“I don’t suppose you read that article on prehistoric ticks today?” my husband asked provocatively from our bed the other night as I readied myself to join him.

“Did you say ticks?” I clarified while donning my negligee. And, by “donning my negligee,” I mean smelling the t-shirt I wore for the previous three nights to decide whether I could justify wearing it again.

“Ticks,” Greg confirmed.

“Like blood sucking, Lyme disease giving, parasitic ticks?” I grabbed a clean t-shirt. Very come-hither of me, I know.

“Yes!” Greg replied enthusiastically. “Except prehistoric, bigger than a softball, and they fed on dinosaurs!”

“Oh, those kind of ticks. That sounds like exactly the kind of article I would normally read, but, sadly, I somehow missed it.” It’s very important to me to always be supportive.

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Greg replied. He sounded grumpy.

It’s been a few days, so I’ve had some time to reflect. I have to say, I’m still not sure there was no need for sarcasm. I mean, it seems like there was a teeny, tiny, modern-day-tick-sized need for sarcasm.

Or maybe I’m just defensive because my husband is smarter than me. It’s hard to say for sure.

Generally, I console myself about the he’s-smarter-than-me thing with the knowledge that I can cross streets with less liklihood of getting smashed by a car than Greg can. After all, not becoming a pedestrian pancake is easier when you don’t have to think about quadratic equations or quantum physics or other words with the letter “Q” in them. (Psst… I haven’t used the letter Q in years.)

Sometimes, though, I’m not so happy being the less smart one.

I was smack dab in the middle of pondering whether my life is less rich for failing to equal Greg’s ecstasy over giant prehistoric ticks when Abby told me she needed help with her middle school math assignment last night. I sighed a longsuffering sigh before I closed my laptop and got up to help her. By default (aka, a distinct lack of interest from volunteers), I’ve been the Queen of Homework Help for years and years. I know it’s mostly an honorary position, but there are still some obligations that come with the role. For example, I’m expected to stand up, walk to the homework table, and scratch my head in confusion. I wield a crazy amount of power.

“What are you doing, Mom?” she asked when she saw me upright and ambling toward her.

“Ummm…” (I’m beginning to suspect that more and more of Abby’s questions are rhetorical these days.) “I’m helping you with homework?”

“What?? Why?!”

“Because you just said you need help?”

“Mom,” Abby chided. “I said I need help with math. You can’t help me with math. Because it’s math. I need Dad to help me.”

Huh.

So.

I guess it’s official aside from the coronation celebration.

I’ve been usurped.

Greg is the Emperor of Middle School Math.

And also Prehistoric Ticks.

Which only leaves one question, really.

Who’s the smart one now, babe? Who’s the smart one now?