Cindy on July 23rd, 2008
Lately I’ve been thinking about Sam Lamott, son of best-selling author Anne Lamott. I don’t know of many women who haven’t read Anne’s Traveling Mercies, her collection of candid essays on her long road to sobriety and conversion to Christianity. For many moms in my age group, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, was their introduction to a whole new literary genre: the tell-all “momoir.”
Sam (who’s now 18) is often at the center of Anne’s writings. We’ve all watched Sam grow up on the page, from his first smelly diaper to the brutal arguments over his driving privileges.
Legions of us are forever indebted to Anne for admitting aloud that motherhood isn’t one sweet series of Hallmark moments. Still, I can’t help but wonder how the Sam Lamotts of the world — kids who’ve literally grown up in print — really feel about all this. Is Sam scrutinized more closely because of his famous mother’s writings? Is he held to a different standard of behavior? Do his friends understand (or resent) his position? Is the rest of the world also secretly wondering how he’ll turn out? Is it really any of our business?
For years, I’ve wrestled with this issue on a much smaller scale. And I’m still conflicted. My own son, now 22, recently asked me to remove a post I’d written about him on my own blog last month. The post was innocent enough. And the photo of my son was flattering. The verbiage was confined to a very short paragraph about how grateful I am that my son helped me redesign my Web site, and how much I’ll miss him when he leaves the state for his new job.
Problem was, I used his name, he said. The large corporation that had just hired him out of college was in the process of doing an in-depth background check on him, he reminded me. Therefore, he did not want his name or his photo floating around on my blog, no matter how flattering. A little paranoid? I’d say so. But at the same time, I understood my son’s point of view and why he was worried.
We’d been around and through this before. Years before I began blogging, I wrote a weekly column for our local daily newspaper. My assignment was to write about my family life — which naturally included funny or poignant moments involving my son and his friends. No matter how careful I was, my son was hurt or humiliated more than once by what was published in my column. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.
But I haven’t. In fact, I’ve been at work on a memoir about preparing for the empty nest, and there’s no easy way to write it without mentioning my son’s first name throughout. Euphemisms like “my son” or “the kid” sound awkward in a longer work of nonfiction. For now, I’ve put the project on hold, despite the fact that an agent and a publisher are interested in it — and despite the fact that I believe my book would be of help to other women facing the empty nest transition.
So I deleted the offending post immediately. My son told me it would have been OK if I’d simply removed his name. But I wanted to prove to him that our relationship is far more important to me than a blog topic. I’m guessing he’ll outgrow this particular sensitivity, once he feels at home in his new job and settles into his new life on his own. But I’d sure love to talk to Sam about this. — Cindy La Ferle
–A shorter version of this post originally appeared on 50-SOMETHING MOMS Blog. Check the June Archives for “Sam Lamott” on the 50-SOMETHING MOMS site, and to read comments prompted by the original post.–
Cindy on June 30th, 2008
Remember when everyone was using the catchphrase Too Much Information? Whenever somebody shared something too intimate, too gross, or way over the top, we would cringe and say, “Oh my God, that was TMI… ” Back in the day, there were certain things you just didn’t unload (or write about) for public consumption. Topics like: bowel movements, jock itch, gynecological infections, other people’s legal troubles, your bra size, your sex life, what happens when you squeeze a pimple, the intensity of your hangover, or serious problems with your in-laws. I miss those days. I miss what my social-worker friend calls “healthy social boundaries.”
In the blogosphere, especially, TMI doesn’t seem to be an issue now. (TMI builds readership and ad revenue for magazines and newspapers, too.) Google the word poop, for example, and you’ll pull up countless blogs detailing the exact color and quantity of what new mothers found in their babies’ diapers this morning. So what is TMI now?
At the risk of sounding Victorian, I believe certain topics should be discussed only in the privacy of your own home, or among only the closest, most intimate friends and family members. I’m reminded of Rick, an old friend of mine who’s no longer with us. He had this favorite adage, and repeated it often: “What you don’t know, you don’t need to know.” I miss him too. –Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on April 10th, 2008
There’s an interesting article on “mommy blogs” in the 4/10 edition of The Wall Street Journal. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what to make of the mommy-blog phenomenon. (For starters, as another commentator suggested, the use of the word “mommy” here is a bit condescending — as if there’s something small or inferior about motherhood?) But really, it’s the privacy issue — the blazing lack of boundaries — that disturbs me. And I wonder: do younger mothers today lack real-life friends with whom to share their deepest personal issues? Is blogging just an antidote to our boredom or isolation or loneliness?
In the interest of full disclosure, I blog occasionally too. I’ve also written about my family in newspaper and magazine columns, which aren’t exactly private. My son was barely nine when I was assigned to write what my features editor described as “a slice of life” column for our local daily newspaper.
