My answer might surprise my readers since I generally write about hot, sexy, BDSM/D/d or other forms of erotica. Readers might see me as the same. Let me be very, very clear. I am not. Do my husband of almost 40 years and I every participate in private, bdsm like activities? well, that’s a rather personal question I’m not willing to answer to the public at large. No, the fictional character I most relate to is. . . .. MOLLY WEASLEY!!!

When my sons were young, my house turned into the gathering place. We didn’t have much money, but I always had popscicles for my boys and their friends as well as a sympathetic ear, a soft heart, and wasn’t afraid of tough love. As a teacher, I had a snack drawer, would listen to my students, and didn’t shrink away from hard truths.

Molly’s house was bursting with kids, food, laughter, kindness, and joy. It was also chaotic control. Molly knew where her kids were most of the time. She knew their faults and skills and accepted them equally. Everyone helped out. Everyone had expectations. Everyone protected everyone else.

My youngest son was diagnoses at the age of three with a severe speech delay, possible autism. As it turned out, he did not have autism. When the doctors were sharing this information with us (1996) they were hesitant. I finally blurted out, Just tell me what’s going on with my kid! I need to know how to help him!”

At the time, I was working on a Master’s degree and substitute teaching (along with raising 2 young boys). My husband had his own retail business, so he was working LOOONNNNG hours. I dropped out of my Master’s program. My boy needed my attention more than I needed another degree. Regrets? Not a one.

When my oldest was in high school, he called me, frantic. He was at a local hotel with a friend. She’d been kicked out of her home and was contemplating suicide after having been SA’d by her mother’s third husband. Actually, she’d called my son to ask if he could pick her up and drive her to the hotel. Mom had paid for one night, but not given her a ride there. She told the girl she could walk the 10 miles. My son wanted me to come to the hotel and talk to the girl.

I raced there, wiped my son’s forehead after he vomited (stress), and stayed with the girl as she called the suicide hotline, called her grandmother, and helped her to arrange a ride to the train station for the next morning to go to her grandparent’s house. I was so relieved my son knew I’d be there to help.

I’m not saying I was a perfect mother. I absolutely was not. I fucked up NUMEROUS times. We all do. We’re human. It never occurred to me not to admit my mistake and apologize to my boys when I did.

One of my many proud moments as a mother was when the youngest and I were watching Dr. Who. Rose Tyler, the Doctor’s companion, needed a wall moved. Shortly after stating this to her mother, her mom shows up with a backhoe.

My kid looks at me and said, “Why do I have the feeling that if I needed a backhoe, either you or Dad would know someone and get it for me.”

I thought a minute, then said, “Don’t know about your dad, but probably. I know at least two people I could borrow one from though.”

He laughed, and said, “Knew it.”

Bottom line: Molly was ALWAYS there for her family, as her family was ALWAYS there for her.

Bottom line: I will ALWAYS be there for my family, as they will ALWAYS be there for me.