Oy.
My 11-year old was asking about web pages and how they work last night. "Why, do you want one of your own?"
"I don't know. What is your web page address?"
"Ummmmm...it's a secret."
"Dad! What's your web page address?"
"It's a secret."
"Why is it a secret?"
"Well, because I have something called a blog..."
"What's that?"
"It's like a journal."
"Well, doesn't it have a password or something?"
"No, it doesn't."
"Oh."
To my 11-year old journal = diary = private. I am content to let her continue to think that. Sorry, I am not ready or willing to give my children access to my blog. If they manage to find it on their own, that's another matter and we'll cross that bridge if or when we get there.
I'm not really sure what there is here I am not ready for them to see. It's not like they've never heard me swear. Just ask the same 11-year old about the day I clipped the garbage can backing out of my garage and broke off my side view mirror. I also don't care if they read my political views or some of my meaningless rants. There is the little problem that Dooce and Joe.My.God are not exactly family fare.
I guess my heistation is mostly because of the more personal stuff about me I'm just not convinced they are emotionally mature enough to digest. I have always answered their questions honestly. I figure if they're old enough to ask the question, they're old enough to hear the answer. Had she not interrupted, I would have explained that I write a lot of things here that are really meant for adults and when she was older I would let her read them. I did tell her I was redesigning my photo pages (and moving them to a new URL) and she could see that when I was done.
I'm still not sure how I feel about my girls growing up. On the one hand I look forward to the day when they are adults and we can interact as such, when all things are in the open and on the table for discussion. On the other hand, I still see them as my little girls and I don't want them to grow up . . . ever.
I blame that on my truncated time with them the last six years. Kids change so much between six and twelve. Even though I see my girls more than most divorced dads see their kids, I still only participate in a small fraction of their existence. If I sat down and did the math, I probably have spent a years worth of time with them in the last six years. So as far as I am concerned they are still seven and eight. Eleven and thirteen (practically twelve and fourteen now) be damned.