and I can’t get over it.

One night, after ending our bedtime conversation about our dreams, superpowers, food we like and don’t like, my dear son told me: “Mommy, you are a sheep!”

I, with my hard-wired brain, replied: “What?? What do you mean?”

I felt slightly offended, stupidly. Being called a sheep does not exactly sound like a compliment..

And then he added: “..because you are. You are beautiful, like a sheep.”

Sheep are indeed cute, with white (more like brown) soft (more like wire) fur. I don’t have fur though.

Maybe it was because of my silly enthusiasm back in Romania showing him all the sheep we passed by:” Luca, look! Sheep!” You can blame it on Haruki Murakami. My dear son might have assumed I have something for sheep. Or he simply likes them, like an innocent human being likes animals.

Then I realised I got trapped by a stereotype. And with that, I felt like a child trapped in an unartistic, uncreative grownup.