Whenever I hear writers talk about their kids, I go into immediate complex mode. They reminisce about the summer their 14-year old read nothing but Faulkner. Or laugh about the time their 5-year old embarrassed them with an audible yawn during their dissertation presentation. Or complain about how quickly their toddler goes through kale.
And I’m like: What if my kids fall into the Twilight-crowd equivalent once they learn how to read?! And: your 5-year old sat through your dissertation?!?! And: Kale? Really?! I hate you.
Then I take a deep breath. Because, as I’m always telling my own 5-year old, this is not a competition. My kids are awesome. As long as I keep feeding them and taking them to the library and hanging their artwork on the fridge, they’ll stumble into their own brand of Faulkner summers.
And when they do, I’ll obviously be on hand to brag about it.