This is where I am.
I write a humor blog.
I write about my children, my husband, my parents and our cat Nicki. With the exception of Nicki, I try to protect everyone’s privacy as much as possible. I don’t write things that will cause the people that I love pain. I try not to be an asshole.
But I know that the things that I write cause my children discomfort. Not because they are superduperprivate, but because they seem to feel like they have some proprietary rights over their lives.
And yes, of course they do.
But they are my children.
They are the bulk of my life and how can I write about my life and exclude them? I can change details and withhold some things, but is it fair of me to redact the very things that give my blogging life its meaning?
Yesterday something happened that resulted in one of my children crying hysterically and my not being able to stop laughing. Behind my child’s back, of course, but still.
It was the very best kind of laughter. I had to lock myself in the bathroom and run the faucet because I was gasping for breath and had started to laugh tears.
It reminded me of laughing as a child, that moment of discovering humor and thinking that no one else has ever experienced this euphoria of laughter. It will be a story that I will tell friends over cocktails and that my husband and I will remind each other about long after the kids have left us to start their own families and we will laugh again and maybe cry a little too, because we will miss what was yesterday.
Do I blog about it?
My child won’t like it if I do, for sure.
But isn’t it my life, too?
One year ago ...