I thoroughly enjoy my brief window of being all but worshipped by my children. I am all powerful, capable of righting any wrong and healing any wound.

I remember the exact moment I lost this magic sense of wonder about my father. I was maybe 7 or 8, and some small appliance had broken and he couldn't fix it. My dad was pretty handy, and up until that moment I thought he could fix anything. When he threw up his hands on this project, I blinked with disbelief. Could it be he was...gasp!...merely human? Capable of failure?  The revelation was genuinely shocking.

But my 3-year-old still thinks I am so much more than I am.

At lunch the other day, he protested the meal of the day. It was nasty, he declared, and folded his arms over the bowl.

"No it's not," I said. "Eat."

J. shook his head emphatically. "It is," he insisted. "Look."

He proceeded to shovel a bite into his mouth, screwed up his face in disgust, and then looked at me, palms up and shoulders shrugged.  "See?"

"It's fine and I want you to eat your lunch," I said.

J. was incredulous. "No, look!" he said, and took another bite, then shuddered. "See?"

It took me a minute to realize J. was certain he had proved his point because he thought I could taste what he was chewing. Surely if he was grossed out by what was in his mouth, I must somehow have been able to psychicly connect to his tastebuds to feel what he felt and taste what he tasted.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I don't have that particular psychic mom vibe. I do, however, have a soft heart, so I gave him an apple and excused him from the table.