Though I’m fifty-four, my mother, most unfortunately, still sits solidly in the middle of my gut, perched on her own personal throne there and issuing her instructions. Far more frequently than I care to admit, she influences, if not downright decides, what it is I’ll wear or say or do that day, when I’ll speak and when I’ll stay silent. Like an overenthusiastic paid pundit, she critiques my child-rearing choices and points out both my flaws and my successes, reporting it all in a daily newspaper in my mind. Try as I might to ignore her columns, I’m as drawn to them as a writer to her first reviews, and I scour them for meanings both implicit and explicit.