By Jack, 7

I walk into the kitchen and Mom is just… standing there. Oblivious. Living her life. Not knowing the things I know. And honestly, it’s time someone helped her.

I clear my throat. Loudly. Twice.
She doesn’t look up.
This is already going poorly.

So I step directly into her line of sight and say, “Mom. I need to tell you something. It might take you a minute… but I think you’ll get it.”

She blinks at me like she’s confused, which is exactly what I expected.

I cross my arms. This is going to be a lot for her.

“Okay,” I say, lowering my voice like I’m about to reveal state secrets. “So you know Iron Man.”

She nods. Too fast. She clearly doesn’t know.

“Right,” I say, “so… Iron Man is called Iron Man because—”
I pause for dramatic effect.
She doesn’t gasp.
Rude.

“Because his suit… is made of metal.”
I wait.
Nothing.

I try again, slower. “Metal. Like… iron.”
I tap the counter to help her brain along.

She still looks normal. Not amazed. Not even a little overwhelmed. This is concerning.

So I lean in, eyebrows raised, and deliver the final blow:

“And then he’s… duh… a man.”

I spread my hands like I’ve just solved world hunger.

Mom just stares at me.
She doesn’t even say thank you.

So I keep going, because clearly she needs more help.

“Like, if he was made of wood, he’d be Wood Man. If he was made of plastic, he’d be Plastic Man. If he was made of LEGOs, he’d be LEGO Man. But he’s not. He’s iron. And a man. Iron Man.”

I nod slowly so she can absorb it.

She still isn’t reacting, so I add, “I just thought you should know. In case you ever talk to someone about superheroes and don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

Then I walk away, shaking my head, because honestly…
Being the smartest person in the house is exhausting.