This article in The Atlantic by Phoebe Maltz Bovy, “The ethical implications of parents writing about their children” is incredibly unforgiving of mother writers and bloggers. She sets the benchmark very low for the test of appropriateness with writing and it’s anything that may embarrass your children when they’re older. My god, I think the topic is way more nuanced than this writer is letting it be in her article.
Still, anyone looking to question the ethics of parental overshare faces a tough audience. The ubiquity of confessional writing has spilled over into confessions that implicate not so much the author as the author’s still-underage offspring. Readers are meant to celebrate confessional parenting-writing for its courage, perhaps also because it is a rare creative (sometimes lucrative) outlet for women who identify primarily as mothers. Yet these parents’ “courage” involves telling stories not theirs to tell. Confessional writing is about risk. An author telling of her own troubles risks her own reputation and relationships. But an author doing the same about her kid risks primarily his, not hers.
This is a particularly troublesome topic at the moment because of some high profile writing by mothers about their children with disabilities. People with disabilities already pay a high price for prejudice, can they afford to pay any more when their mothers write about their disabilities in very unflattering terms? However, mothers and carers also pay a high price for caring work that is grossly undervalued in society and poorly supported, can they not write about that penalty?
In reply to Maltz Bovy’s article I would say yes, this confessional writing about mothering is controversial for good reason (it’s a quagmire for all confessional writing), and yes, there are unequal lines of power in the relationship between parent and child, and yes, mistakes are sometimes made. But I have thoughts on both the blurriness of the line between what is my story, as a mother, and what is my children’s story and also some thoughts on the brutal hostility that is shown to mothers who dare to write about their experiences (and yes, I think in part that this is a gender issue)..
Here, in my own article, “Complaining about motherhood”:
When mothers do complain about their children, particularly in public, they often pull punches in a ‘cereal all over the floor, those loveable rascals’ kind of way. Motherhood is so tightly scripted that even when someone appears to ad-lib they are very often reading rehearsed lines. Complaining about my children feels a lot like complaining about my job. The tantrums, the squabbling, the whining and the interruptions – these are the monotonous meetings, the jammed printers and the difficult bosses I may complain about to colleagues over drinks. But that’s not necessarily how the complaints will be received. The line between your story, as a mother, and your children’s is thin. Who owns this tale of woe and its right to be told? Unloading is liberating but troubling for a parent, all at once. Mothering is a role that will dominate my life for at least twenty years and there is plenty to say about that preoccupation but it is almost impossible to write about without treading on the privacy and powerlessness of my children.
Here in my post, “Too sexy for breastfeeding”:
There is something else worth considering about Furry Girl’s criticisms of Young, and that is the way in which she can’t distinguish between mothers and mothering. Yes, Young’s daughter can’t give permission for being included in her mother’s artwork, neither can mine give permission for my writing. But who owns Young’s experience of motherhood? Who own’s mine? Where do Young’s and my experiences of early motherhood and our desire to explore these all-consuming aspects of our lives end, and our children’s ownership of them begin? Can Young, who describes her devotion to her baby daughter so lovingly, not be trusted to know? Does being sexual as women (or even sexually objectified unintentionally) spill dangerously over into our responsibilities as mothers? Does it prevent us from good mothering? Because incidentally, I also attract readers here from time to time looking for something apart from feminist discussion, who are instead seeking ‘sexy breastfeeding’ stories and images. (And what a crushing bore they must find it all, once here).
There are boundaries, of course, but they need not impose the complete separation of mother from self.
Here with my post, “Reluctant blog material”:
There is something to be suspicious about whenever people jump on a bandwagon against a practice almost entirely pursued by women, which parent blogging overwhelmingly is. Feminism has a rich history in the liberation of making the personal political – of destigmatising ordinary but shamed aspects of womens’ lives, and the solidarity which can come out of sharing one’s own story with other women only to find theirs are touchingly similar. Indeed, much of my interest in writing a feminist motherhood blog arose from this idea. And yet, to be honest, like some others I’m still rather ambivalent about the decision to blog about my daughter.
When I started writing here it was with several purposes, among them was the desire to create something for my daughter to read when she was older. I’m imagining she’ll want to know more about who she was and how she came to be than I could otherwise recall without referring to this blog. Maybe she’ll also want to know who I was back then, too. But as my interests with the blog have developed, I find myself increasingly writing about other facets beyond the personal and I frequently wonder about their compatibility with the journal of a childhood. This is particularly the case when I write about contentious topics, posts which attract new readers from varying sources, readers I don’t have any kind of connection with, and readers who have an axe to grind. These posts, I know, can incite debate if not outright hostility, and they attract trolls too. And all the time, just above or below each contentious post is a cheerful little post about my daughter, with a photo or two of her. I feel like I am rolling over and showing the trolls my soft underbelly. See, right here, that would really hurt. I’ve tried to prepare myself for the inevitable attack when it comes, and I’m trying to be ready to see it for the stupidity that it will be.. but still, soft underbelly, very soft.
