“They’re not necessary, Ma,” my daughter told me. “You’re the only one who still uses yours”

M

any years ago, I was driving upstate on Route 42 and wondered how much farther it was to our destination. I didn’t realize I actually spoke those words aloud until a little voice in the back seat piped up and asked if I knew where I was going.

“I can tell you where to go,” he offered, all of six years old.

“I know where to go,” I told him. “What did you think I did before you were born?”

I glanced at the rearview mirror and caught the flash of alarm on his face. I was certain I could hear him think it was an absolute miracle I survived long enough to give birth to him.

Fast forward many years, and while I’ve learned to keep my thoughts silent in the presence of my children for many reasons other than bonus driving directions, I’ve realized that children often believe they are Heaven-sent navigators for their clearly witless parents. They get savvier as they get older, their advice given in hints dropped like breadcrumbs in a forest.

And lest you think I miss these breadcrumbs because the birds get to them first, I have realized long ago that I am the bird.

It’s only fair I spread the wisdom.