This morning, we were on the way to Chooch’s piano lesson when he started cracking up from the backseat. I figured he was watching some lame YouTube video, which he is wont to do, but then, in the voice of a hick derelict, he blurted out, “These dead broads ain’t gon’ bury themselves!”
And that’s when I realized he was reading my blog.
OK, not technically my blog, but a photo book that I made a few years ago about one of our visits to the Westmoreland County Fair. A box full of some of the shit I brought home from work was in the backseat with Chooch, and he had pulled that book out of it and started reading it unbeknownst to me.
So this book is essentially my blog post from that fair, compiled with photos and additional commentary into a Shutterfly book. This was back when I was all gung-ho about turning all of my county fair posts into photo books (I made two and then gave up; I can’t sit still for that long). And now Chooch was reading it and honest to god laughing so hard, he was crying.
On one hand, I was like, “YES! THIS RULES! MY SON THINKS I’M FUNNY!” But on the other hand, I was like, “Oh fuck, did I put any fucked up things in that book?” OK, let me rephrase that: “WHAT KIND of fucked up things did I put in that book?” I mean, eventually, he is probably going to start reading my blog. It’s really weird and awkward to think about it, because I have quite literally accounted for his entire life thus far, right here on this blog and my old LiveJournal. I can only imagine how surreal that’s going to be for him, especially when he realizes that MOMMY HAD A LIFE BEFORE HIM.
But let’s face it: I’m kind of an asshole on here. I swear a lot. I use sex metaphors whenever possible. I write disparaging (THOUGH LOVING!) sentiments about Henry. Maybe these are things that a kid shouldn’t read until adulthood? Just putting my parenting cap on here for a sec.
However, it’s not like he currently has some glorified image of his mother. He knows mama ain’t no Donna Reed. We have real time banter with each other that’s not unlike the things I might write on here, it’s very uncensored and laid back here in our peasant shack, so I don’t think he would be too shocked by very much. Obviously, this isn’t to say I’m going to coo, “Here, 8-year-old, let’s read aloud from Mommy’s disgusting blog before bedtime.” He’s got a few more years left before that becomes a reality.
But until that day, it’s nice to know he’s not only a fan, but he knows what “cacophony” means! Henry probably doesn’t.