So, generally, I try to keep pretty mellow about things like bestseller lists and book sales. To me what ultimately matters is that my books are selling. And that is not even because I'm panting for my piece of the sales. By the time I actually see those royalties, my kids will be in college. Or near enough. It's more that sales is a barometer of longevity. If you are buying my book, I assume you're reading it and then hopefully you are likely to read my next book, and given that this is all I want to do with my life, that stuff is very important to me.

Anyhow, the point is, I try to be Zen about this stuff. Because I control it about as much as I control the weather (which I have a very hard time being Zen about; it's 65 degrees today. And rainy. In mid-June. Again, I ask, WHO CAN I FIRE?). One way I keep my Zen on is to keep a chin-high church-state wall of separation between business stuff and family stuff. I talk about it sometimes with my husband, but rarely with the kids. All they know is my picture is on some books. That's cool. And sometimes I travel for my books. Which isn't cool. Except for the presents, which are cool.

All well was withe balance until the Wimpy Kid. The Diary of A Wimpy Kid is totally harshing my mellow. Screwing with my Zen.

I picked up Jeff Kinney's graphic novel a few weeks ago at  a stoop sale. Willa, the 6 year-old, demolished it in a few sittings. Then she noticed the cover. Which she brought to my attention. And suddenly, I wasn't so glad my kid could read.

Because after she finished the book, she read the cover, carefully. And noticed the blue type. And then she came to me.

Willa: "Mom, did you know this book was a number one New York Times Bestseller?"

Me, smiling: "Yes, sweetie. It's a very popular book."

Willa, scrutinizing me: "You weren't number one, were you?"

Me, still smiling: "No, sweetie. I once made it to number two for a week."

Long pause. Then in soothing, if condescending, tones, Willa: "Well, that's pretty good."

Me: "Gee, thanks."

Willa: "You might make it to number one for your next book."

Me: "You never know."

Willa, eyes narrowed: "Is Where She Went still on the list?"

Me, eyes downcast: "No, honey. Not anymore."  She gives me that pitying/disappointed look. Willa then wanted to see the actual bestseller list, to see Wimpy Kid on it, and I showed her how long the series had been on there, along with other children's books standbys, like Marcus Zusak's The Book Thief.

Oh, lordy. I wish it could say it ended there, a temporary fascination as kids that age are prone to get. But apparently not. This past weekend, I heard her getting all tantrumy because Nick recycled the Saturday paper before anyone had read it (Note to Nick: Some of us still read the paper version of the paper!). I thought she was upset because she wanted the magazine. The last few weeks she'd been looking for interesting food articles (no idea why). I was putting the little one down for a nap as all this was going down. When I came out, I saw her on Nick's lap in front of the computer, perusing the online bestseller lists. She was upset because he'd recycled the Book Review before she'd had a chance to check Wimpy Kid's standing.

I felt a little sick watching her read the lists. It was like my worlds colliding. Or like watching your parents make out.  It was not something I wanted to see, my six-year-old charting the bestsellers. But it only got worse. Last night at dinner, Willa twirled her spaghetti and politely inquired if Where She Went had gone back on the list. It was like my six-year-old became a stand-in for every adult author who has given me that blank you-write-what? look, for that sinking feeling I get when I go into a children's bookstore and don't see my books on the shelves (cough, cough Books of Wonder!), for every fear that I'm not doing this well enough, selling enough.

I'm ashamed to tell you what I did next.

It's that bad.

It's inexcusable. But I did it anyway.

I snapped.

I threw….sales figures at her. Yes, sales figures. I never have them but I'd just gotten numbers for Where She Went and If I Stay that very morning from my agent, so I told Willa how many books I'd sold. It was a number that had made me very happy when my agent had shared it earlier, but then I told Willa. And any sense of pride I had in those numbers disappeared because I had just given a sales report to a six-year-old. And then came the kicker, her response: "When will you sell five hundred million bajillion?"

Maybe after Wimpy Kid does.

Oh, Wimpy Kid :I friggin' hate you! Even if I just bought numbers two and three.