Can You Know?

I am a mom.  I know everything.

Perhaps I am merely a legend in my own mind, but according to my little people, I am the go-to gal for information.  I know what we’re having for dinner.  I know where Lennon’s purple blanket is.  I know how many more times the dvd player will play “Astro Boy” before it closes for the night.

(What, your dvd doesn’t have operational hours?  Pretty much everything around us closes at an inopportune time as far as my kids know.  It would be awesome if no one told them that the ocean is, in fact, open on Mondays.  Thanks.)

I am fully aware that one day my omniscience will come to an abrupt end.  That day almost came too early.  I, the all-knowing mama, did not know the answer recently to one of Jack’s many questions. 

Jack was nonplussed.  “Can you know?”

He was insistent.  The chance that I did not actually know the desired information was not even a consideration.  To Jack, mama knows all.  Period.  He will repeat his questions over and over… and over… and over.  I think he’s convinced I’m just holding out on him, and if he puts the screws to me I’ll eventually either give up or accidently let the truth slip out. 

As much as I want my children to accept my failings as a mere human being, I don’t know if I’m ready for that crushing reality just yet.  I have decided that until Jack is older, I am going to answer these persistent questions with random numbers. 

“Mama, can you know?  Now?”

“Eleven.”

“Huh.  Ok.”

It makes no sense, but it quiets him for a bit.  Maybe he’s mulling over the essential importance of eleven.  Maybe he’s got me figured out.  I hope not.  Not yet.