My daughter is obsessed with why everyone’s house is better than ours. When I tell her “Yes, but ours in paid for! And we have wall to wall laminate!” she isn’t impressed.
I tell her the truth.
“Well, most of your friend’s parents make more money that we do. So we have a smaller house! But it’s a nice, comfy little house and it’s all ours!”
And she still doesn’t understand. Or maybe she does. In fact this information makes the problem simpler in her eyes. Money, huh? Well, make more, you useless slacker parents.

Average Friend’s House (seriously)

Slightly prettier example of our house. We don’t have no fancy bushes. Or a hoity toity PORCH. And what are those, Venetian blinds? Well oo- la-la.

Oh hell no, I’m not getting a real job. My friends (the parents of my daughter’s friends) are all hard working high achievers, usually in two income homes. I’m an artist, dammit. And a really lazy one. If that means my bedroom is big enough to accommodate a queen sized bed but not a chest of drawers or doors for my closet, fine. All I ever do is sleep and occasionally cry in there anyway.

Maybe her life of deprivation will spur her toward high achievement and finer taste. We all have to reject something our parents valued. I rejected childlike complacency and rage fits. However, I did embrace the filth. Sweet easy filth.

Artists do not mop.