So, I Have a Great Idea...

This is yesterday’s post-school-pick-up, in-the-car conversation with my 6-year-old.  That’s all the set-up this needs.  And all the hyphens it needs as well.

BEAR:  So, I have a great idea.

ME:  Yes?

BEAR:  You can give me maybe three hundred dollars or so, and then I can get my own iPhone with its own phone and apps, and then I won’t have to use yours.

ME:  Hm.  Interesting.  No.

BEAR:  [incredulous] No???

ME:  Nope.  It’s highly unlikely you’ll get your own phone for quite some time.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. But at six… no.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Not for a while.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Jeez… maybe in middle school.

BEAR:  When’s middle school?

ME:  Sixth grade.

BEAR:  So in a little over four years?

ME:  Good math.  Look, I honestly don’t know when you'll get a phone. No promises. Maybe high school.

BEAR:  When’s that?

ME:  Ninth grade.

BEAR:  So maybe seven years?

ME:  Possibly. I really don’t know. Quit it.

BEAR:  Yesssss!!!

ME:  Glad that makes you happy.

BEAR:  [without a pause in the conversation] May I get my pilot’s license?

ME:  Your what? Your pilot’s license? Like to fly a plane?

BEAR:  Yeah.

ME:  Um, someday. Sure. Though I’m pretty certain it’ll be a few years until you’re old enough. You may need to be at least old enough to drive a car.

BEAR:  Which is how old?

ME:  Sixteen.

BEAR:  Forget the pilot’s license.  I just need a phone so I can do my job.

ME:  Your job...

BEAR:  Yes, I’m going to be a cop.

ME:  You are? That’s great.

BEAR:  Well, okay, I’m retiring from being a cop.

ME:  Already? You’re a very young retiree. I’m not sure you even qualify for social security.

BEAR:  Well, it’s time.

ME:  Will you have another career?

BEAR:  I want to be a travel worker.

ME:  Um… a what?

BEAR:  A travel worker. Like you. I want to work from my house, with you, and then travel to visit people, with you.

 

This has nothing to do with this topic. I just like sharing it. Because... yay me.

I’ve now figured out how to describe my job to people, who always get confused when I try to explain what I do. From now on, two words suffice:  travel worker.

Don't Shoot! I'll Go To Texas!

I apologize for being so absent in recent weeks.  While I would love tonight's post to be something insightful or witty, it's simply a retelling of the conversation the tinies and I had on the way home from school.  If you have a job, have ever had a job or simply know what having a job is all about - or if you are obsessed with pizza (as am I) - hopefully this will bring a smile to your face:

Ballerina (4):  Why do you always have to go away to work in places so far away like Texas and California and Dallas and Texas?
Me:  Because some of the people I work with are there, and I need to go see them.
Ballerina:  But what happens if you tell them no and you won't go?
Me:  Well... I suppose I'd get fired.
Ballerina:  *aghast* You'd get what???
Me:  Um... fired?
Ballerina:  Like ready, aim, fire?  They'd shoot you for not going to Texas???

"Whaddya mean you won't go to Texas?! Them's fightin' words. Draw!"

Me:  No, no, no, baby girl.  *snicker* *cough*  I would lose my job.  "Get fired" means to lose your job.
Ballerina:  Oh.  Is that bad if you lose your job?
Me:  Well, if I don't have a job, then we won't have money.  And we have to have money to buy stuff we need.
Ballerina:  So we need to have money so we can sell money for things like food?
Me:  ... Sure. Yes.
Ballerina:  And we need to have money so we can sell money to stay in our house?
Me:  Yes.
Ballerina:  Wow. [contemplates a moment]  You need your job, Mommy, because if we can't have money to sell money to live in our house then the dog will be all by herself and she'll be lonely and who will feed her?
Me:  Let's not find out.
Bear (6):  Yeah, and we need money for pizza.  Because if you couldn't order pizza, Mommy, someone else would end up fired.
Me:  .....