And here in my post, “Parenthood takes you to the edge”:
Mummy and Daddy blogs really get a hammering in the reputation stakes of writing, they’re all supposed to be sappy and mindless like parenting itself perhaps, but these two posts prove how much of parenthood is not sappy and mindless at all. Parenthood can feel like flirting with your own disintegration. These two posts tell me a lot about the experience of becoming a parent, about being pushed to the edge and holding it together, and about losing your very identity and forming a new one; stuff that I’ve never seen properly said in a parenting manual. Writing like this is so personal and yet universal all at once. There are many terrific reasons for blogging but the ability to liberate others through your own honesty is worthy indeed.
I’ve seldom seen mommy-blogs or daddy-blogs go overboard in posting stuff that’s potentially damaging to their children. What I *do* find astonishing is that nobody seems to find a problem in “Super Nanny” and similar reality-tv where a public spectacle is made of the behavioural problems of a family.
The parents may have agreed to this. To have their shouting crying and emotional moments become a TV-show. But what about the kids ?
Totally agree. Those shows are appalling. But they could be so good – a way to educate people about positive parenting. Instead we are asked to judge the entire family.
I’d actually argue that not even the adults have freely choosen to be in the show. They are typically resource-poor families in a crisis. They realize that they need help, but obviously aren’t getting it.
Thus in desperation, they turn to the only ones willing to help: a comercial TV-station that is willing to give them some assistance – at the cost of turning a difficult family-situation into TV-entertainment.
Families in crisis should not have to make that choice: help should be available *without* the condition that you give up your privacy, and potentially expose yourself and your children to ridicule.
The shows I have seen usually involve relatively well-off American families were one parent is a “stay-at-home” mum. Financially stretched maybe (like most of us) but definitely not poor. But agree that their situations are usually desperate.
Resources are more than money. I agree they’re seldom poor, but they’re also seldom wealthy.
What I meant was primarily other types of resourcefulness. It seems to me that the participants on the show, compared to average, have less of a social network, less education, less involved grandparents, basically less alternatives. This pushes them up in a corner, where it makes sense to accept really intrusive stuff, in order to get the help the desperately need.
My daughters are old enough now at 11 and 13 to find my blog and they love reading stuff about themselves. I caught one reading a five-year-old blog post out to her friend, and both laughing their heads off.
Having said that, I actively self-censored my blog (whole nother topic – would appreciate your clear-headed insight here), so what they are reading is not the whole truth nor the full picture. By the time they are old enough to understand the full picture, I guess I will have actively forgotten how freaking hard it was at times. Hope I don’t forget to give them a nuanced view.
Good point agrajag
it goes the other way, too. i wrote – gently and not often – about my mother’s long slow decline and death from lung cancer. she was captivated by my blog and loved seeing the comments on the posts about her – many of which were of the “go moky” variety. but at some point, near the end, when she was no longer reading, i wrote a post and said something akin to a weekend having felt like a death watch. one thing led to another and my brother flipped out – invasion of privacy, blah blah blah. it really wasn’t, and my mother would have been fine with it, but…
at the end of the day, it’s my life – my blog – and yes, there are other people there. the ethics of writing about your children are no different than the ethics of writing about anyone, really.
There’s aaaaaalllllways someone more important than a mother. Either it’s her child(ren), or her partner, or her boss, or the public (who don’t want to bother existing in the same place as her children, or don’t want to witness her icky breastfeeding), or her doctor, or… or… on ad infinitum.
We must do anything we can to keep mothers from being full, autonomous human beings in their own right, it seems. Thus the fetus becomes an unborn person, and the born children become the most important people (to their mother only, though), and the family becomes the Most Important Job (that mothers must do on their own, with no help, of course).
The “stories” of motherhood belong to the mother. There are other, dependent characters in such stories. But sparing society the truth of what motherhood is like ultimately harms us, I think. Of course, if women told more truth about motherhood, fewer women would become mothers. And we can’t have that.
Other mothers’ stories have saved my LIFE. Mothers should keep talking, especially in the face of society’s insistence that we just shut UP, because “what about the CHILDREN.” (gasp)
What about the mothers? Who gives a rat? Their own fault for having children, of course.
Amen.
Also, mommy blogs are by nature vapid, personal, and unimportant because their audience is mostly women. Who don’t count as an audience.
As often is the case, I completely agree with Hattie on this subject.
That this criticism actually comes from self-identifying feminists is all the more troubling to me. Being a mother is something that women often do, and the presumption that we don’t have the right to talk about it or complain about some of the low points is outrageous. Apparently it’s still perfectly fine in some quarters to silence and marginalize women who parent and try to talk about it in the public sphere.
I completely agree with the commenters above, especially magpiemusing’s comment that writing about children requires the same ethical standards of writing about anyone else (though maybe the power differential makes it slightly more difficult, but the principle is the same).
