Our sons are old enough now that I have to consider carefully how to blog about them. (Well, even more carefully.)
Some things are still easy. If they say funny things, they’re generally happy for me to share those, though most of those become Facebook statuses and not blog posts. But regular goings-on are more complex for them now. (Funny how that happens as you get older.)
I mean, Aaron was really mad at me when I took this photo of him, but he was also 2. I didn’t give his personal privacy any thought at all, and I don’t feel any differently about it more than nine years later. (While I’m sure there are those who would cluck their tongues at even that, I’m also sure they’re a small minority. Two-year-olds generally deal with unpleasantness with a meltdown. That’s not novel. I’m not embarrassing my 2-year-old showing him having one.)
But that kid’s 12 now. His brother will be 15 this fall. They’re beginning to have problems and experiences that much more closely resemble adult problems and experiences. They’re grappling with awkwardness—some manufactured, but some cruelly inflicted by puberty. Serving up some of the blow-by-blows they’re going through right now to my blog readership would be unkind.
And sometimes I do want to write about them, because they’re good stories. I may still, one day, for some of these things. The anecdotes will be 10 or 15 years old before I share them, though.
And I’ll still choose very carefully.