I have no doubt I’ll take the professor on more wild goose chases, resulting in the occasional bump or bruise and the obligatory mom shaming. But I also know the journey will be a blast, and I’ll always put a band-aid on the boo-boos. Unless something falls off, that is. Then it’s straight to the hospital we go!

And I will always root for him. He can count on me to be his biggest cheerleader. Little does he know, he’s already been that for me.

I was a daydreamer for years before I wrote a single word. Stories that I had no intention of ever letting see the light of day flitted through my mind on a never-ending loop. I didn’t dare to think I could do anything productive with my daydreams. What in the world made me think that I could write an actual book? And who would want to read anything that I wrote anyway?

Fast forward to the professor’s last day of third grade, where he had already snagged his honor roll award. No perfect attendance, though. Not a year goes by without at least one day of playing hooky.

“I have a very special award to end the ceremony with today. All of our students wrote poems to enter into the Young Author’s Contest this year. We chose a poem from every grade to move on to the parish contest, and one of our third graders won!” The crowd applauded, and when the room quieted, the principle continued. “That poem moved onto the state competition with all the other winners in Louisiana. And it won first prize.” Even more boisterous applause broke out through the auditorium as she held a book and medal up for us to see.

“A big congratulation goes out to … Professor DeRouen!”

I politely clapped and smiled for the student … then I realized what she had just said. He won? My professor won?

I couldn’t stifle my puffed up chest or the burst of pride I felt for my little man as the principal placed the medal around his neck. When the awards program was over, the professor proudly displayed his medal and the book with his published poem. And when I flipped to the page and saw his printed words, that’s when it hit me.

Our son was a published author. OUR SON was a published author.

Then I read the first line of his award-winning poem.

“My mom asked me what I wanted to be,

And I said all I want to be is me.”

And that’s the day the professor taught me his most important lesson. Or maybe we taught each other …

Not long after that, I stood in front of my husband, all nerves as I wrung my hands and blurted out, “I think I wanna write a book.”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say in response. Just five years prior, after years in the marketing field, I had blurted out, “I think I wanna be a nurse.” In my defense, the nurse thing turned out swimmingly, so I was one-for-one, right? In his defense, he was beyond supportive during those three years of craziness and bragged about me to his friends every chance he got.

“Check out my wife. She’s wicked smart.”

His glasses may be a teeny bit rose-colored, but I’ll take it.

So I’m not sure why his simple, “Okay, what do you need?” surprised me. He researched the heck out of computers and ordered me a shiny new Mac within a month of my declaration. Just like every time before, he was ready and willing to bet on his wife. He’s kind of cool that way.

Watch out professor, here I go, being me. And I’ve never looked back.

A couple of years later, on the way home from school, the professor confessed, “You know, I read one of your books the other day.”

I tried my best to hold in my laughter and scowled. “Hey man, you know my books aren’t for kids.”

He scowled and looked out the window. “Don’t worry; I didn’t get far. I didn’t like it very much.” He shrugs and widens his big brown eyes, looking incredulous. “There wasn’t any fighting. Or magic.”

I guess his lesson that day centered around perspective.

These days, I try not to fret so much about if I’m doing this parenting thing right. Is there even really such a thing? Rather than focus on right and wrong, I try my best to lead by example, teach him to follow the golden rule, and last, but certainly not least, love him. Just love him.

Now that pesky virtue called patience? Yeah, I’m still trying to get a handle on that one. We can’t all be perfect, and I have no desire to be. At the end of the day, we all just do the best we can, hoping they find their way in this whacked out world with maximum joy and minimal therapy bills. At the end of the day, in the wise words of the professor, “I just want to be me. “