For Mom

“Is my gangster rap disturbing you?”

I looked up from The Moon and More to my thoroughly white, fifty-one-year-old, children’s ministry staff mom peeking her head around the corner from her kitchen, where she was meal-prepping and listening to, well, what only could be described as gansta rap. “Um, no,” I answered.

This, by the way, was no more than an hour after my mom found one of my condoms stashed in her guest bathroom cabinet. She handed it to me and asked, “Do you need this? Because I don’t.”

“You can throw it away,” I was quick to respond. My husband and I don’t have sex as far as she needs to know. And definitely not at her house. She paused, and I realized that she struggled to waste anything even a three-year-old condom. “Actually, I’ll take it. Maybe I can pawn it off on a friend.”

That’s my mom.

My mom who, when her friend asked her if she was surprised I got a book deal, was quick to answer, “No, because whenever she sets her mind to something, she does it.”

And, when I told her with hypomanic enthusiasm, “I’m going to write a book, and it’s going to get published. And then I’m going to adapt it to a screenplay and it’s going to be incredible,” she said, “Yeah, you are. Do it.” No doubt. Never doubt. Just sheer, blind faith in her daughter’s ability to do anything.

So, thank you, mom, for taking my side when I am in the wrong, for believing in me when there’s no reason to, for listening to me babble on and on about writing when you don’t even enjoy reading.

You and your gangster rap keep me going.