Every day people tell me they don’t blog, they don’t blog about their children, or they won’t let their children blog, because they’re worried about internet predators. I say Internet Predators, BRING IT ON.
Just kidding. I want to protect my kids and respect their privacy, but at the same time, I think everyone (even moms! and kids!) should blog.
As a parent you have to balance risk and reward. Do you let your kids ride in a car? Probably you do. Do you make wearing a seatbelt a condition of riding in a car? I’m sure you do.
So, I say blog, but blog wisely.
For me, today, that means switching to fake incredibly clever fictional names for my kids and husband.
(It’s harder than you think to come up with incredibly clever fictional names. Naming them in real life is nothing compared to choosing the names that will be immortalized once What About Mom makes it big).
And I have to be honest. Terms like “Princess” or “Monkey” or “The Boy” or “Big Sister” sound a little too precious — especially the royalty ones or the “Little Man” stuff. Of course my daughters would love it if I called them Princess Ruby, Ariel, and Mean Guy, but I told them we fought a whole revolution to get rid of those Disney Princesses.
Then — what’s a good name for your better half? I tried to think of a Monopoly name for the Man, but June snagged the best one for Marvin Gardens. At Rocks in My Dryer, Shannon uses two great names — Hubs and Mr. Dryer. So I thought about Mr. Mom, but I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my husband has any clue where the vacuum cleaner is (or the grocery store, for that matter).
And then there’s my love-hate relationship with pearls and pot roast. I want a theme for our names, but what? Who or what are we? Who am I? Basically, though I call myself a “writer/editor” when I’m feeling perky, or a “homemaker” when I’m feeling righteous, I’m basically a 1950s-style housewife.
Not a glamorous desperate housewife with a big house and a small body, but, really, a June Cleaver-type without the pearls and high heels (or the bra, usually).
Inspiration came, as it often does, from a book — this time one my daughter was reading. Even if she did resist my diligent reading instruction for the first six years of her life, she can now READ. Last week she read a few Dick and Jane books, et Voila! We are now the Dick and Jane family. I know Dick and Jane were brother and sister, but I am not the first to conceive of them as marrieds (see the Jim Carrey movie!).
Beyond the obvious appeal of being able to refer to my dear, dear husband as Dick legitimately, it’s just a simple and elegant solution. My three daughters will now be Sally (6), Susan (3), and Spot (1). Dick can’t get too mad about his name, knowing that Spot is named after the dog. (What’s more, President Hinckley calls his son Dick).
I’m curious to know what (if anything) you do to blog safely. In the meantime, I’ll keep posting pictures, because while sticks and stones may break my bones, the photoshopping of images will never hurt me. (I hope).