And how can you write anything without writing about other people? We are social beings. Our identities are formed by our connections to other people. I cannot write about being a teacher without mentioning about my students. I cannot write about being a daughter without mentioning my parents. I cannot write about being a sister without mentioning my siblings. How can I write about being a mother without mentioning my daughter? How can I write about being ANYTHING without mentioning the people that make that role possible? Of course, we always have to consider what we share and how it impacts our subject and audience, but that’s true of all writing.
Writing about one’s children or partner is not a new phenomenon, nor is it the exclusive domain of bloggers. Opinion writers in newspapers do the same thing. I agree absolutely with this article and the previous comments.
I just went away and read that article linked to in the first section. I actually think it is important to critique activities that involve children (where children may be shamed, put on display etc). I think it’s fine to critique anything, really, as long as you’re doing it in a thoughtful way. But I object to the idea that mothers must be silenced in their own journeys – that we are not allowed to talk about the reality of our own parenting journey, that we must hide away in our houses, isolated and feeling like the only ones who have ever contemplated selling our children on ebay. I dislike the idea that a blog may be used to humiliate a child. That bothers me. There is a line, and as you say it is blurry. I think it is good to question ourselves before we hit “post”.
[…] Blue Milk has an excellent post on the controversy in writing about your children. […]
not using my blog link or other identifying information for what will be obvious…
my husband and I had this conversation on a micro-scale today. I was interacting with a young teen child of ours who was up most of the night on the computer and didn’t get enough sleep, so was being particularly ungracious. This child also has a tendency to be a bit of a challenge and a lot of energy goes in to attempting positive interactions. After asking said child to complete a bit of homework and housework for the fourth or fifth time and being snarled at I commented, in a non-emotional tone, to my husband (out of earshot of all the children of the house, including this one) that “____ is being a dick today”. Clearly an inarticulate description of the situation and not something that I would ever say to that child, any of the children, or really anyone else except one or two very close friends who are generally positive sounding boards. I then preceded to calmly follow the child to their bedroom and attempt another round of interaction.
Several minutes later my husband pulled me aside, telling me that he was upset with what I had said and “didn’t want to hear it”. As context we’ve had many, many conversations in our house regarding the fact the I hold primary (as in 99%) responsibility for the “hard stuff” when it comes to parenting… such as deciding when and what types of consequences, when and what types of rules/policies, how to deal with persistent challenges such as anxiety in children or “anti-social” sibling behaviors (and dealing with it), doing all the hand-holding for difficult medical situations such as stitches and teeth extractions, etc. I’m mostly okay with this as it is the way things are for now, but I simply could not stomach that he would criticize me for needing, just for a second, to acknowledge my frustration with the situation in what I thought was a safe environment — unless I worded it some type of perfect, nonviolent, parenting language. I felt shamed and silenced and it is a conversation I imagine we will continue in the future.
I think it’s absolutely important to keep an honest account, and that it’s so, so important for mothers (and fathers, but let’s be real) to share their stories when they are willing and able.
And yet, a thing I often think about when I write is whether this is something I want to preserve for future memories: when I look back on what I’ve written about my children when they are grown, how much will I want to dwell on the difficulties I had raising my beloveds? And so, on my blog at least, I try to aim for a balance that skews toward the positive. This also functions for me as a practice of counting my blessings, and encouraging a sense of gratitude, which is personally important to me.
And if I’m honest – I worry that writing those things down, those frustrations and angers and all that negativity – when I was young, I once discovered a letter my father had written to my brother and I, talking about his reasons for divorcing my mother. It was something he’d never really meant for us to see, and it was really rough for me to chance upon it; I read it without any kind of brace or context or explanation. I don’t want that to happen to my children, I don’t want them to somehow stumble unaware onto my own conflicted experiences of loving them.
So I do end up self-censoring the subjects about which I’ll write. I guess only time will tell whether it was worth it.
When I started writing here it was with several purposes, among them was the desire to create something for my daughter to read when she was older. I’m imagining she’ll want to know more about who she was and how she came to be than I could otherwise recall without referring to this blog. Maybe she’ll also want to know who I was back then, too.
My mother died when I was 22, and once I became a mother myself (more than a decade later), I felt this giant, gaping void of not-knowing: not knowing what I was like as a baby, not knowing what it was like for her to become a mother (I’m her oldest), not knowing what our early days were like together, and so on. When I wonder about whether or not I should be writing what I’m writing, I think about that void.
[…] Fox commits motherhood blasphemy by admitting she hates playgroup and at Blue Milk she looks at the controversy in writing about your children. Anthea at The Hand Mirror talks about public noise (that of children and other sources). Rosanne […]
[…] don’t agree with everything in this article, and I’ve certainly agreed with some of her views in this area in the past, but it’s raising some good questions. From Phoebe Maltz Bovy with “True Stories” […]