Every once in a while, Lala will pluck one of my books off a shelf and tromp around the house with it, "reading" a page or two or just crumpling up the cover.
"Oh," I'll say, "you know, I actually wrote that book."
"Oh, you did?" LaLa will say, polite but bored.
"Would you like me to read some of it to you?"
"Nah." And then she moves on to a more interesting toy, like an empty paper towel tube.
Yesterday we had lunch with our friend Laurel and her boys. Laurel gifted us with a brand new copy of her about-to-be-published book, Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains (which is fabulous, witty, and adorable--you should so read it). I showed LaLa the author photo on the jacket and said, "Laurel wrote this book! Isn't that great?
To which LaLa shrugged, popped in another chicken nugget, and looked at Laurel's son, Mose, with a blank expression. "What's the big deal?" she seemed to be saying. "All moms write books, don't they?"
Maybe some day she'll figure out that, not only don't all moms write books, but all moms aren't crazy-neurotic writers. At which point, I'll either become more glamorous in her eyes, or much, much less!