“Do you publish all of your blogs?” asked a friend. “Or do you have some hidden away that I haven’t read?”

Until yesterday, I posted everything. Then Hot Firefighter Husband and I had a…disagreement. So I have one sitting in the bag.

This Embargoed Post was about SEX. It even included the terms fuckery, which is not actually a word, and mind-blowing. I know, I know, I’m disappointed, too.

Don’t hate on Hot Firefighter Husband. He deserves some privacy, you know. And I’m hoping that I’ll be able to massage that post until Hot Firefighter Husband is happy. So to speak.

But this….disagreement…..raised some good points about my family’s right to not have its matriarch splattering intimate anecdotes all over cyberspace. Husband has a pretty high tolerance for it – I’ve written a lot about our relationship, even some of the sex stuff – and also about, for example, his inability to load the dishwasher correctly or buy me decent gifts. To balance it out, of course, I’ve also mentioned the fact that he’s, duh, HOT, and is pretty saintly for putting up with a crazycakes wife who vacillates between illusions of grandeur and abject despair.

Somehow, yesterday’s blog crossed the line. Well, I shouldn’t say somehow. I know how. It just didn’t matter so much to me because through my blog, I’m an open book.  Seriously. I tell you people everything. Except I’ve never told you about that phase in high school. But I will one day!

Husband asked, “How would you like it if I wrote something like that?”

“But you never would,” I said. We process life differently, Husband and me. The topics covered in the Embargoed Post had been marinating in my head for two weeks, making me antsy and morose. After I wrote it, I was like, AHA! I get it! It was like Advil finally kicking in to relieve a headache. I felt free. Then Husband read it and was all, WHAT! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? AND YOU WANT PEOPLE WE KNOW TO READ THIS?

But you’re like therapy for me! Although I go to therapy, too. Plus, I have the Cymbalta. But you’re like extra therapy for me!

And it’s good that I have so much therapy available – because I’ll have to share it with my children when they find out I’ve been telling hundreds (maybe thousands!) of people about parts of their lives ranging from constipation to obsessions with boobs.

In addition to the Embargoed Post incident, there recently was this: I had to tell the Diva about sex. And note to parents of young children: don’t wait till your children are a double-digit age. Tell them when they’re five or so, and you can really dumb it down to something like, Well, when two grown-up people love each other very much, they get married and the man takes a seed from his pee-pee and gives it to the woman and she puts it in her pee-pee, and they have a baby. DONE!

I waited too long. So in a single evening, on a school night even, we covered penises entering vaginas, unintended pregnancy, body hair, adoption, menstruation, moodiness, reproductive medicine, and sperm banks. Yup, she asked about all of those things. Believe me, I wouldn’t have volunteered that stuff.

When do their lives start being theirs, and cease to be fodder for my writing? I don’t know the answer, but in the case of the Diva, I suspect it is soon. And that will be hard for me, because part of my ability to parent her depends on my ability to parse my thoughts through these words.

While I figure this out, I would so appreciate it if, when you encounter me or members of my family in a social situation, you’d pretend not to know about my obsession with getting boogers out of my baby’s nose, or about the Pterodactyl throwing silverware down the hole in his wall, or about Husband giving 7-year-old son a hatchet to practice edging the lawn. Just pretend we’re normal. Like a donut. Then you can read the blog later and realize we taste like bacon.

If you can do that, maybe I can convince Hot Firefighter Husband to release the Embargoed Blog. After some editing, of course. SEX!