You know the kids have been raised in a self-employed freelance household when you hear this:
Flora: Mooooom! The mail’s here, and it looks like it could be a cheque!
And you know they really pay attention to what’s inside those little envelopes when you hear this:
Cinder: Fuck, no, it’s the visa bill. Mom? Are you ready to look at this or should I hide it for a while?
And you know they really, really understand much too much about your finances when you hear this:
Cinder: So, is it a big enough cheque to zero the line of credit, or just big enough to cover rent? Or, like, cover rent and go out for sushi and something?
But when you hear this from the three-year-old, it’s probably time to tone down on the finance discussions before the children:
Ender: Mom! Mail! Cheque! Maybe from those fucking bastards who haven’t paid you for seven months!
To all of my friends, online and real-life, who lust after the life of a freelance writer… it has its high points, I won’t lie. I wouldn’t trade it for a 9-5 office job for the life of me. But sometimes, the idea of a regular, predictable bi-weekly paycheque is beyond intoxicating. And dental benefits? Oh, god. Dental benefits. I’m swooning…