There is a specific, quiet discomfort in the moment your child outsmarts you.
I spent years being the "Oracle."
In the beginning, my children looked up to me as a god. Later, that shifted to disdain, and eventually, a sort of weary acceptance.
Throughout it all, I maintained a secret, internal monologue: "I may not say it out loud, but I still know more than you."
I watched them grow.
They became widely read.
They collected more passport stamps than I ever did.
They climbed higher mountains and faced challenges I never had to touch.
But I still clung to my status as the Final Authority.
Until the "Reluctant Admission" happened.
It wasn't a debate about geopolitics or career strategy. It was a spelling correction. My daughter pointed out that I've been misspelling "just deserts" my entire life.
I argued. I was certain. It's a reward (or a punishment), so it must be "desserts," right? Like the sweet course?
Wrong.
It comes from "deserve." One 's'.
If you don't believe me—and honestly, part of me wishes you wouldn't—the team at Merriam-Webster has the receipts.
So, to my daughter: I admit it. The Oracle has retired. You were right, and I was wrong.
It turns out the hardest thing to learn isn't a new spelling—it's how to let go of being the person who knows everything.
Please tell me I'm not the only one who has been confidently wrong about something basic for decades. What's your 'just deserts' moment?