It’s tough competing with FireDad.
I mean, if you were a four year old and you were asked, “Do you want to be a firefighter like your daddy or a writer/photographer like your mommy,” what would you choose? If you were a two year old and asked the same question, what would you answer? I lose every time. Every single time.
I don’t run into burning buildings. I stand outside with my camera and try to capture the action; I don’t live it. I write about what I felt afterward; I don’t tell the firefighter stories that start with, “So there I was, flames shooting seventy feet in the air.” Feelings are always less interesting than flames shooting in the air. I don’t save people’s lives. I don’t drive a big, red, shiny fire truck.
I’m so boring.
I was getting ready to head out to work last night and LittleBrother was bebopping around the kitchen. I told him that I was getting ready to go to work and asked, “At the new-paper?” I confirmed that and asked if he wanted to go with me and said, “No.” Then I launched into a series of (leading) questions and asked him if he wanted to be a firefighter or a photographer when he grew up.
Okay, so I apparently need to work on gender-inclusive titles on top of my children thinking I’m boring. Thrilling.
At that point I pulled a typical Mommy Guilt moment and boo-hoo-ed that no one wanted to be like me. FireDad gave me a look that said, without saying anything at all, that I was being lame on top of being boring. Even more thrilling. I put on my coat, whined about the weather and started to give out goodbye kisses. During my whining and dressing for the Never Ending Snow, LittleBrother had made his way to the toy box, found his (play) camera and came to take my picture.
“Say boogers and cookies, Mommy.”
Aww, maybe he is more like me than I think. Thrilling.