My daughter is reading one of my books.

Ana is reading Operation Bonnet.
So is our mini Schnauzer, but I think Ana is getting more out of it.
Or at least I hope she is.
I’m trying to act natural, like it’s no biggie. Whatever, man! That’s cool. Go ahead, read it. Hope you like it. Or not. Or whatever.
Of course I’m a total faker. I REALLY hope she likes it. I will be VERY SAD if she thinks it’s horrible. Or not funny. Or too sappy. Or anything else other than BRILLIANT and ONE OF HER FAVORITE BOOKS EVER.
OK, OK, that’s probably hoping for too much. But I do hope she likes it and is happy that her name is in the acknowledgements. Wait—DANG it. Op Bonnet is the one book without an acknowledgements section! She should have started with one of the others. Proof:

It’s a funny thing, when your child suddenly glimpses that you have a life outside of caring for their every need. I remember my mom telling me, with a wry smile, the story of when my brother, Ryan, responded to his elementary school teacher’s inquiry. “What does my mom do?” he’d repeated, confusion clouding his little face. Bypassing the truth (she was a full-time mom, a violin teacher with a studio of thirty students, the co-founder of our local Suzuki Institute, and a first violinist in the symphony), he said, “Oh. My mom sits on the couch and eats Oreos.”
Ryan was effectively cut out of the will that day. I’ll be taking his share.
So my kids, or at least one of them, just realized I have another job. 
Totally playing it cool. 
But I hope she likes it. 

5 thoughts on “My daughter is reading one of my books.”

  1. I've got to get back to my Oreos and my well-worn position on the couch, so I'll keep this brief: The day Ani reads any of your books is the day she reconfirms her suspicion that her mother is brilliant.

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