Why I’m not a rockstar.

Im here in Samoa for a week, with the Hot Man, the Princess and the Bella Beast.  We’re staying at the Hotel Amanaki which is a beautiful hotel. (And not just because the Hot Man built it.)The Beast is very enamored of the Hotel Amanaki. Especially because it has a swimming pool, her favorite food groups fish sticks and fries, and air conditioning that she can regulate with a remote control. But when we told her that her Dad had built the hotel, she was beyond rapt.

Climbs up the stairs.”My dad make these steps?”

Skips down the corridor, running her fingers along the wall.”And this wall? My dad make it too?”

Plays with the salt and pepper in the restaurant, orders numerous drinks of Sprite from the bar.”And this too? My Dad make this?”

It doesn’t stop there. We drive through town, past the Hotel Millenia. She points,”Did my Dad make that too?” Yes. The Treasure Garden Hotel with the lion statues and gold signs.”And that house?” Yes. The Nia Mall. Yes, your Dad made that too. Paddles Café. The Devoe complex, the Don Bosco Hall…blah blah blah.

All leading Bella to conclude with loud exclamations.”My Dad make everyfing!  He’s so clever.He’s so awesome. He’s a rockstar!”And I’m muttering under my breath…Umm no, he’s not God. He didn’t make everything…

All this admiration is all very well for the Hot Man. But rather grating for me. He’s so awesome, he’s a rockstar..blah blah blah.  I’m like, yeah, well I grew humans in my uterus. From basically nothing. Pushed an eight pound elephant out through a straw called a cervix.  That’s gotta top a swimming pool, right? And I wrote some books. They’ve even got some pictures in ’em. Pretty pictures with abs and fire and stuff. So there.

The child is unimpressed. Chanting…my dad is awesome…my dad is a rockstar…my dad is sooo clever…

This is going to be a very long seven days.