Robrt Pela is a dear friend and longtime colleague. If you live in metro Phoenix, you might know him as the theater critic for Phoenix New Times and KJZZ, the local NPR affiliate. He writes about other things, too — he’s done a book about John Waters, and New Times stories about every art form you can imagine (and some you can’t). And he writes about his own life.

Robrt’s memoir writing is fan-freaking-tastic, and I am particularly fond of the work he’s done about his family. He doesn’t write about his kids — he doesn’t have any. Lately, he writes about his mother. It’s a particularly bittersweet task, I imagine, because she he has Alzheimer’s.

It’s not the same as writing about your kids, and yet in some important ways, I think, it’s not entirely different, either. Robrt was kind enough to take a break from his almost round-the-clock caregiving role to answer a few questions.

(You can hear his pieces and see a lovely photo of Robrt and his mom on KJZZ’s archives.)

Before this happened with your mom, how did you approach memoir writing?

Much more cautiously. I felt more strongly about protecting people when writing about them as secondary characters in my own story. I worry about that less, now that I’ve written about my mother as a disabled person— something she would not have approved of.

Did you have any rules for what you would/wouldn’t write for the public?

I suppose, unofficially, that I meant not to embarrass people who were close to me. So stories in which others behaved badly were off limits. This is less often true all the time.

How is this different when it comes to your mom, given her situation?

I had to abandon the idea of only writing about things my mother would have approved of, were she still in her right mind, because she was a very private person when it came to anything embarrassing, like an ailment. She wouldn’t have approved any of this, to be honest, and that’s where my personal concerns about exploitation and fairness come in. When we’re writing about someone close to us, we’re writing about ourselves, as well. I was always profoundly moved that my mother’s mother’s lifelong confinement in a mental hospital in the 1920s was such a deep, dark secret. I hated that. By not keeping secrets, I am making up for the ways in which my maternal grandmother (whom I never knew) became a secret. For me, if I’m telling all my stories, without shame, I’m compensating.

You have already put some work out into the world — any regrets once it was there? Lessons learned from it?

I was frankly surprised by the response to the first Mom essay, and I suppose the lesson I learned is that everyone has a mother, and mom storiesnreally resonate with people.

I have no regrets.

Why write memoir?

I like writing what I know, and I suppose I know nothing better than my own story and how I feel about it. Also, writing memoir is a more intimate way of doing what we do all day long: write. It’s like having a discussion with your reader in which you say, “See? We’re different enough that you’re informed or (hopefully) entertained by this story, but we’re also kind of alike; this is your story, too.”

Why write about your mom during this time? Why not just tell happy stories about her?

I find that I can do both, but one has to have reason to write about what a good cook or friendly person one’s mother is or was. The contrast between who she is now and who she was before, in my case, provides a tension and melancholy that I like to bring to my writing.

I’ll admit to some SB1070 fatigue.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know all about Arizona’s incredibly onerous anti-immigration law, signed this spring by our lovely governor. When she did it, I — along with most everyone I know (with some notable exceptions I’ll leave out so you don’t start hating people I love) was beyond horrified.

Me, too. I posted my concerns in a piece about a dear friend’s adopted daughter. That blog post got more hits in a day than any piece I’ve written about Sophie in more than two years of Girl in a Party Hat.

But as the weeks dragged on, even I found myself sick of the endless media coverage. Enough already, okay? I get it.

Do I?

Yesterday, a pal stopped by my office to talk about something work-related, and we got to chatting instead about SB 1070, which takes effect tomorrow. My friend, who’s about as white as I am (which is pretty darn white) told me a story about a friend of hers. This friend-of-a-friend is middle upper class and Latino. She drives a high-end car, my friend couldn’t recall what kind, maybe an Escalade.

“She’s been stopped by the cops 25 times in the last year,” my friend told me.

The Latino woman is no shrinking violet; she tells the cops to leave her alone or she’ll “go El Cajon on your ass” and so far, they’ve left her alone.

“I’ve probably been stopped five times in my life,” my friend mused, “and trust me, each time I more than deserved it.”

We both shook our heads, and I haven’t been able to shake the conversation since.

SB1070 is a big fucking deal, even though this morning word came down that a U.S. District Court judge largely neutered it — for the time being.

From now on, I promise, I’m going to try to stay awake.

This is a portrait of Sophie and her BFF Sarah, taken by one of them. I’m not sure which one. In the next week or so I’m going to be sharing photos taken with my iPhone but not taken by me. Mostly by Sophie. She’s got an eye on her, I’ve got to say. Ray has even created his own blog with some images she’s taken with his phone.

Stay tuned.

I woke up this morning with a horrible thought.

The purple First Day of School pants. She can’t wear them.

On Saturday, the girls and I hit Target for back-to-school gear. I was so proud of myself — doing it two weeks ahead, instead of two days, or two hours. The three of us stood in the backpack aisle, debating. I’d decided Annabelle needed a rolling backpack this year, and she concurred, but reminded me wisely that it better be lightweight enough to make it up the stairs.

