The shoe on the other foot

In my former life, I asked questions for a living. I was paid (granted, not much) to be inquisitive and relentless.

Now, I'm usually the one deflecting 1,000 questions a day from my oh-my-gosh-is-he-really-almost-4-year-old. His little sister isn't far behind. Her vocab is building daily. I may need to invest in earplugs. Soon.

But tonight, I got to sit back and watch my peers answer questions from my inquisitive, relentless friend and coworker. But really, it's hard to be relentless when surrounded by 5 moms and 10 screaming kids under the age of 6.

I know. I can't strike fear in anything any more. Not even the dog. Or a bush. I've tried. Trust me.

But my friends got to be interviewed for the local newspaper and magazine, and for once, instead of keeping my opinions to myself, I was allowed to speak.

When I piped in, my friend kept scribbling away in her notebook. Then she stopped, pen in the air.

"Am I allowed to quote you?" she said.

We reporters are supposed to be invisible. Flies on the wall. But she was in a tough spot, interviewing the moms group I help run.

"Eh, I'm the editor," she said, and kept going.

The bulk of what she writes about us will focus on everybody else, but there's a chance that I will get to be the subject for a sentence. A first for me. You'd think that would be old hat, getting my name in the paper, after working as a reporter for 7 years, not counting 4 years in college.

No way, man, that is cool. I'm almost famous now.

I may change my mind after I see the pictures she took.