Girls, girls, girls

First off, can I say that Max has given me specific permission to write this particular blog. In fact it throws up an interesting issue, one which I wrestle with quite regularly. When and where a line is to be drawn regarding private and personal material? How do you guard yourself from writing about stuff that family members would be uncomfortable, nay, outraged, being made public. I feel there is a very clear line. Living with Max is a book written mainly about Max as a baby and a toddler. He loves me writing about him and I feel there is very little in that book that I regret including. One or two things in hindsight probably crossed the line, but I’d like to think I’m older and wiser now.

So when I put pen to paper, with both my sons being in the throes of teenage angst, I constantly have at the back of my mind a ‘privacy’ conscience. It’s not hard to define. Many, many parts of our daily lives I simply cannot write about, it would be a wholehearted betrayal to my children. Of course, I’m occasionally tempted, some very amusing stories breeze through our household and it’s so very difficult to pass over these nuggets when I put pen to paper.

This tale I could easily classify as private. However Max was only too happy for me to blog about it. It’s harmless, so please fear not. As a parent I would not use such a flimsy excuse as Max’s acquiescence to justify my writer’s lust. I would most certainly always save him from himself! That massive ego requires constant surveillance; it needs to be kept under control and just out of harms reach, even from Max!

Max has a great bedroom and, as he’s matured, I’ve been delighted at the pride he takes in keeping it neat and tidy, creatively changing all the furniture around when the mood strikes. It reminds me of my idyllic childhood, when I would enjoy the same obsession of swapping and changing all my room’s contents at the slightest whim. I must confess failed to be anywhere near as tidy as Max. I follow Charlie in that department. My parents soon gave up on chastising me due to my room’s appallingly messy state; I have not come close to such frustrations with Max.

So one evening when I gently knocked upon his bedroom door to pay him a social visit and see what he was up to, I was aghast at the display of female beauties all lined up on his wall. I marvelled at his ingenuity and he faced me with a twinkle in his eye, not a hint of embarrassment. He'd also demonstrated smart computer skills as he must have google imaged each girl in turn (spelling their name correctly) and printed off a selected photo. Perhaps it’s best if you just take a look below.

MAX LEWIS

GIRLS

Is it me or do they all follow a similar type? All beautiful and, let’s be clear, his standards are savagely high. I would be thrilled if I was anyone of those creatures. To be one of the chosen few is praise indeed. For me to be included would be wrong, indeed a tad weird and uncomfortable, I need to acknowledge what all these babes signify for my son – but I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Can’t I be up on your wall, I’ve got long blonde hair?’
‘Mum! You’re too old’.
‘But Cate Blanchette’s there, she’s the same age as me!’ I wailed.
He just looked at me as if I’d lost it. Bright boy my Max.