For years I've written about my mother with enthusiastic abandon. My Mother the Rodeo Queen! My Mother the Extreme Worrier! My Mother the College Student! My Mother the Poodle Lover! My Mother the Barber! My Mother the Queen of the Every Changing Hairdo! My Mother the Queen Mother!
And in all those years, it never ONCE occurred to me to check with her, to see if she felt okay about me sharing that story about the time she told me to find my own way down Sardine Canyon after a disastrous game in Logan because I'd criticized her for losing her cool.
I know. The pot calling the kettle an exquisite shade of black there.
I've written about my mother so much because, of course, she's been so central in my life and plus she has this BIG personality, which makes her a great source of material. And in my mind at least, I've always written about her with affection.
So I did (another) column about her this week. And suddenly FOR APPARENTLY THE FIRST TIME EVER, I wondered if she would be okay with it. I even sent her the column to see what she thought. And she was all what? You're asking my permission after decades of this?
Not sure why I've changed on this front. But I have. I am suddenly consumed with guilt for having written about her. Which won't stop me, I'm sure. But there you have it.