My mom is infinitely cooler than I am – always has been, always will be. I first started figuring this out when I was a pre-teen and my friends wanted to spend more time talking with my mom than with me because she gives such great advice and is a wonderful listener.
She’s the kind of open, honest person that every girl deserves to have as a parent. When I was young, she answered all of my questions about sex very frankly but also in a way that helped me understand that sex belonged between people who loved each other. It was a special act, but one that had appropriate words. Respectful words.
When I first told my mom I was writing a romance novel, she was thrilled. She’s not a romance reader, but she immediately asked if she could read my novel. For some reason, this weirded me out a little. It’s one thing to be seven and ask your mom where your baby cousin came from. It’s another to send her the sexy novel you wrote.
The first time she asked, I was totally unprepared for the question. I was just writing it to help me stay sane while a nasty hosebeast of a work project tried to drown me. Read my sexy story? No way – no one would ever! So I just cringed and said, “Maybe when it’s finished,” knowing full well that I would probably never finish it.
Then I finished the draft and she asked again. “Maybe after I’ve gotten feedback from a few other people. It’s really rough right now, Mom. I don’t want you to see it until it’s ready.”
After a while, she figured out I was just making excuses and she asked, “Do you feel awkward because it has sex in it?”