Also made of fail: What kind of irresponsible person lets a seven-year old apply their own sunscreen? Oh, that would be *me*. Sunburn! I told her that the white handprint on her iodine color shoulder is quite the fashion statement. She does not believe me above the OW! But, hey, it could be the new body art. Er, yeah, I'm reaching. *sigh*
Even my olive-skinned child turned a lovely shade of rose. And she *never* burns. She does not appreciate the new experience. She couldn't understand why she felt so horrible this morning. I told her, "It's the sunburn, hon. Your body's trying to heal." She only glared at me and tried to drown herself in her bowl of cereal.
So she asks me the other day, when she sees me wringing my hands and muttering something about deadlines: "Mommy, why aren't you a writer?"
*pause and blink*
"Well, I do write," I said. "A writer is someone who writes."
"No," she said, "Why aren't you an author?"
"You mean as in books?"
"Yes. You write so why aren't you published?"
*headdesk and flail*
You see, I've managed to tune out my family and the people I know when they frown at fanfiction and tell me that I'm wasting my time and that I'll never be a real writer if I keep up this nonsense. You're a thief, they say, and a hobby's a hobby but this is ridiculous and degrading. Grow up. And so on.
But I must have internalized some of that, *believe* it somewhere, because I don't even know what to say to my own kid. She just wants to understand what I do, be proud of me. And yeah, I've got nothing.