Here's the thing. This woman in my passenger seat is my kids' grandmother, but she is also my mother. It is the grandmother part though that we focus on now. It is the relationship I can have with her right now. Anything more is too complicated, too painful, carries too much baggage.
"Can I read your blog?" The question echoes in my head. Of course she could. This is a public blog. It is open to the world to read. And I do that intentionally because I do not know who might relate to my stories, to my voice, my words.
So yes she could read my blog. But I have never given her my blog address, my blog name. We are not Facebook friends. (She's asked and I've said no.) I don't know if she has a Twitter account. I have not shared this part of me with her. Mostly because I do not want to discuss it with her. I don't want to wonder what she will think about what I write.
Recently, Anne Lamott tweeted,
@ANNELAMOTTYou own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better.
And so when she asked the question I was stuck. How do I answer? If I say no, she will be even more curious and will probably badger our shared acquaintances until she finds it. If I say yes, I will forever wonder if she is reading it.
I was left with the only honest answer I could find.
"You wouldn't want to read it," I said.
She didn't seem to catch the hint. I would she said. She said she would like to know what is going on in our life.
I explained it's not a mom blog, I don't write about my day to day life.
She asked again.
"You wouldn't like it," I said this time.
She seemed to finally understand.
Because while I don't write about her often, I do tell my story.