Friday is “Pizza and Movie Night” at our house, so it’s a pretty big deal and I almost never miss one. (Because, really, who wouldn’t want the chance to watch an animated movie for the 320th time while snuggling on the couch with three popcorn-snarfing little boys?)
So, last week, when I told my kids that I was going to have to go out on Friday night, they wanted to know why. I explained that it was for the Chicago launch of my book. And they looked all smiley and wide-eyed in response. So awesome, I thought, that they are so proud of my writing career. Then, I realized my mistake.
“Launch?” asked my six-year-old future aerospace engineer. “Really?”
“Oh,” I backtracked, “Not like a rocket launch. It’s just a party.”
“With games?” asked my about-to-be-five-year-old.
“No,” I sighed. “It’s really just a bunch of grown ups, standing around talking.”
“That sounds like a terrible party,” said my seven-year-old, with genuine sympathy for the total lame-ness of my planned evening away from them.