Those damn stairs. For the first time, this year, Sophie will have to negotiate them as well. So it took some searching to find her a REALLY lightweight backpack, since she insisted on having a rolling one like her sister (of course).

The outfits were easier. Annabelle chose very basic brown shorts and a light green tee shirt, informing me she doesn’t care for messages on her clothing. (Me either, come to think of it.) Sophie, too, was a Plain Jane, in purple, of course. She chose a tee and pants and will look like a grape.

In the shoe aisle, we searched long and hard til both girls decided on sporty slip-on sneakers with Velcro fasteners — easier for Sophie to negotiate, since she’s far from knowing how to tie a bow.

When we got home, I had to hide all the back to school stuff — I’m a firm believer in keeping it special. No one’s going to scuff her shoes or mess up her backpack. Not til the second day of school, anyway. Sophie talked non-stop about her outfit, her shoes, her striped purple rolling backpack with the little pink kitty cat applique for about an hour. Then we all forgot about it.

It was a full three days til I woke up and realized there’s no way she can wear those pants. They’re jeans — they button and zip. Sophie does not button and zip. We didn’t try the clothes on at the store, I already know the girls’ sizes and as always I was in a harried hurry. Crap. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking.

What am I going to do?

Yesterday I shared Trish’s gorgeous piece about her daughter Abbie. Now, reading that, you might wonder what Abbie thought when she saw it. In fact, she sat in a crowded auditorium and cried as her mom read it aloud, through her own tears. (Trish did share it with her before the reading — Abbie cried then, too.)

I won’t tell you how much Abbie loved the piece — and how much she loves her mom. I’ll let her do that herself, in an essay she wrote for English class not long after the reading.

Long before either of us had kids, I was in awe of my friend Tricia Wasbotten Parker. But I’ll admit that it’s her mothering skills I’ve really studied and envied and tried to emulate over the years — skills matched by her talent as a writer.

Trish read the following piece at our annual Mothers Who Write, Mothers Who Read event this past Mother’s Day weekend, and I’m chagrined to admit that I’ve had every intention this summer to get all dozen-plus pieces posted on our website. Hasn’t happened yet. Soon, I promise.

For now, I’m digging into the motherlode to share Trish’s stunning, painful, honest, beautiful piece, “St. Abigail.”

Coming soon: 15-year-old Abbie’s reaction to the piece.

St. Abigail * by Tricia Wasbotten Parker

I am critical of my daughter. When I was pregnant with her, I think I knew that I would be. And I suppose it’s one of the reasons I hoped for another son.

I am critical of Abbie because she chooses Taylor Swift over the Heartless Bastards.

Because she’s not interested in analyzing Lady Gaga as her generation’s Madonna.

Because she reaches for treacly Sarah Dessen novel after Sarah Dessen novel without ever having asked what important books I read at her age, what I might recommend.

Because she expressed genuine interest in trying out for cheer.

Cheer!

Because she spends 30 minutes every morning straightening the waves out of her long hair.

Because if a blonde boy also plays baseball, he is worthy of her attention.

Because she spends hours on Facebook and reading My Life is Average entries.

Because she has Disney princess marathons with her friends and is seemingly unoffended by the archetype of the princess.

I am critical of Abbie because I feared she would be an alien to me – the most frustrating alien of all, one in my selfsame image. My son’s boneheadedness is easy to process – I blame his gender. My daughter’s? A direct reflection of me, of my own failings and weaknesses.

But she hasn’t been a reflection of me. Not really. We’re so different, and not just when it comes to literature.

Abbie is thin and long-legged. Aside from a splattering of tiny freckles across her nose, her skin is smooth and tanned. She has light hair and eyes, long eyelashes, a strong chin, like her dad’s bevy of knockout nieces, but not like me.

Then, this year, Abbie started attending the school where I teach. Suddenly we’re both hearing – constantly – how much we look alike.

For months, my response to “Your daughter looks just like you!” was a consistent “I know…” Pause. “Poor thing.”

I realize it is not unusual for children to resemble their parents. But I also am beginning to realize that our resemblance must be deeper than mere physicality. For all my criticisms of her, Abbie is lovely.

In his poem “St. Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell writes, “sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.” Yes, in this poem St. Francis is talking to a pig. Fitting, right? My short legs, my thick midsection, my stubby nose? With a few exceptions of the occasionally flattering photo or a fleeting moment of confidence, I have not been able – not since well before puberty – to see myself as lovely. This is not a new story.

But then there’s my beautiful, goofy, free-spirited, wise daughter.

Last fall I sat watching her play in a badminton match. I was having one of those, “That’s my kid!” moments – just feeling full and proud – when an old neighbor sat down next to me. Although he hadn’t seen Abbie in a while, he knew it was her, and I knew what was coming.

“She looks just like you.”

Like me? No – I wasn’t lovely at 15, and I’m not lovely at 41.

