I’m Not Allowed to Write About My Kids

As of last night, I am no longer allowed to write about my son.

Though I suppose reporting this new development counts as writing about him, so I apologize, and promise this will be the very last time.

Probably.

I guess I always knew this day would come: the day my kids realize that all they have to do to read my blog is to click on over to it.  The day they realize that other people click to it, and read about them.  The day they realize that every single thing I do – including breathe – is embarrassing to them.

I just never thought it would come to soon.

I used to leave the house to a chorus of heart-breaking screams of “don’t go Mommy!”  and return to a chorus of delighted squeals.  Now I leave to – at best – indifferent grunts, and return to the same.  And my kids haven’t even entered puberty yet.

Oops. I’m being embarrassing again.

For me, being a mom blogger is kind of like belonging to the gym.  I belong to the gym, I just don’t go very often.  Still, it’s nice to know I joined – makes me feel fitter already – and that, should I suddenly be overtaken by a desire to sweat, feel like a big galloomph, and watch myself do so in front of a thousand mirrors – well, it’s nice to know I have the option. As a mom blogger, I don’t write about my kids very often. Of my last 45 posts, only 8 have even mentioned them. (Yet somehow, I’m a Mommy Blogger! Go figure!). But it’s nice to know I can.

Or could.

As the kids have gotten older, I no longer have stories about what happened when the tooth fairy didn’t show up, or what goes on in the playground.   You know, the kinds of stories that just get cuter with age.

Now I have stories about sex ed in their school, or body image issues.  Or other stuff that isn’t all that cute or funny.  Ah yes, cute and funny.  I remember it well.  Sadly it’s  has gone the way of  diapers,potty training, play-do, and their gapped-tooth smiles – but a memory, and an orthodontist bill away.

Not having the option to write about my kids is kind of scary.  Will I have to write about myself?  That funny time I had a bladder infection?  That hilarious incident when the heat stopped working, it was 11 degrees outside, and I didn’t even know which oil company we used?  Ha Ha Ha!  Aren’t I adorable?

Doesn’t quite hold a candle to the time my then three-year-old daughter was looking in the mirror and I asked her why, and she said:

“Just seeing how beautiful I am.”

Now that I can’t write about them anymore, I guess I’ll have to look in the mirror in a bit more. So get ready.  My reflection will be coming at you — wrinkles and all.

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