Is It Fair to Put Them Under a Microscope?

‘So, how does it feel to be written about in your mother’s column?” The question from her middle-school teacher caught my daughter off guard.

“Um . . . OK, I guess.” She giggled nervously and changed the subject.

Truth be told, it feels “OK” only because she doesn’t know what I’m writing about her.

Because she doesn’t read my columns.

Because I’m her mother . . . and I couldn’t possibly have anything to say that would be of interest to her.

It’s a bit insulting, to say the least. But I’ve decided to regard this glass as half full. Because as long as my children aren’t reading what I write, I can say what I want about our private lives. With only my conscience as censor and guide.

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When I started this column, I worried a lot about how my children would respond to my constant references to our personal lives. Would they feel cherished or embarrassed? Would they be delighted by their high public profile, or feel compromised?

What I didn’t expect was indifference.

They know I have a column--they see that picture (which only vaguely resembles their mom) on the front of Life & Style. They hear me field the comments of neighbors and friends about things I’ve written or plan to write.

But beyond, “Can you leave work early to make my soccer game today?” and “Don’t forget, it’s your turn to do the Brownie meeting,” they don’t much care what my job entails.

That realization hit me at the breakfast table one morning, not long after I acquired this space.

My oldest daughter, the 12-year-old, was casting about for something to read. I thrust my column in front of her. “Here, how about this!”

She took the newspaper, glanced at my picture and began to read. My heart swelled with pride.

But by the time I’d poured her milk and looked back around, she’d put the newspaper aside and was intently reading . . . a cereal box.

And I realized she found the nutritional composition of Cheerios more interesting than anything I could say.

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The reality is that what I say or think or do only matters to them when they can feel its direct impact on their lives.

My oldest relays word that her French teacher enjoys my column . . . and wonders whether that might translate to a higher grade on her next test.

And her sisters enjoy their celebrity when a column winds up in the school paper. “Mommy, you’re famous,” the little one says. “We’re famous.”

Mostly, they want me to be invisible . . . or at least normal. To not embarrass them by writing about dating or dog psychics; to not make it seem like we’re different or weird.

But while they don’t worry, I still do.

I once sought advice from my colleague Doug Smith--the son of the late Times columnist Jack Smith, and whom I know as a friend, gentleman and first-rate reporter.

He grew up under a microscope, as a frequent topic of his father’s columns. It was not what his father told readers that dogged him, but the image that people drew from those accounts.

Imagine meeting people who think they understand you, when all they know is drawn from snippets of your life. Imagine trying to live up to--or down to or away from--that public image. It’s a burden no child should have to bear.

So I’ll try to be careful when I write about my kids; not to paint this one as smart, that one as difficult, the other as sensitive or witty or kind. Because after all, they are just normal kids--complicated and confusing, sometimes smart, sometimes silly, sometimes bratty, sometimes sweet.

And if I exaggerate those traits to make a point sometime . . . well, I hope one day they’ll understand and forgive me.

And I hope none of them will ever publish memoirs.

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* Sandy Banks’ column is published Mondays and Fridays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.