“Write about things that typical suburban families can relate to,” the editor said. While I didn’t like to think there was anything typical about my small family of three, the chance to rehash everyday epiphanies and preserve memories in newsprint initially seemed like a journalistic coup — the perfect beat for a work-at-home mom.
This was back in the day before the blog, so the thought of reaching 16,000 people every week was pretty heady. I’d already published articles and personal essays in several national magazines, but my byline was hardly a household name. A weekly column would change that, at least locally. Of course, not everyone bothered to read the lifestyles section in which I appeared, and not everyone was keenly interested in the poetics of keeping house. But before long, I had established a small but faithful Sunday readership — just enough to help me earn the title of local writer and reap some recognition in the produce aisles and the post office.
Writing about real life — my real life — turned out to be a great way to work through some prickly domestic issues I’d been grappling with, plus I got paid to do my thinking on paper. It further proved that, despite all the laundry and the carpooling, I also had an inner life. But it didn’t occur to me, at first, that personal writing made public could be a tad self-indulgent if you get too careless — or that what you might consider a charming family anecdote could mean nothing less than lunchroom hell to your kid. My son, who was in grade school then, was the first to expose the hubris in all of this.
“If you’re going to write about me, you better get it right or don’t publish it,” he exploded after I wrote about the time I discovered a sticky stockpile of empty soda pop cans under his bed. The column, which had mercilessly trashed the housekeeping habits of little boys, also chronicled my terror upon discovering that one of the pop cans hosted a small colony of honey bees. I had also stretched the facts a bit, implying that my son was keeping the bees as pets. This infuriated him. Everyone else thought the piece was hysterical, but my son’s pride was wounded, especially after his teacher brought it up in class the following Monday.
Another time, when he was 10, he pointed out that I had misquoted him in a piece that, in my view, was flattering to him. I tried to explain that it’s not easy for mothers or writers to quote accurately from memory, unless they diligently record every scrap of conversation in a notebook. But the jig was up. Feeling used, he was rightfully suspicious of my motives.
We came to a critical juncture when my son reached middle school. In a fit of total ignorance, I’d made a passing reference to the fact that he had dressed as Spock from “Star Trek” one Halloween. After the offending paragraph appeared in the paper, I was told that I did not have permission — or the right — to write about his personal business. I had no idea that Halloween costumes qualified as personal business, but of course, it wasn’t really about the costume.
“I wish you’d quit writing about me,” he repeated, fighting tears as he ran upstairs. “I don’t want to ruin your job, but that’s just how I feel!”
It was a very brave thing to say, since he knew he had posed a serious dilemma: The small-but-faithful readership had made it clear that the “kid columns” were my best stuff and they wanted more. So I was momentarily caught off guard. Hadn’t I been too careful all along? I was already worried that I’d be dismissed as a wimpy journalist, usually eschewing hot-button topics. It’s true that I always tried to render emotionally honest stories — yet I published what most writers would consider safe material, knowing full well that my son had to face the village at school while I hid behind a desk at home. Even from a personal angle, I avoided the sort of brutal honesty I’d been reading in the work of other essayists and newspaper columnists. I routinely read my columns aloud to my husband before sending them to the paper, just to ensure the pieces weren’t too revealing, too invasive. But I hadn’t done the same with our son.
And so, after our tearful talk at the top of the stairs, I decided to honor my son’s request and agreed to a temporary ban on the kid columns. The ban was lifted in high school after my son grew thicker skin and facial hair. But I still avoided forbidden material, tempting though it was, including his budding relationship with a girl at school. (As testament to my prudence, his first car accident was quietly resolved without a single paragraph in the Sunday paper.)
Today, while I am a fan of literary memoirs, I can’t help but wonder how the more candid (i.e., brutally frank/angry) material is being tolerated by the authors’ children. As much as I admire courageous, confessional writing, I get squeamish when too much is revealed about youngsters who, like my son, might be melting in the spotlight while their moms negotiate story fees. So much depends, I realize, on where the work is published — and when (or if) the authors’ children see it. But kids aren’t stupid; they know when their every move is being scrutinized.
The dilemma still haunts me; still nags at my conscience. Yet this much I know for sure: Too much of our culture is fueled by celebrity. We all want more than our 15 minutes of fame and a terrific agent. (Are we terrified of being invisible?) But after two decades of professional writing, it occurs to me now that the most important stories are those imprinted on our hearts. And maybe it’s just as well to keep some of those stories to ourselves.
Having spent the last 19 years of motherhood trying to teach my son the importance of respecting boundaries, I’ve finally learned how to respect his. And thanks to my son’s willingness to express his own feelings honestly, I have learned how to strike a compromise between my desire for recognition and his need for privacy. Before hitting the send button, I also pause to consider the motivation behind every single piece I publish about him. – Cindy La Ferle
—Parts of this essay were originally published on Literary Mama.com and in MetroParent magazine.—
