By David Himmel

I hated when my mother would talk about me to her friends when I was a kid. Hated it. Even the most bland of stories, like, say, that I was playing little league again that spring would infuriate me. And I know she shared way more about me than my pre-teen baseball career to her friends and family. And I hated it. Hated it. As if she knew anything about me whatsoever. As if my challenges and wins and all-inclusive experiences—as if my life—were her story to tell.

I recall several times angrily demanded she not talk about me to her friends. Not on the phone, not at Jazzercize, and certainly not at the baseball diamond. Each time, she’d patiently listen to me with a look of annoyed confusion—what I now know to be Resting Parent Face.

What was I so angry about? She was likely seeking council or sharing much needed misery with a fellow mom. I’m a parent now and, yep, I’m constantly talking about my kid to anyone willing to listen. He’s only two-and-a-half, so there’s little more to tell than how adorable and funny he can be or what an insufferable wanker he can be. However, those stories will evolve into ones with more nuance built with the thrilling complications that come with growing up. And I’ll certainly unpack those challenges—and the easy stuff, too—to my cabinet of trusted advisors as well as any soul who stumbles upon my writings, performances, or broadcasts. See, I talk about my son a lot.

Have I become my mother?

Sort of. I’ve become a parent. A parent who understands the importance of personal experiences and their stories and the truth, perception, and narrative of those stories. My son, Harry, never stops talking but has yet to become a Moth-ready storyteller or even a sensical living room storyteller. But his life is still his and he’s building memories that will last, and he will certainly delight friends, families, and strangers with them in due time. I plan on being around when that time comes due, and I plan on still being a writer who tells tales about my family and myself. But at what point do I lose the rights to tell Harry’s story?

 When do our children’s stories become theirs to tell and not ours?

(Holy shit. I just became Carrie Bradshaw with that leading question. That’s it! No more Sex and the City reruns for me.)

We have to tell stories about our families. Without that, there’d be nothing to write, read, watch, listen to, talk about. But, as with all things, there’s a line. A line of appropriateness. I see enough mommy blogs and Facebook posts that pull no punches and put all the hard, ugly, unfortunate truth out there. This is more than just the Parenthood is Funny and Challenging and My Kid can Be an Asshole. This is real serious stuff. The kind of stuff that a kid might not want getting out. Stuff a lot heavier than their spring athletic plans.

When telling stories involving other people for the mass public to consume, what we tell is less important than what we don’t. Some things should be kept private until that kid is old enough to determine whether or not they want to share it themselves or give up the rights to Dear Old Mom and Dad. And there’s a difference between discussing your kid’s challenges with close confidants and putting those hardships out there for the common unwashed to consume.

I’m guilty of it. My parenting journey is documented on The Literate ApeCast. I’ve also written I don’t know how many pieces for this outlet and others that directly involve my son. There may come a day when Harry reads it all and says to me, “Dad, why would you ever say that out loud? You’re a monster.” But giving people a look behind the curtains is my job, to a large degree. Honest writing—even when fiction—is good writing. (Asking questions to make your point is not. I’m looking at you, Carrie Bradshaw.) Or, at least it keeps it from being pure shit writing. And I’ve suffered for my honesty, fictionalized and otherwise.

My wife, Katie, hates when I tell stories about her. Well, she hates when I misquote her. But she knows and understands that this is what she signed up for. Part of the gig. We’re all characters in each other’s stories. And, really, she doesn’t have blanket hate for my telling stories involving her, it’s when I get real personal, that she doesn’t like. But I like the rawness of that kind of storytelling. It makes the characters vulnerable, you know, like in real life. But sometimes, dirty laundry can be embarrassing. Sometimes, even clean laundry can be embarrassing.

I am mindful of Harry’s future. I’m curious as to how I’ll bend the truth or hide it as he continues developing and growing, and how the experiences I’m telling you of parenthood in the Himmel Home become Harry’s stories to tell. I don’t want to upset him like I got upset with my mom even though, looking back now, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Or was it? Yeah, you know, it was. Because I had no control over the narrative.

Who knows what the Jewish moms of Flossmoor think of me without having heard my story from my point of view. Thankfully, I have little interest now what Flossmoor’s Jewish mothers think of me, but there was a time…

Like all things involving another person’s personal experience—like a good journalist—I will get Harry’s consent for the bigger, more personal stuff. If I even feel the need to tell it publicly. I don’t want him to be outed for anything that can be used against him by an employer or worse, a schoolyard peer/bully/love interest. He will have a reputation and a brand to uphold and define on his own terms. The worst thing I can do as a parent is rob him of that.

So, the ultimate question is then—and I think Carrie Bradshaw would agree—can parents and children share the same story? I think they can, but it has to be a collaborative process. And as I strive to be a good dad during Harry’s pre-teen, teenage, and young adult years, I may have a few NDAs to sign with my son before I sit down to write that next book or even run my mouth at a friend’s dinner party.

There’s grace in silence and secrets can be intriguing. And I can’t wait to hear Harry’s version of things.