Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I tell those people, "What I really fear is how much the therapy will cost."
No, not really.
But, here's the thing. When I started this blog in late '05, Anne-with-an-e and Betsy were twelve and nine. Ramona was three. Three-year-olds say a lot of funny things. Bloggable things. Things I can repeat and get away with. If I'd had a blog when my other girls were that young, their early childhoods would also be recorded in cyberspace, but I wouldn't have those great notebooks full of their sweet and funny sayings. So, there's a bit of a trade-off, eh?
But there's another more important thing at play here. Anne and Betsy are growing up. In the years since I started this blog, they have become young women. And, although we have endless and fascinating conversations about that, most of those conversations don't have a home on my blog. Sure, there's the occasional "I refuse to believe they are teenagers" moment, such as the other day when there were firemen outside the grocery store collecting money for Jerry's Kids. As we headed into the store, one or more of them did a double-take our direction and I realized that I couldn't tell you the last time a fireman looked twice at me. Firemen look at my daughters (much to Atticus' chagrin, tensed fists and recollection of his Marine Corps days. Hear that, firemen and potential suitors? Their father was a Marine. And he remembers everything about it. But I digress.)
The point is that many conversations at this stage end up feeling more private than bloggable. Even stuff that isn't really, truly, intensely private or earth-shattering, or difficult, or any of that. It's just ... theirs. Their lives are theirs, and that's a tricky balance for a writing mom. It leaves me evaluating what I want to write about here, and what should remain untouched. The girls and I talk about all of that. And then together, we move forward through the unknowns of blogging through the teens.
Anne and Betsy constantly amaze me with their brains and their wit and their creativity. And, I probably should write down (or Tweet, God help me) more of the things they say that leave me guffawing and snorting with laughter. They are two of the most extraordinary people I know. I love them so much that in certain unguarded, untested moments I think something in my chest is going to erupt or shatter, and then the world (or three or four blog readers) will know that I love Anne and Betsy with the most fierce, unbreakable love possible, a love that couldn't have been explained to me before I became a mother.
A love that knows no categories, labels or blog titles.
A love that doesn't keep track.
It just keeps moving forward.