My wandering mind the other day hit upon a phenomenon clearly well known to all parents who came before me: while my kids still loom so very large in my life, my presence in theirs grows ever smaller. It's as if there's an inverse correlation between their size and their need or interest in me. [Here I go making the link that my readers are smart enough to know what an inverse correlation is.]
I am left not experiencing a comparable decline in my need of interaction with them. [Periods of outright annoyance with something they are doing/have done notwithstanding. Interestingly, when they are at their most annoying, their interest in being with me seems to correspondingly rise. Huh.]
I share less about them here as they grow and mature, as their lives become their own. I suppose I take the view that they own the right to tell their own stories, or not, more and more. The right for me to tell stories of them, even if those stories involve me, ebbs.
Now let me tie those wandering thoughts into the title of this post. It's a damn good thing I take that stance because I have one hell of a story I would love to share.
But I won't.
Not even a little.