What do you want to be when you grow up?
Ummmmmm, I dunno know, maybe a nurse?
This is what I would answer when asked this question as a kid. A nurse. Ironic, really, because these days I honestly can't stomach taking care of sick people, not even my own kids. I'll do it because they need me, but I'm no Nurse Nightingale. The germs, the snot, the hacking. It's all gross and I abhor every moment.
I want to be an ice skater!! Please, please let me be an ice skater!
Now, this, THIS I really did want to be. But since I never took any ice skating lessons and didn't actually fall step onto anything resembling an ice rink until high school, I'm not sure you could say I was truly driven to succeed.
Thirty some years later, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Some days I think the right (and obvious) answer is "mom," but then there are those days when being a mom isn't exactly all it's cracked up to be. Those are the days when I start to complain about being gypped out of that benefits package I was promised. If you ask me The Question on those types of days, my answer might change to "writer." Yes, that's it. Definitely a writer. Not the kind I was 8 years ago BK (before kids), but a real writer. But there I stutter and stall, some days with my cursor blinking back at me as I struggle to come up with a few measly paragraphs to pass as a simple blog post. It is in these moments when I find myself staring at my laptop, wondering why it is I continue to fool myself.
Though I struggle for my final answer to this question, Poonch at the ripe age of 8, has already found her answer. If you happen to ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she will answer, in both a solid inner and outer voice, "author." Not a writer, but an author. An author of books that come in a series, so that she can write about her favorite things (most likely fairies) over and over. She is so sure of herself that she decided that she's not going bother to grow up to accomplish her dream, but rather, she is going to be the most famous kid-author on the planet. She has already started-stopped many stories, leaving around open notebooks allowing her fairy stories to dance around her room. I'm not sure why she hasn't finished one, probably because she has realized that damn, this writing thing is hard. However, that still hasn't deterred her.
I know she's only 8, and at her age I was convincing myself I should be a nurse, which obviously was so wrong for me. Yet, how cool would it be if you could see your child dream something at such a young age and then stick around to see it come to fruition? That would definitely make up for me never receiving that benefits package.
Right now all I can do is support her current interests, so when I heard that one of Poonch's favorite authors was holding a book signing in the city, I knew I had to get her there. I wanted her to see that yes, Virginia, there are real people behind these books, people who have dreamed of being a writer (or author, however you want to look at it) since they were little, too.
Of course this all involved that darn American Girl Doll store, because of course those are her favorite books, her favorite toy, her favorite hobby, her favorite everything.
It didn't matter. I could handle AG for a few hours for Poonch. I could handle roaming the store as we waited for Valerie Tripp, Poonch's hero, to arrive. I could handle listening to Poonch rattle off an ever-growing Christmas list. I could handle the crowds, the dolls, the clothes, the furniture. Because after enduring all of this, we could see the line forming for the signing, and there, at the front, was Valerie Tripp.
Almost immediately, Poonch's demeanor changed. She became fidgety but quiet.
Her nerves started to get the better of her. I couldn't blame her, because even though I wasn't nervous per se, I did feel the electricity in the air. An author! An honest-to-goodness author! A woman who actually gets PAID to write, a woman who has people who actually READ her stuff!
But this wasn't about me. It was about Poonch, and I didn't want her to be nervous. I wanted her to enjoy this, to soak it all in. We finally got to the front of the line, and Poonch handed her book to Ms. Tripp to be signed. They had a small conversation as I stood by, letting Poonch do the talking. And she did. She worked through her nerves and spoke with
a real author,
just like she can be someday.
But only if she still wants to, of course.
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