Counting
down the days to Max’s graduation, our
phone conversations cover a lot of
territory: slogging through the last
college paper, enjoying senior week
festivities, saying goodbye to friends and my
son’s erratic job search. On our last
phone call, Max admitted he felt uncomfortable with my blog and some of its
less than complimentary revelations.
“All my
friends are reading your blog,” he complained.
“Now they confront me and say they didn’t know I was a hypochondriac.“
“How's
that possible? Every friend I’ve met seems
well aware of your health fears.”
Max chooses not to argue that point. “This week my friends are saying you don’t
want me to come home. Is that true?”
“Did
YOU read my blog? Where’s your sense of
humor? I was consoling myself that you weren’t home on Mother’s Day.”
Of course it’s true that I’m not
looking forward to living with the mess and chaos Max brings with him, but
that’s very different from not wanting him to come home. I’m sure Max is not looking forward to being nagged
to clean his room, lock the front door and take his key. These parental demands are not new or startling news
bulletins.
“Okay,
Mom, but do you have to post your blog on the alumnae site?”
“He has
a point there,” Henry interjects.
“It’s
complicated. I’ll think about it,” I
offer. Max’s alma mater and mine are
the same, so it’s not clear who has dibs on that site. “Anyway, in another week you’ll have
graduated, and your friends will lose interest in reading my blog—which isn’t
only about you—and will move on to other things. “
“Maybe
you should skip the college site,” Henry suggests after we hang up, “if it
bothers him so much.”
"And
maybe if he cleaned up his act—which bothers me so much—it wouldn’t matter.”
Suddenly I’ve made up my mind. I remember the famous quote by Virginia Wolf
in response to a poem, “Angel in the House,” about a Victorian housewife. Virginia Woolf said: “Killing the ‘Angel in the House’ is part of
the occupation of the woman writer.” She
describes the “angel” as “that selfless, sacrificial woman in the 19th
century, whose sole purpose in life was to soothe, flatter and comfort the male
half of the world’s population.” So now
that it’s 200 years later, there’s no way I’m going to play the angel.
Besides,
I’ve been a Virginia Woolf fan ever since reading “A Room of One’s Own.” However, I don’t have my own office in our
modern-day, cramped Manhattan apartment. Space is at a premium here, yet both
of my kids have their own rooms. Please don’t be disappointed in me, Virginia,
because I do have a desk and a computer of my own. This coveted space is all
mine, even if it’s only a corner of the living room. Max may be the stand-up comedian in our home,
but I am entitled to my own sense of humor. Of course, Max and I enjoy some of the same
comedians, including Mel Brooks, who said: “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and
die.”
My son talks
about his issues and sexcapades during stand-up comedy routines. His material is graphic and outrageous, but
college students (and his parents) find him screamingly funny. Yet there has been the occasional
unidentified student who realizes that he/she is the butt of a joke and is
embarrassed or hurt, and Max has apologized.
But is he willing to alter his style or have his material censored? The answer—his and mine—is absolutely
not. I may not have a room of my own, but I sure as
hell deserve a blog of my own.
Labels: ADHD, blogging, college graduation, comedy, family, humor, hypochondria, internet privacy issues, Mother's Day, parent blogs, parenting, technology issues, Virginia Woolf, women writers