I've had a minuscule taste of fame lately, in the sense that some people know some things about me that I haven't told them, and it's been deeply, deeply weird.

For example: My older son, who wants nothing so much as he wants to play video games for a living, cares little about my writing or book or career, but has asked me repeatedly to help him become a famous YouTuber.

"Famous is bad," I told him, stuck in a terrifying visual of him as one of those shouting teenage gamers whose 20-minute videos consist chiefly of them playing Minecraft and screaming, "Dude, NOOOO!"

But that casual comment of mine came back to bite me later, when I told my son I would be on TV talking about my recently published book of columns. He side-eyed me suspiciously.

"But then you'll be famous," he said, as if one local morning show appearance would turn me into Kim Kardashian.

"It's not like that," I said. "It's not that easy to get famous."

A day later, we sat down to watch the TV interview with family, and my nephews sidled up.

A picture flashed across the screen of my younger son, wearing a fleece jacket, underwear and rain boots, silhouetted from behind in our garage. I'd thought it was a funny image of the weird stuff that happens when you're a parent. Plus, you couldn't see his face, so I figured it was no big deal.

"Hey!" one of my nephews shouted to my son, "Your mom put a picture of you in your underwear on TV!"

Oh great, I thought. Now my kids are gonna write a book about ME. Maybe that Joan Crawford got a bad rap.

Then the other day, my older son had a friend over. As the boy's mom dropped him off, she complimented me on the book and mentioned that her son had been flipping through it on occasion.

"Yeah, you're famous!" exclaimed the woman's daughter, who she'd brought with her.

From the stairs, her brother turned around as if struck by a thought.

"By the way," he said, "your book is REALLY GOOD."

My son and I both looked at the kid, confused, though probably for different reasons.

Which column had the 7-year-old liked better, I wondered, the one about Don Lemon or the one about my struggles with infertility?

As the boys sat at the table for a quick snack break, my son's friend turned to me.

"You were in the kitchen when you heard a scream," he began. "You rushed into the room and realized your son was watching a show about stars."

Then, the kid began reciting to me a play-by-play description of one of my columns, one I'd written about the death of a star.

"That's from your book," he said, and I gaped.

"I ... uh ... know," I finished lamely.

But even if other people's kids act like fans, mine remind me of what really counts.

I recently was doing a Zoom interview for an online publication about my book. I had no one to watch my kids so I turned on the digital babysitter, sure they would get lost in its glowing tractor beam long enough for me to finish.

"You can watch TV or play video games, but upstairs, I'll be doing an interview," I told them, as if they had any idea what that meant. "Only interrupt me if it's really important. Like, really, really important."

About 15 minutes later, as I was talking about an upcoming book signing and feeling really good about myself, I heard the clomping of tiny feet up the stairs.

Oh no, I thought.

"Mama!" I heard my younger son shouting, and I excused myself a second too late.

He burst into the room.

"I got to the final level in Mario!" he exclaimed, wearing a grin as wide as the Atlantic Ocean.

I couldn't help but laugh.

Fame be damned, I thought. Now, what could be more important than that?

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: Vincentas Liskauskas at Unsplash