At dinner, my husband and fourth grade son were trying to convince me that I should let us get a convertible that our family of five does not need and cannot afford. So my son started in on me.
It is important to understand as you read that I am a freelance writer and editor.
“Well, why don’t you get a job that pays more than typing? Five dollars an hour isn’t going to do much for anybody.”
Let alone get us a convertible.
“I don’t type. I write,” I smiled.
“Oh yeah, and edit. Like that’s a good job?”
Much laughter from my husband’s end of the dinner table.
Curious, I asked, “So what job do you think I should do?”
My forth grader asked a good question, followed by what seemed a nonsensical one. “What kind of everyday things do you like? Tables?”
“What do tables have to do with a job?” I responded, my husband chuckling away.
“Do you like tables, buildings, computers, paintings, clothes, plants, food?”
“I like paintings.”
“Then get a really big canvas and paint a huge painting of a city in the future with fireworks at night.”
We all smiled around the dinner table. “Then sell it for a million dollars,” he finished.
“Well,” grinned my ever-supportive husband, “there’s the rub!”
“Yeah, honey,” I added, “I could paint that, but I doubt I could make a million dollars from it.”
“Then take a painting class,” he advised as if I were an idiot-pessimist.
“Or,” he said hopefully, “be a ski instructor” before laughing, “oh yeah, you suck at skiing!”
“Then ski patrol!” he thought he had our answer, and we’d be off to the convertible dealer tomorrow.
“Mom doesn’t do anything downhill. Or fast. Not her thing.” That supportive husband again.
My son looked earnestly from his Dad to me, “Well you’re not going to make any money typing. We’re never going to get a convertible!”
Nope. We probably aren’t.