I have a really hard time posting to my .com domain. I feel like it’s the girls’ locker room in middle school all over again, when I became painfully aware that I had a training bra and everyone else had actual, y’know. Straps.
Yknow. Just… on a different wavelength than what I think a .com implies, or something.
I’ve since remedied the nanny-panty thing. Just so you know.
Where does the time go? I had so many plans for posts this week and clearly haven’t been all that successful. Or… at all successful.
The Facebook Rule, as we’re starting to call it, has generated a lot of under-the-radar buzz. No one is commenting publicly but I’ve gotten a bunch of emails, texts, and in-person whining about it. People either love it and don’t want to admit to loving it -for some reason- or hate it and don’t want to look like a total dick by disagreeing with a new mom in public. (Loving the clout the phrase “new mom” brings with it, btw. I can be a dick all I want, I’M A NEW MOM. It’s expected that I’m emotional/irrational/totally fucking annoying because I’M A NEW MOM. I will wear that phrase into the motherfucking ground.)
If you’d like, you can attribute this whole thing to new mommy paranoia and peace out now. Cause my reasons won’t make any more sense after I explain them.
The thing is, it’s not my face, it’s his. I wouldn’t put your photo online without your permission, and he’s too young to give it. So because he might care someday, we’re trying to respect the possibility that he’ll be conservative in his internet use because you can’t un-share.
The idea came to me when I saw a beautiful picture my cousin posted of her daughter running sans diaper along a Hawaiian beach. She looked so happy, so free, and so very young and vulnerable. My first thought was, “Holy shit, naked Hawiian baby!” followed by, “She looks so hap-pyyy!” and then, “I hope she doesn’t have any creeps on her friends list.”
That… says something, pretty clearly, about my outlook on things. I might have some creeps on my friends list. The truth is, I don’t know. I’ve opened my friends list over time to include acquaintances, friends-of-friends, and hordes of distant family members I have never met.
I’m not by nature an extremely trusting person, and I’m also not the type who finds it easy to cull my FB friend list. I can either narrow my social circle to strictly the people I have complete trust in, and who Thomas will be raised around, or I can just be more judicious in what I share. (In one scenario I get to have friends, in another I just mildly irritate a few family members who HAVE TO LOVE ME ANYWAY. Heh… Easy choice.)
We might still share some things. We’re tempted now and again by weird circumstances, ie., “He’s wearing a mustache! No one will recognize him!” “Because we have an abundance of mustachioed infants he can be mistaken for?”
You’re never too young for dress-up.
Do you know how hard it is to live in this culture and NOT post pictures of the little man every time I’m near a computer?
It’s freaking impossible. That’s why I post pictures of stupid things. If I’ve put up a random picture, you can bet that my son just did something adorable. That’s my way of venting the pressure of wanting to show you.
I want to share that with the world, I really want to show him off. For some people in our lives, this has become a line-in-the-sand kind of issue: people are either in strong support of this choice or extremely, unusually frustrated by it because this is our culture. It’s how things are done these days. My own grandmother said I was stingy with pictures because I refuse to post them online where they’re easy to find.
People, know: this not an easy decision to live with.
I’ve been told that breastfeeding is supposedly the biggest challenge most mothers face and need support for. Not for me, no. Privacy protection has become the biggest struggle because it’s operating against my mommy-pride instinct that says, “Look at my baby!” in order to stick to my guns about the “no babies on Facebook” rule. (Which has by necessity expanded to a “no blog”/”no Twitter” rule, since some days our combined blogs see the same traffic as our Facebook pages.)
The other side of this is that I try not to let all of my status updates/tweets reflect the latest awesomely cute or disgusting experience we’ve had with him. This isn’t so much to protect his privacy, though, as it is to prevent myself from becoming one of “those moms” who assume the world wants to hear how many times a day their spawn have successfully used the potty. So I guess the benefit of all this restraint is a delay of that particular form of self-delusion…
(On Facebook anyway. But this is my blog, which is to be taken or left, and this week’s accomplishment is that Little Dude figured out how to fart without help. This means I’m getting wayyy more sleep. Gold star!)
But back to the topic at hand.
I’m a little worried - though maybe I’m grasping at straws to convince myself to break my own rule - that when he’s an adult he’ll not comprehend our reasons for keeping his face private. Because he’s been born into a post-Facebook world, maybe he’ll see my choice as a sign that we don’t love him enough? Is this not a strange world to be in, when there’s a risk that refusing to publicize your child’s early days can have a backlash? How we use Facebook to share our lives may mean something to his generation that we’re only seeing hints of now: “It ain’t official ‘til it’s Facebook official.” Our generation has only recently setthat standard, but his may be immersed in it. My greatest hope (and fear, because of our income streams) is that Facebook’s impact will wane before he has a chance to be sucked in by it.
Our only compromise in this so far has been that we’ll feature him in family photos, but we haven’t taken any yet. Maybe for Christmas.
I’d love to hear what other people think of this.
Y’know what’s awesome?
Fat, bald, little men.
Um.. Not this one.
When I say fat, I mean our seven pound trout has turned into an ELEVEN POUND GREMLIN in four short weeks. While I, on the other hand, have lost 2/3 of the pregnancy weight by just sitting around and feeding him. Kids are great!
Little T is hilarious. I never thought I’d find it funny to be peed or shat on, but some of the best laughs lately have been because I had to change my clothes yet again. Also: baby bathtub farts. Call us gross but bodily functions have taken on the level of hilarity they had in fifth grade.
Being a mom is a full-contact sport. Upside? I have a very snuggly baby, which I was worried I would not have. Downside? He wants to snuggle All The Damn Time. When I need to pee? He wants to snuggle. When I have work to do? Snuggle. I haven’t slept in 30-something hours and he’s asleep so that means I can lay him down now, right? SOMEHOW HE KNOWS.
I’d like to write about something aside from Little T, but really, I haven’t been able to do anything since he was born. Like… anything. I got a shower in. I think I put on deodorant once. But see: snuggly baby. He doesn’t like to be put down ever.
So, since we have a completely-hands-on-attention-seeking-alpha-male-type-infant and we had just lived through his first family gathering, guess we thought sounded like a good idea? Black Friday Shopping. And for the hell of it, let’s start at midnight and camp out in Wal Mart for five hours since Farty McGee sleeps through everything anyway. Right? Sure. Know what happens when you decide two cheap laptops are worth spending 5 hours queued with other suckers in the cereal aisle of Wal Mart on the morning of Black Friday? You end up being the borderline-white-trash mom nursing her infant son on the Wal Mart floor. (Hey, at least it wasn’t the bathroom!) Saving grace that night was Walker picking up a poker set, and the dude further down the line organizing a strategy for the ultimate war against the next aisle over, including a tunnel system, cereal box fortresses and projectile weapons. The best part was that all of his plans were completely doable, but I digress.
I did that after getting a cumulative eight hours of sleep that week, and we figured that since we survived that experience, and since it’s the middle of holiday season and we clearly have nothing better to do, how about we take a trip to Texas to spend four days with clients immediately before Christmas? WHY NOT INDEED.
While I’d love to travel, oh, anywhere after spending six consecutive years in small town New England…really? We leave the day Little T turns six weeks old. We’ll have one car, two clients, and no swing, no pack ‘n’ play, no crib…
But there will be a comped mini-bar. And with any luck, bolo ties and big hair. So there’s that.
None of you ever warned me that the last two weeks of pregnancy would turn me onto a trucker. My belly’s always hanging out of my tshirt, and all I do anymore is eat and fart.