There comes a time in every person's life when she becomes convinced of something both thrilling and terrifying: That she might, in fact, have outsmarted her parents.

For me, it was when I was a teenager, and it was quickly squashed. "What did you do last night?" my dad asked on a Saturday morning.

"Oh, you know, the usual. We went bowling, got some pizza, home by curfew."

The truth: Well, I'm sure I ate pizza at some point.

For a few minutes, I actually got away with it.

"Hmpf," Dad nodded, and resumed reading the paper. Ha! Outsmarted the folks.

And then, my house of cards crashed. "What did you score?" Dad asked.

I actually hadn't gone bowling since my friends stopped having birthday parties at alleys about age 7. In that panic-laced moment, I couldn't remember anything about bowling other than ugly shoes and teeny tiny pencils. "I did really well. Got a 25."

The newspaper crumpled to Dad's lap, and he glared at me with what my mom refers to as "the hairy eyeball."

Busted!

The day Emma believed she outsmarted me came much earlier in life.

She flew off the bus after afternoon kindergarten, a grin splitting her face and trilling about the coupon for a free Happy Meal she won at school.

"Dinner's on me, tonight!" she shouted.

"Sorry, kiddo," I told her. "I already have dinner planned. You're having salad and grilled chicken tonight." I reminded her that the only vegetable she had eaten all day was a bite of cucumber at lunch. No

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way was she getting McDonald's for dinner, but maybe we'd get the Happy Meal later in the week, I told her.

This, of course, led to a lengthy discussion about how I ruined her life. The lament ended abruptly, much sooner than earlier in the day when I forced the poor child to wear socks.

Emma ducked into the playroom for a while and re-emerged holding a piece of paper. Across the top, written neatly in crayon, was her name.

Below it, in green, was a drawing of a cucumber with a single bite missing. Around that were a lot of swirls and squiggling lines.

She handed it to me and turned to walk away. "What's this?" I asked.

"A note from my doctor," she said, not quite looking at me in the face.

The handwriting wasn't too far off. "What does it say?"

"That a bite of cucumber gives me all the vitamins I need in a day." She sighed. "So I guess we can go to McDonald's after all."

"Huh," I said. Emma's face lit like a lamp. Her mouth twitched with the smug smile she was suppressing. "Ha!" I could almost hear her thinking.

I flipped through my magazine. "What's her name?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Your doctor."

A long pause later, Emma mumbled, "Dr. Vegetable."

I swallowed a laugh, which came out like a choking snort. "I better call her, just to double check. What's the number?" I flipped open my cell phone and looked to Emma.

"Uhhh . . . 1-800-000000000."

She watched, eyes wide and mouth gaping, as I punched in the numbers. Just as my thumb hovered over "send," she blurted, "I made it up!"

Emma didn't get the hairy eyeball. I was too impressed with her creativity to do anything but tickle torture her.

But that night, as she glumly chewed her chicken and carrots, I had to wonder if my folks got the same sick satisfaction from all the times they outsmarted me.

And then I remembered: She's only 5.

Beth Vrabel lives in West Manchester Township with her children, Emma, 5, and Benny, 2. Read more Smart Mama columns at www.SmartMamaPA.com.


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