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So What Do You Do All Day?

If it weren’t difficult enough to explain to other grown-ups what my “job” is, as a “pro-fess-uh-nal” “blogger” who uses CAPS LOCK too often and replaces her internally-sarcastic air quotes with real quotes, I’m now approaching the age where I’d like to explain it to my child.

The kid can operate our TiVo and beat my highscores on Angry Birds, but so far I’ve been mostly unsuccessful at explaining what I’m doing when I’m “working.” (ED: STOP THAT) (Ed’s Ed: Stop that, too.) I’m extremely lucky — no, luckier than that — be able to work from home. I average about a dozen writing deadlines a week, all of which I currently complete while sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop, while my home office is being renovated.*

*And by “renovated” I mean “does not technically exist yet, because it’s currently the room where I pile off-season clothing and extra bedding and pillows for guests and also the litter box but I did totally put a filing cabinet in the closet so therefore that counts as a home-office-in-progress.”

While I’m sure that one day, I’ll be able to really share my writing and career achievements with my children — millions and millions of words dedicated to lovingly documenting their childhoods and setting them up for years of embarrassment and emotional torment in exchange for delicious Internet nickels — if you asked them what Mommy does for work right now, it would be…oh wait, hang on! They are here. Let’s ask them:

Ike: Enough talk! Open your shirt, Milk Lady.

Ezra: Mommy works on home puter like dis. (Picks up large hardcover copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, turns it sideways, opens the back cover and pretends to type on the back page like it’s a laptop.) Tap tap tap.

Noah: Mommy always has to work and never wants to play with me because of work and I don’t think she should work ever again and

NEVER MIND. I’M NOT TYPING THAT. FORGET THAT I ASKED.

Anyway, I have been trying to kind of explain a little more to Noah about what I do and why I do it, and as an example I decided to show him the brand-spanking new Babble Voices page this morning, since it’s an admittedly impressive-looking bit of web design. See Mommy’s picture? See when you click on Mommy’s picture? That. Those words. Mommy wrote those words. Some of them are even spelled correctly!

He was only vaguely interested in that part, but did want to look at everybody else’s pictures — all the other mommies and daddies, who also do what I do, out here on the wild Internet. I prattled on about the women (and men) I knew personally and the few that he’s met in person too, and how everybody has different stories to tell and how wonderful it is to tell those stories for people and suddenly he was like, SHUT UP WHO IS THAT.

I thought he was pointing at Samantha Bee, of The Daily Show, whose presence in the Babble Voices lineup fills me with an incredible amount of starstruck glee, because I mean: Samantha Bee. Is hilarious. And Babble absolutely shamelessly name-dropped her in a transparent attempt to convince me to sign on over here and IT TOALLY WORKED BECAUSE SAMANTHA BEE. That makes this blogging thing real, right? That means I’ve made it. Celebrity coworkers. Kind of.

He was not pointing at Samantha Bee, of The Daily Show. He was pointing at her blog’s co-author, Allana Harkin. His eyes went wide. The recognition was instantaneous. He looked back at me, sufficiently impressed.

“Oh my GOODNESS,” he said.

It’s true. He now thinks I work with Dino Dan‘s Mommy. He now thinks I have the coolest job in the world.

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