Every few years, someone finds me via a search term in Google that is unprintable. unspeakable, even. And I freak out. I stop blogging for weeks, months. I start thinking that this whole blogging thing is:
a) extremely narcissistic
b) potentially dangerous
c) an invasion of my children's privacy. They, after all, have not asked me to spew details of our life out on the internet for all to read.
C) is the one that gets me. I can deal with being narcissistic. (Life's too short not to think you are an interesting person.) And I'm not *really* worried about security. I'm fully aware that the biggest dangers to our life are sitting in our garage right now. Those 2000 pounds of metal that barrel down the highway at 65 mph are probably the most dangerous inventions, ever.
I don't use the kids' names. I don't put up pictures of them. But someday - will they hate me for telling stories like this? Sigh. I suppose I have to give them fodder for therapy somehow. I wonder - in 2020, will there be a slew of 20-somethings meeting with professionals to discuss the irrecoverable harm placed upon them by their "mommy bloggers?"
I'm thinking about continuing with a password. But is that really any different? Or do I just say "the hell with it - they'll survive much worse than this."
Part of me just wants to continue to write and keep it a secret. (The kids don't really know about this web page. yet.) Then, upon the birth of my first grandchild, to unveil the link. Then they'll know that I 'get' it - the trials/tribulations/frustrations/compromises of life that no one really understands until they have kids of their own. They'll say, "Ha! Mom wasn't really an angry uptight 'rhymes with witch' after all! She just loved us more than anything in the world."
A girl can dream....