Theory of Evolution

I am quite certain I have produced offspring which are better adapted for the changing environment than I am. I have a 10-year-old who can explain Newtons Laws of Motion, and a six-year-old who told me today he learned multiplication at school with the second graders. I am joining the ranks of genetically obsolete and intellectually inferior species than successive generations. My grandchildren will likely grow wings and fly to the grocery store, instead of walking on the common ground like the rest of us. 

It should come as no surprise, then, that my youngest made me wonder if I should commit myself to Neanderthal Science as a subject of study first thing in the morning when she asked me, "Mommy, what comes after sticky?"

Um. *blink* Ummmm. Sticky. I repeat the question in my feeble mind, then aloud, just to be sure I heard correctly. 

"Sticky what?"

"You know: Sticky. What. Comes. After. Sticky." (Carefully annunciated so I can process each word individually.)

This question is coming from a three-year-old blonde missile who is uncomfortably familiar with various viscosities of "sticky". 

"Wash your face and hands? Washing comes after sticky."

She stares at me for a moment with a blank expression, as if trying to figure out how I missed left field so completely that I'm not even in the free parking 2 miles from the stadium. I can see her trying to decide if it is worth her while to bother repeating the question, or perhaps she should ask to borrow my iPhone to watch 'Daniel Tiger' and secretly Google her question. Somehow, she decides that--if nothing else--she may gain some additional amusement from seeing what nonsense her less-evolved mother might come up with. 

She takes a deep breath, and re-states her question slowly and clearly.

"Mommy. What comes . . . after . . . sticky."

I cast about for a reference, some semblance of context to form my response around. What comes after . . . before? 

"Well, what comes before sticky?"

Again, an uncomfortable stare. I have flashbacks to high school trigonometry, or whatever class it was that our teacher was trying to help me understand the value of imaginary numbers. My answer was always reaching towards the theory that, since they are imaginary, they can be whatever I needed them to be to get the correct answer and pass the quiz, which I never did. I ended up taking remedial algebra and finally convinced Will Brenneman that as long as I could consistently balance my checkbook, I would faithfully use a calculator for any other necessary calculation. Or Google it. 

She looks out the window for a moment, as if she can feel her wing buds sprouting out her back. She is clearly annoyed. 

She gathers her patience, turns back to me and gently, ever so gently, explains the context of her question.

"You know. Twenty. Firty. Forty. Fifty. Sticky. What comes," she pauses to make sure I'm still with her, "after sticky?"

It takes me a moment to C.O.M.P.L.E.T.E.L.Y. reorient myself to her question. I feel relief flooding me like baptism. I know this one. 

"Seventy!"

I am triumphant. Perhaps I will be smarter than her for another year.