Or, wait. Am I?

I have stopped saying “poor thing.” This beautiful alien who I am so critical of and so grateful for?

She is reteaching me my loveliness.

My kingdom (why doesn’t anyone ever say queendom?) for five minutes alone in the bathroom.

Not to be. Sophie barged in this morning and started asking questions.

My favorite: “What are those dots on your face?”

Not interested in explaining the fundamentals of foundation (which I later managed to squirt all over the bathroom, really not my finest hour) I tried to gently push her out the door, but she would have none of it. Clearly sensing my annoyance, she edged over to the counter and picked up my imitation Spanx. I could feel the frustration rising  — is nothing sacred? –when she smiled and remarked, “These are cute, Mommy!”

How could you not melt at that? I cracked up, instead of just cracking, and finally — on her own terms, as always – Sophie left the bathroom.

OK, so here’s my question. How harmful was that to Sophie? I can’t honestly tell you. I’m way too close. In thinking more about this “should we be writing about our kids” thing, I’m realizing I can’t really speak to my own work.

I am grateful for the insightful comments you’ve left. The most obvious topic for discussion is how to identify your kids. I feel strongly that this is a completely personal choice. I certainly don’t judge anyone who chooses to nickname (or not name) their kids in a blog — in fact, I wonder from time to time if I’ve shared too much. (And here I can’t say more about what I do and don’t share, or what details I change, for security purposes.)

All I can do is share my own philosophy. I figure that in the end, everyone’s going to read everything. And even if I change Annabelle’s name to Petunia, she’s still going to know it’s her. Chances are, her friends will, too. Ever since I wrote a rather personal piece about my father and our relationship, and my dad’s relationship (to use the term very loosely) with John McCain (yes, that John McCain) and figured my dad would never see it and he did see it (and wasn’t thrilled) I try to write with the expectation that anyone/everyone will eventually read any and everything I write. (Really, we should all be so lucky, huh?) 

And so that means that while I share an awful lot (some would say way-TMI) on this blog, there is much, much more I don’t share at all.

The kid thing, that is a moving target. Particularly when it comes to Sophie. I have a general idea of what Annabelle will and won’t ”get” when she’s old enough to happen upon this blog (which I suppose could be any time — she can read, after all) and how much she’ll understand as the years go on.

With Sophie, I’m not so sure. I did a lot of writing about her when she was much younger, and that was pretty raw. Like the public radio piece about how I don’t think mentally retarded people (and yes, I used that term) should wear overalls.

What will she think of that when she gets older? I have no idea. I stand by the overall thing, even today, but now that she’s growing up — and getting smarter every day — I wonder if I’d write the same way now that I wrote back then.

I can’t turn back time or scrub the Internet, so I try to focus on moving forward — on being true to my subjects, honest with myself and also a good self-editor (the hardest part) when I write about anything, but particularly about my kids.

My goal in writing about Sophie has not changed: I have an urge to document our life, to try to figure it out, to show it to people who are the way I was before I had her — people whose greatest exposure to a person with Down syndrome was Pink Slip, an instructional film made decades ago to teach developmentally disabled girls about their periods, but which fell into the hands of a middle-aged male friend of mine who spent years showing it at parties.

It makes me a little sick to think about Pink Slip now. (For the record: I laughed.) I don’t know how much of all of that Sophie will ever grasp (probably a whole lot of it) or what Annabelle will think about any of it.

Last night, the girls and I went to my mom’s for a swim, and out of the blue, Annabelle began quizzing my mother about her childhood in New York in the 40s and 50s. “Tell me about Uncle Arnie,” she urged. “Tell me stories about your dad.” It was beautiful and as I watched Annabelle listening to her Gaga I realized she has the reporter instinct in her, just as Ray and I do. So maybe she will get it. Maybe she’ll be pissed about some of it, too.

In any case, I know I don’t always succeed, but I try to be the hardest on myself, when I write about our family. And I try to constantly question whether doing this blog is the right thing at all.

Up next: Since it’s too close for me to talk about my own stuff (even though, hmm, I think I managed to pound out 800-plus words on the subject here) I’ll share examples of how other writers and artists cover their families well.

Both my girls are getting more interested in what I’m doing on the computer.

Well, Sophie just wants me off, so she can get on and watch Amy Sedaris’ Tooth Fairy appearance on Yo Gabba Gabba (which is so disturbing I will not embed the video EVEN THOUGH I CAN). But Annabelle has asked me recently just what I’m writing about, and when I tell her “you,” I get one of her signature raised eyebrows.

It’s only a matter of time ’til she actually reads this blog. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Or how she will.

The topic of The Implications of Writing About Your Kids (and otherwise depicting them) has long intrigued/befuddled me, so I think I’ll devote my next few posts to it.

First up: Check out this thoughtful piece by Dani Shapiro in the New York Times, on the topic of Larry Rivers’ work.

More soon. Meantime, what are your thoughts?