Friday, May 15, 2009
Last week, my children were dying for the arrival of their copies of The Last Olympian,the latest and last Percy Jackson book, by Rick Riordan.
They eagerly awaited the mail, only to be flatly disappointed several days in a row. They spotted the UPS truck at fifty paces, but deflated when Mr. Brown did not stop at our house.
Finally, one day last week, there was a knock at the door. Mr. Brown had already dropped the package and was jogging back to his truck (I always call them -- all of them -- "the shy UPS guy" as they seem set upon never encountering an actual face.) I took the box inside.
I saw the return address -- Servant Books -- and knew that my author copies of the Rosary book had arrived. As I was opening it, a daughter happened into the room:
"A box! Is it Percy?"
"No," I replied, "it's my book! Look, my copies of the book! What do you think?"
"It's not Percy," my daughter yelled over her shoulder, reporting her disappointment to her fellow demi-god fan. "It's just Mom's book."
Heaving a pitiful sigh, my daughter slumped away.
Percy, that little upstart, is merely a demi-god. Whereas my book is about a whole, entire God. You know, the real one. Which would you get more excited about?
If you're under the age of 16, don't answer that.