Have you noticed I rarely write about my husband? If I do, it is an offhand remark necessary to the telling of a story about someone else (usually one of our children). He is not often the subject of posts.
This is not because he is not important to my life. He is my partner and my friend, and over the past fourteen (sweet heavens, has it been that long?) years since we met, we have grown together in all sorts of odd ways. We always know where the other is going in a conversation, we often have the same idea at the same time, and we generally have developed a shorthand form of communication. There are lots more things I could say, but I try not to write too much about him or our relationship here on this blog.
I fear if I did, it would permeate our relationship. We would both become self-conscious, knowing that the things we do together or our conversations could become blog fodder. More to the point, he would never have the comfort of knowing our relationship is completely private. Our marriage needs to be a safety zone, where we can say anything without fear of public embarrassment. If I wrote about him, we would lose that place.
Writing about my kids is different. I have certain rules in place – pseudonyms, no pictures, nothing that will cause trouble in the Jr. High locker room. But, the fact is, they do not know I write about them, so it is not a cause for anxiety or self-censorship in our relationship. I can write about them, record their lives for them, without fearing that it is affecting how we relate to one another.
Of course, there is always the mommyblogger fear that they will hate me for it later or that I am invading their privacy, which is why my husband vets my writing, acting as their advocate.
But him? He is an adult, he knows what I am doing. And I just cannot see how our relationship would be the same if instead of being two tired people sloughing through life together I turned us into the observer and the observed.