The dangers of mommy blogging -- and writing about your kids on Facebook

I have never been comfortable with the idea -- or reality -- of "mommy [or daddy] blogging," that is women (and men) who blog about their children. While their descriptions of domestic life and/or their children may be cute and/or amusing (and often are) -- and mommy bloggers generate oodles of traffic and advertising -- it's exploitative, and even dangerous when the parent reveals his or her children's names and where they live.

Another major issue with mommy blogging is it often violates the child's privacy.

That's why, despite many of my friends repeatedly telling me I should become a mommy blogger, I haven't done so. (Well that and the fact that I prefer writing about just about everything -- sports, politics, pop culture, Spanx for men -- besides my family.)

Though, I admit, I have on occasion wandered into mommy blogger territory. But I have always been careful not to reveal my daughter's name or where we live or, until recently, her age and what she looks like -- and have only done so with her permission. Except for my last entry. Which my daughter happened upon last night. After I had retired. And apparently it greatly upset her. Which is why I am writing this post.

Too often, in this era of blogging and Facebook and instant communication, we moms and dads forget about our children's right to privacy (and feelings) when blogging or posting on social media sites -- and I want you to know it can come back to bite you. Big time.

More importantly, though, I am writing (wrote) this post as a form of apology to my daughter.

Daughter, if you are reading this (and I know you are, because I emailed you a link), I want you to know that I feel AWFUL about hurting your feelings, especially as that was not my intent. I love you, and have spent 12 years making sure you knew you were loved and appreciated and felt secure. And I would hate to think I blew all that with a silly blog post (which was intended to amuse not hurt).

So daughter, I apologize to you. And I promise I will not write about you again -- on this blog or on Facebook -- without your permission.

But you're still not getting an iPhone or a BlackBerry for Hanukkah.

Which circle of Hell is Walmart on?

Like many people (translation: suburban moms), I have a complicated relationship with Walmart (translation: I hate it). But what's a mother to do when her tween daughter announces she needs a white t-shirt for a social studies project, like NOW? Well, if you live in the burbs, like I do, and the nearest Target is half an hour away, and you're actually trying to get some work done and don't really have the time to drive all over creation, you grit your teeth and drive to the Walmart just down the road during lunch. (The things we do for our kids.)

The fun begins in the parking lot, which, I am pretty sure, was designed by a sadist (or stock car driver) -- and always seems to be full, except for one space in the second-to-last aisle near the end (i.e., away from the store), which you have to carefully wend your way across the parking to get before some jerk busy yapping on his/her cell phone doesn't kill you/beat you to it.

Once you've completed the parking lot challenge (the first circle of Hell?), you enter the second circle of Hell, the store itself. (Seriously, someone should make going to Walmart a video game where, like in Dante's Inferno, the book and now the video game, you have to navigate the circles of Hell, or, in this case, the parking lot and aisles of Walmart, in order to claim your discount merchandise and return home to your loved ones).

Now maybe it's just me, but it seems like every time I go into our local Walmart (which, granted, isn't that often, but still), they've rearranged at least a third of the store, so you can't find anything. And then when you do finally find whatever it is you are looking for, you discover they have it in every size, except the one you need. Happens. Every. Time.

Now at this point (i.e., having not found exactly what it was I went there for/needed), I know I should turn around and leave. (Or in the words of Gloria Gaynor, "just go, walk out that door.") I know this, and yet I cannot. So I wind up aimlessly cruising the aisles that seemingly go on forever, looking for... I don't know. But somehow I wound up at the checkout 30 minutes -- 30 MINUTES?! -- after I entered, with enough stuff to fill two bags.

I know! Or rather, I don't know. But I am now the proud owner of a pair of NY Mets pajama shorts (no top because they didn't have one in my size -- typical), three boxes of Zone protein bars, a package of boys (L) white t-shirts, white ankle socks, and a container of Olay Regenerist Night Cream (the last item I actually needed).

Sigh.