When I was a kid, I used to watch my mom while she read her favorite books. In those very early days in the United States, she read dime novels in Spanish — some Corin Tellado stories that pre-dated the English-language Harlequin Romances. As her English improved, my mom graduated to reading Erma Bombeck’s columns, and later, the collected works.

Mom alternately laughed and cried as she read those vignettes. There is no doubt in my mind that my own writing was influenced by my mother’s appreciation for Bombeck’s ability to capture the joys and [hidden] pains of motherhood and family life. I have the sneaking suspicion that the Nobel Prize in Literature would not be as well-received as my having a small column in the local paper.

This realization delights me to no end, yet it speaks to a great truth about how subtly we are influenced by our parents and family. My mother didn’t have 300 channels of satellite radio, 1000 channels of on-demand TV, or endless hours on the internet; she had books to keep her company. Some of the moms I knew had hobbies like knitting, sewing, and crafts. Mine, it seemed, read. It’s no surprise that I grew up to be like my mother.

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