kiwords

It's baseball season again around here, so last night found me huddling under a pine tree with a handful of other moms, hoping the practice would end before the rain began. I was watching Max's practice, having met Clay there so he could leave to take Raphael to his practice. These are the days that require many a high-level strategy meeting.

When the practice was over, the team chose their name for the year (Spartans! Bring on the stomach-gnawing foxes!), and we dispersed. I had been sitting on the damp grass, wrapped around Sophia, trying to convince her that she preferred to keep her arms under the blanket, so I was relieved to be going. Max and I made our way out to the car, me exclaiming over the three times he'd been hit with the ball (and so BRAVE! and TOUGH! and - well - SPARTAN about it all!), him rolling his eyes at my offers of ice and ibuprofen. As we climbed into the van Max said something very clever, but I can't tell you what it was, because as soon as I laughed, he followed it up with, "You're not going to blog that, are you?"

This isn't the first time he's said that, turned and pinned me with fierce eyes, and demanded I not share with you something he's said or done. I hadn't thought too much about it, but I suddenly realized it was a pattern with him, evidence of concern.

"Do you not like me writing about you? Does it bother you?" I asked. He turned and stared out the window.

"Yeah, I guess. It's just...weird, you know?"

"Why?"

"People we don't even know about know what happens in our house. That's weird."

We were silent for a minute, me kneading the steering wheel, him staring out the window that was now lightly spattered with rain.

"You know, Max, I would never make fun of you or tell your secrets on my blog."

"I KNOW."

Just then we spied a fox running across the road, a prairie dog in its mouth, and the excitement of that was enough to distract us from the subject. From there the conversation went to the new team name, and then how Max was doing at pitching, and how funny it was that two of the times he got hit when he was at bat, it was a parent pitching, not another kid. I asked to peek at the shoulder that had been hit, and he indulged me, peeling up his sleeve. There was another lull in the conversation, and I thought about what he'd said.

We who write about our kids have been accused of exploitation, of using our kid's childhoods for our own ends. I've never been sure what I would say to those critics. I didn't really think it mattered what they thought.

But then, I never expected my son to be the one complaining.

Is it right for him to have to worry about what I might be saying? Is it fair of me to make him feel so exposed?

"Max? About the blog?" I glanced at him. He slumped in his seat, then nodded me permission to continue. "I will try my best not to write about things that you don't want me to. If you'll explain to me what you want me to keep private, I will. But..." I looked at him, his face mostly obscured by a dark sweep of hair. "...but you have to understand that my blog is for me. It's mine, where I write about my life, and that's really important to me. And you are an important part of my life. I will do my best to respect what you need, but I want you to try to respect me, too."

He agreed to that, and we spent a few minutes talking about what was off-limits.

As we neared home, I noticed the sky, a very Colorado scene. Heavy dark clouds were clapped down over most of the city, with pockets of blue sky strewn all around the edges. Sheets of rain were illuminated by bright gold shafts of setting sun.

I looked at that complex, beautiful sky, then over at my complex, beautiful boy.

This is my story. How could I not tell it?