Or, That Time My Child Assessed My Career and Intelligence with Surgical Precision… In Public

We interrupt our usual programming of DC Metro drama, escalator traffic jams, faregate-flying acrobatics, and unsolicited saxophone solos to bring you this week’s confession—a tale not about a train delay, but about a five-year-old derailment of my self-esteem.

This wasn’t a delay caused by a mechanical issue, a sick passenger, or “train traffic ahead” (a lie, by the way—Metro just likes to make us feel trapped). No, this was an existential delay—caused by my own daughter, in front of an increasingly interested audience, while we rode the Green Line like it was her personal TED Talk platform.

The offender? Abby.
Age? Five.
Occupation? Freelance philosopher, part-time interrogator, full-time confidence assassin.

She is brilliant, she is curious, and she is deeply committed to the art of asking questions designed to shatter your pride and expose your intellectual limitations in front of strangers.

It Started With a Star

It always does, doesn’t it? With a star.

We had just found seats on a moderately crowded train heading home. I was minding my business, holding her lunchbox, internally celebrating our rare seating victory (window seats!), and praying she wouldn’t start a loud monologue about poop like she did last Tuesday.

Instead, she went full Neil deGrasse Tyson on me.

Abby: “When a star goes supernova, it becomes a black hole, right?”

Oh. Okay.
We’re not doing colors or snacks or “Why don’t pigeons have jobs?” today. We’re doing stellar death cycles.
Cool, cool, cool.

Now, I’ve read books. I’ve watched Cosmos. I know my neutron stars from my white dwarfs, thank you.
This is my moment.

Me: When a massive star runs out of nuclear fuel, it undergoes a supernova explosion. “Not every star becomes a black hole. It has to be very, very massive—at least ten times heavier than our sun, and probably more—to collapse into one after it explodes.”

What’s left behind depends on the mass of the core (post-supernova), not just the original star.

💥 If the remaining core is:

• < 1.4 solar masses → It may become a white dwarf (if the explosion is partial or it’s part of a binary system).
• ~1.4 to ~3 solar masses → It collapses into a neutron star.
• > ~3 solar masses → It collapses into a black hole.

So technically:

The “ten times the sun” figure is a commonly used approximation but is a bit conservative.

A star needs to be about 20–25 solar masses pre-supernova to leave behind a core massive enough (> 3 solar masses) to become a black hole.

Delivered with the kind of smug clarity that made the man across from me subtly nod. I could feel it—my audience was tuning in.
A Metro performer, but make it astrophysics.

Abby: “What does a black hole become when it dies?”

Me: (staring into the abyss, both literal and metaphorical)

Okay. That’s… advanced.
Let’s pause and appreciate what’s happening here.

This is the same child who thought the moon followed us home, who still needs help with zippers, and who once told me that birds were “just drones from Jesus.”

But now?
She’s asking about cosmic entropy and the thermodynamic evaporation of black holes while eating Goldfish crackers.

And me?
I blinked. I panicked. I tried to condense Stephen Hawking’s life work into a sentence shorter than a Disney Jr. theme song.

Apparently, I took too long.

Abby: “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t know.”
Abby: “Can I tell Mommy when she gets home?”

Me: “No. No, you cannot. This is between us. A sacred Metro bond.”

The man in the corner with the tablet chuckled.
The woman next to us clutched her tote bag in anticipation.
We had a captive audience now. And my dignity was the opening act.

Knowledge Is Power, But Not Mine Apparently

Me: “That was a really complex question, Abby. How did you learn about black holes?”

Abby: “Oh, I just knew it.”

Lie.
A bold-faced, Elmo-infused lie.
But one that she told with the confidence of a seasoned professor addressing a freshman seminar.

Abby: “That’s because I’m very smart.”

Now, here’s where I should’ve just taken the loss.
Nodded. Moved on. Dug into my phone like every other emotionally wounded Metro rider.

But I didn’t.
I made the critical mistake of trying to salvage my ego.

Me: “You are smart! But do you know where you got your intelligence from?”

Abby: “Me?”
Me: “Yes. You got it from your mom and dad.”

Cue soft jazz. Cue warm parent-child bonding moment.

Abby: (pauses, eyes narrowing like she’s about to issue a performance review)
“Hmm. I don’t think so.”

(WHIPLASH. The audience was visibly delighted.)

Abby: “I’m just smart. Jesus gave it to me. And Sesame Street.”

Sirens.
Laughter from two seats down.
A guy in an orange beanie fist-bumped the air like she just won a debate team trophy.

Oh, okay. So my daughter’s Mount Rushmore of Wisdom is:

• Jesus
• Elmo
• Grover (probably)
• And somewhere far off the mountain… me, clinging to the ledge like Mufasa.

The Career Evaluation

She sat with it. Thought more. Perhaps pity? Perhaps reflection? Perhaps realizing she had gone too far?

Abby: “Well… maybe some from Mom.”
Me: “Oh?”

Finally. Validation incoming.

Abby: “Yeah. She’s a doctor. But when I went to your office…”

Here we go. Legacy moment.

Abby: “…you sit in a small space.”

Me: “Right…?”

Abby: “And I don’t really know what you do.”

(Audience: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.)

Abby: “So I don’t think you’re that smart like Mom. You just know only a few things.”

I’m sorry. Did I just get professionally benched by a child wearing unicorn leggings and singing the Paw Patrol theme under her breath?

The Final Blow

She paused. She spun on her light-up sneakers. She walked away like a tiny mic had been dropped.

The woman next to me patted my shoulder.
A man nodded in solemn recognition.
Even the train’s automated voice seemed to soften: “Doors opening… judgment loading.”

Three minutes later, she returned.

Abby: “Can I have a snack?”

Oh, I’m sorry.
Do I know enough to open the bag of fruit snacks, Your Holiness of Knowledge?
Or should I defer to Elmo, PhD?

Final Thoughts: Black Holes, Brutal Honesty, and a Battered Ego

Let this be a warning.

If your child starts asking questions about black holes, don’t engage.
Fake a phone call. Change the subject to dinosaurs. Throw Goldfish crackers as a distraction.
Do whatever it takes to avoid being verbally disassembled in front of strangers on public transportation.

My daughter’s takeaways from this ride:

• Black holes are interesting.
• Mom is brilliant.
• Dad knows “only a few things.”
• Jesus and Sesame Street are the real MVPs.

Mine?

• Metro is not a safe place for philosophical inquiry.
• Parenting is mostly about being humbled in public.
• And next time I’m bringing a flashcard set and a dictionary—just in case.

Unspoken Rule of Parenting #42

If you hesitate for more than three seconds, your child will assume you’re an idiot.
And they will tell everyone.
Loudly.
On a moving train.
During rush hour.

Stay strong, parents.
And remember, when in doubt, just whisper,
“You’re breaking up—ask your mom.”Metro Confessions: signing off with my pride slightly crushed and a fruit snack in hand.