I have a confession. My three teens do not know the name of my blog. It is killing them. They have tried to dodge around the screen to catch something, anything. I’m too quick. They have tried to circumvent my authority and nudge friends and acquaintances who they assume know the name of my blog and whom they perceive to be weaker and compliant. They underestimate the wisdom of age.
I enjoy this.
It makes my blog dangerous. They are threatened. I am mindful. They are curious. I am content. My self is protected in this sanctuary called 3teensmom. All is good.
According to my eldest, though, all is not good. In fact, this blog, this blathering of ideas is an assault on my privacy and contentions. Yes, moments ago I was being schooled by eldest teen on the perversity of sharing one’s words with the world. Doing so, you know, removes oneself from the words’ validity. If I speak my mind, I devolve my feelings unto the oblivion called blog-o-sphere. Interesting argument. I disagree.
I am not detaching myself from my thoughts. I am engaging myself in them. I am becoming my self or orchestrating the symphony it wishes to produce. No?
By exposing my self, I am protecting it. (I suppose this is the argument many a photographer has used on the beautiful model he or she wishes to denude.) Or is my eldest teen correct? By splaying my self to the public am I diluting (or even deluding) my self?
I am going to hoard my privacy from the beings that most wish to strip it of me: my own offspring. It is for their benefit. Independence. And, for mine. The teet run dries, so to speak.
I am going to protect the self by eructing it, violently and piecemeal, with surety and vulnerability…like the way I caught my eldest in the camera lens as the storm erupted: upright but hidden behind the boughs and soaked to the bone. She is leaving. I am coming.
I will speak. (They will not find me.)