If you think your mother is tough, now's the time to read Mommy Dressing. Louis Gould's mother was a famous fashion designer. "Don't perspire in this dress," she warned. "I never perspire. Why must you?"
Like all dreams, it's hard to know exactly when this one started. Maybe it was the day way way back in April of 1985 when I walked away from a plum job as a staff reporter for The Wall Street Journal in New York, pushing my infant daughter Jocelyn in her carriage.
They peeled back the chenille coverlet off the double bed and made love on top of the blanket, before they were fully undressed. When they finally opened the bed, they made love again, in between the lavender-fragranced sheets.
Years later, she tries to focus on the details: the cinnamon sugar sticking to her shoulder. The thick fold of leaves overhead. The cold buttered toast wrapped in tin foil. The smell of his sweat mixed into the smell of pine needles.
Even though I still sometimes sigh when a reader insists I've written something that I know, in my heart, I absolutely did not, I don't argue. Instead, I remind myself how very, very lucky I am that people are reading my book and talking about it.