The Art of Disappearing

Here’s a conversation I never thought I’d have with my son. This happened yesterday after one of Alex’s classmates brought in the Salem News article to school.

Alex: “Mom, you’re famous, right?”

Me: “No. What are you talking about?”

Alex: “ You were in the newspaper. That means you’re famous. That means I’m famous because I’m your son.”

Me: “Well, not really.”

Alex: “Our family’s famous.”

Me: “People might know who we are in town, but not beyond our town. And next week, someone else will be in the newspaper. It will be someone else’s turn to be famous.”

Alex: “We’re popular.”

Me: “Alex, the book doesn’t change anything. I still make your lunch, take you to school, read stories to you, and tuck you in at night. We don’t have any more money than we did before. I’ll have a few more opportunities to read in front of people. Maybe I’ll get to take you and Ella on a trip to one of my readings, but that’s it.”

Alex: “OK. I get it. But we’re a little famous, right?”

Me: “Maybe a little.”

I have to admit, this conversation made my day. It also reminded me of Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, “The Art of Disappearing.”