For years now I've written about my family--first as a columnist for PARENT EXPRESS, now as a columnist for the D-News. I've never felt an ounce of compunction about this, although as my kids got older and I understood that they were really and truly human beings in their own right, I stopped using their names. Still, I wrote about them. And my husband. And my brothers. And my parents. ESPECIALLY my mother who was born to be a character because she. is. just. so. vivid.
Anyway. I wrote a piece about her this week for Monday's paper, based on a conversation wherein she told me I should buy a blinking light thing and wear it on my head so I won't get hit by a car in the morning when Kathy and I walk. The image of a blinking light thing on my head sort of undid me, so I sat down, dashed off the column and e-mailed it in.
Then. I woke up this morning and wondered if my mom's feelings might be hurt. Will she think I'm making fun of her and her infamous ability to IMMEDIATELY whip up a worst case scenario involving homicidal milk trucks and blinking light things? So I called her for the first time EVER and read it to her and she laughed (a little) (also politely) AND then said, "I didn't say blinking light thing. I said reflector."
Only she didn't.
Whatever. I just think it's odd that after all these years I'm starting to worry about what my family thinks. I mentioned this to my mother who said, "You're afraid that one day we're all gonna start writing about YOU, Missy."
See? I told you she belongs in a book.