Will I Regret Writing About My Daughters?
The questionable morality of writing about our children
When the kids were small(er)
It was easier to write about motherhood when my daughters were small. First, our struggles were of the same variety as every other family of young children: naps and toilet training and daycare. Guilt over working. Guilt over staying home. Tantrums that made my patience vanish. Epic battles over car seats. The profound loneliness that came over me, even as I was surrounded by small humans all day.
I looked relaxed on the outside, but my mother anxiety was on fire on the inside. I practiced pseudo-casual parenting. I pretended to be calm and collected around other mothers, but every day I felt on edge and full of overwhelm.
So I wrote about it.
I was frustrated. I was doing everything wrong. I was sure of it. I wanted to blame my kids but knew better. I had a few close mom friends who knew the daily scoop, and we could talk while the kids played.
My kids are 9 and 12 now. They are long past the days when I can have a side conversation about them, without them feeling totally betrayed. Besides, parenting is suddenly so much more complicated than sleep training and teaching toddlers to share toys. (Although, I…
