Edward has always been interested in art. He can’t help it. His mom (me) is an artist. One great-grandfather was a self-taught and talented painter. Another great-grandfather is a photographer. A great-grandmother was a jeweler. A grandma studied art, working in photography and painting.

So naturally, when the kid shows a keen interest in drawing and artistic expression at an early age, his mom pounces on it. (Of course, I also pounced on his keen interest in science and nature and animals and cooking and anything else for which he expresses enthusiasm.)

I am in the middle of preparing for my first solo exhibit at a local gallery. I’m showing a set of photographs. This will be my first show since college and I’m still a little dazed that it’s actually happening. This morning, I was rushing the kids out the door in a not-so-gentle manner, then caught myself and said to a frazzled Edward, “I’m sorry, I just have so much work to do today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I have to work on my pictures. I have to get everything ready because I’m meeting with the curator tomorrow.”

“What’s a curator do?”

“She’s the person who runs the gallery and makes the whole show happen.”

A few minutes later, Edward says, “Can only women do that?”

“Do what?”

“That. Be a curator.”

I manage to not laugh in surprise. “No, honey, of course not. Anyone can be a curator, or an artist. Some of the most famous artists in the world have been men.”

“Oh, okay.”

As he walks away, secure in the wide openness of his horizons, I feel displaced. My brain is reeling. Did I just assure my male offspring that he can be whatever he wants to be, that the role his mom has chosen in life is equally open for his pursuit???

Wow.