I talked to my mom today. A sort of confession if you will. I told her how it all started. Five years ago. I was a crazed mom of four kids under the age of seven, desperate for one good photograph of her princesses.
She asked all the right questions. The ones a mom is supposed to ask.
“Did your neighbor mind?”
“Did she get mad?”
And “Don’t you think you could have just asked her?”
And then Mom concluded with the words that soothed my guilty soul. “Well, I suppose she probably didn’t want those leaves.”
And “I guess if she was planning to rake them in the end, you were probably doing her a favor.” “Yeah, it wasn’t that bad of a thing.”
But just as quickly as she sided with me, she put her Mom hat back on.
“But don’t do it again!”
And “You need to knock on her door and ask first from now on. Okay!?!”
“Yes, Mom. I promise.” Continue reading
