told.you.so.

Driving home from ballet, we were three cars behind a big accident. There was an suv in front of me, so I didn't see anything, but from what I gather, a car turned left from a side street onto the main road, and hit a motorcycle. The motorcycle was looking pretty beat up, and was laying in the middle of our lane, while the rider had been thrown about ten feet onto the curb. He (or she) was wearing a helmet (thank God- since in ohio (and probably some other states) this isn't the law) and looked to have probably broken some ribs, legs, arms- take your pick. While he wasn't really moving, he was talking to the good samaratans who stopped, and appeared to be in decent shape, despite the likely broken bones. *e* was in the back seat, and had a field day with this. (Click here for a previous discussion with *e* regarding motorcycles and cigarettes.) She reiterated that he should have known better- motorcycles (or motors, as she calls them) are dangerous, and he knew he'd get hurt riding one. Even when I told her that it was probably the car's fault- that the driver probably had looked quick, and missed the motorcycle, she didn't back off.
"Well. I hope he's okay, but he knew that he'd get hurt or die," she insists
"Let's hope that he gets better, and not focus on being a know-it-all," I tell her.
"What's a know-it-all?" she asks.
I have to bite my tongue to not reply with, "You are, *e*." Instead I explained it the diplomatic way, but even still, all I could picture was myself: Telling her that there are reasons why we tell her not to jump on her bed when she's supposed to be sleeping- after she's fallen off and gotten a big egg on her head. Telling her that I didn't lie when I said vanilla extract doesn't taste as good as it smells- after she's insisted on trying it. Telling her that pulling the string from her shirt will ruin the hem, and then watching her do just that. Apparently, I'm the definition of a know-it-all.