A mother's love

My mom just informed me that she won't read my blog, in part because she wants to respect my privacy. But also because she's afraid of catching an F bomb or some lascivious notation that will embarrass her in front of her friends (who no doubt will clamber online every morning in their house slippers to read my postings. Mmm hmm). My mom informed me of her decision with a hint of pride and a soupcon of hurt, saying "Don't worry; I won't read your blog. THAT is my gift to you." All tied up in a silvery ribbon of suspicion, I say. Because this is the woman who was notorious for trying to sneak a peek at her Christmas presents every year (who, on Christmas morn with her hair all askew, would announce with flourish and grin that she knew EXACTLY what was in this box, in that. We've had to wrap her gifts with such trickery ever since).

Nonetheless, I can appreciate her fear. She said she wanted to raise a lady. And it's said just like that. Lady. Italics. I guess I ended up being more bold than italics. (Just look at the expression of malaise in my ballet photo at age 5. It says, "Good GOD, people. Are you kidding me?") At the countless debutante teas and soirees, I tried to keep myself in the realm of lady. And I think I done my mom proud. But those times when you're served boring little canapes on silver platters with frivolity, who can keep from laughing? Such fuss. Perhaps I was *made* an eye-roller.

I cannot guarantee ladylike expression here, but I will at least strive on some level to prevent my mother from abject embarrassment and horror.