son. It's been a while since old Abe and I had coffee together and you know how my memory is these days," I'll reply. And he'll sit and wait for my
answer, mentally picturing me in my royal blue sweat suit with Boris and Natasha preparing to blow up the moose and squirrel on the front and Abe in his stovepipe hat passing the cream and asking, "Hey Carole, are you going to eat
the rest of that doughnut?"
I suppose I should be flattered he believes my areas of expertise are unlimited. He thinks I possess the answer to all questions, from why the moon has phases to where the Ark of the
Covenant is currently secreted.
Diametrically opposed to my son's contention that his mother is all-knowing and all-seeing is my daughter who, although loving, is already laboring under the burden of knowing her mother is a
fountain of arcane knowledge. She doesn't deny that I know a few things, but it's all dismissed as irrelevant to this modern age.
She easily acknowledges my superiority in knowing the words and songs of musicians who
clearly do not hold a candle to the belly-button baring superstars she worships. Hokey old musicians such as Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Simon and Garfunkle, Billy Joel and Smokey Robinson are obviously not on a par with such
media giants as Sugar Ray or Pink (which she insists are performers, but were a prize fighter and a color the last time I looked).
She's also assured that while I can occasionally produce a passable dinner, I'm certainly no
match for her in the taste department. The clothes I pick out are usually dismissed as "gaggy" and I also know nothing of hair. What looks to me like an uncombed head, I am informed, is merely cutting edge with the middle school
set. Fortunately for her, I am no threat in the clothing department, preferring to keep my navel – of which there is decidedly more than there used to be – and my hair – of which there is, sadly, less – firmly under wraps. It's an
arrangement that suits us both.
The little girl that once asked me why the earth spins on an axis instead of straight up and down and patiently waited for an answer now knows I haven't a clue. Most of the questions she
directs toward me these days start with the words, "Can I have…."
And my son, who in a routine day will ask what color fingernail polish Cleopatra wore, why water boils, who was the smartest man who ever lived, why the sky
is blue, how long it takes to become really good at playing the drums and the reason girls are so bossy, thinks I know the answer to everything. Of course, in a way he's right. I give him an answer to every question he asks, even
if I haven't a clue. I just say, "Go ask your father."
Who knows? Maybe I am the smartest woman on earth, after all.
