And this is where my idiocy is proven

I continued to have sick days and restless nights thinking about my mom reading my blog. And then I sent an email to Stat Counter, just to make sure I was actually interpreting their data right. And I found out that I wasn't.

Data is sorted by a project ID number that becomes part of the code that you generate and install into your site. If you placed the same code into two different websites, Statcounter will send all data to one project.
Rhonda
StatCounter Team

Statcounter will send all data to one project. Statcounter will send all data to one project. I read it again. All data to one project. So yes, it was my mom who I had e-spied upon, and it was her who checked pretty often and stayed long. But it was to my other web site. Idiot.

But the nagging feeling continued. The problem was not just my mom.

This was a wake-up call for me. I watch people's children for a living, and when I have a stressful day, I blog about their kids at night. It is so tempting to do this, as they provide the perfect blogging material. They say funny things, they have crazy tantrums, they act as if they are the center of the universe. They are cute and horrid all at once. How can I not write about them?

Their parents pay me good money to care for them. And implicit in this agreement is the understanding that I shouldn't really talk shit about them behind their backs. And I knew this, but the little nagging voice that told me so was kind of a bummer. So I ignored him.

Anyway. My blog is now private. I am humbled. I really feel horrible.

So I am back to my original goal of 6 months ago when I started this blog: just looking at the ordinary cuteness that kids do, blogging about that, and saving the serious stuff for my counselor.

The worst feeling in the world.

I love my privacy. I have always kept journals. In periods of my life that I did not journal or blog, I wrote detailed notes (or emails, post 1997) to my girlfriends. I have always needed to talk about tiny aspects of my life in great detail, and be validated either by the talking process, or by the feedback I received. And I've always had friends who I could trust to keep my secrets, and journals that had the perfect hiding spot.

Which is why I now love to blog. Yes, I see the irony. With the potential of hundreds of perfect strangers reading it (or, er, maybe 8 if I am lucky), I should hate the blogging process, but I don't. Maybe it's because I don't currently get paid to write, which means I don't have those ocassional ego boosts ("hey, great job on that last piece.") Knowing that others are reading my blog and returning to read more, even if a month or more later, is a nice form of validation.

Yet, there are certain people who I don't want to read my blog. Like my mother-in-law, because she would hate any perceived critique of her son. Or my mom, who would disapprove of lots of things. Or mybrother-in-law, who would surely criticize many technical shortfallings. Now that I think of it, I would prefer that no family members read my blog.

Which is why I have been freaking out the last few days.

I installed Stat Counter to my blog, mostly so that I could see how long people stayed, which sites they went to next, where they came from, what search terms they used (in a nutshell: I am nosey). My freaking out came into play when I read the following:
66-23x-4x-1x8.starstream.net (Xo Communications)
State, City of Mom, United States, 17 returning visits
January 3rd 2007
12:09:40 PM
www.myotherwebsitedotcom
No referring link.
... and so on, 17 times in one day.

The only people who know of my other web site (basically a baby book online, not really a creative outlet) are my family members and close friends who care enough to read the boring kid updates. But the only people who know about Red Rollerskate are people I've not yet met, plus a few close friends. Yet, someone was visiting my family blog, and then coming to this one. And that certain someone lived in City of Mom, State. And that certain someone was also interested enough to visit 17 times in one day. And that someone had Starstream.

Each time I was awakened that night, whether by Will or by my own thoughts, I thought of what she could have (did) read. A sampling:
"Maybe it is because I still have a fucking cold that has moved down into my chest..."
"Or maybe it is xxxx and the fucking four hours of tantrums that got me in a shitty mood..."
"Why are they bringing this child? All offices are closed. The fucking freeway is closed."
"Being the mom that she is, she thought and thought and thought and then she thought some more about..."
"Boob Stress Reliever."
"Gentlemen's Willy Care Kit"
"Dolly the Inflatable Sheep"
"Spankometer"
"My parents have been here for one week, and it's been pleasant as can be. So far, no buying recommendations other than sink stopper and tub to wash dishes in because of absence of sink stopper. I'm dumbfounded. Besides the blaringly loud TV and occasional right-wing talk, I couldn't be happier. Odd."
"Orgasmitron."
[Pictures of Kuma Sutra Cards] "Married 8 years."
"ITMFA Awesome."

And this is where I want my cake and to eat it too (I hate this saying. Who doesn't want both?) I only enjoy blogging if it contains some element of naughtiness, no matter how lame. The occassional cussword kinda feels good (especially after a day of toddler talk). Venting about mom and other family members is a bit of a necessity.

Yet, I want these feelings to be 100% confidential from certain people. Knowing that my mom had read my most personal feelings made me feel sick, even though we are close. I did not like the feeling that she was saying, "oooooh, this is how she does this. Interesting." That night I dreamed that she went into her garage where I keep all my childhood stuff in a box, pulled out my Trapper Keeper, and read my 4th grade diary. And I threw up in my mouth a little.

To be continued...

Christmas

My memories of Chrismas are from age 8 and up. I really don't remember being a toddler or preschooler on the holidays, even though I have a lot of memories from this age. So I never really know what to expect on the holidays with little kids of my own.

Skip the next few sections if traditional, domestic bliss bothers you.

I remember waking up early on Christmas morning and kneeling - no, lying - down at the top of the stairs so that I could peek and see what Santa had brought. No matter what it looked like downstairs, it was always glorious and festive and the best thing in the world. I loved Christmas.

We would tear open presents before eating breakfast. Then we would leave the paper mess in the middle of the floor and eat pancakes or waffles, famished. Everyone in the family loved Christmas; I think that is what made it so great.

My mom would play the piano and we'd sing Christmas carols, even though she was the only one who could really sing. My dad would read the Christmas story from the Bible. My sister and brother would come home from college and stay for the day, bringing me huge Bert and Ernie cookies or an oversized stuffed animal or something along those lines. My mom would cook a huge, delicious feast while the rest of us sacked out on the couch, watched TV, and played board games all day. I loved everyone being there together.

* * *

Our Christmas this year was different in so many ways. We had to wake Charlie up at 8:30 so that we could open presents together before Will's first nap. He came down the steps sleepy and out of it. He was happy to see his new bike, but also a little clingy and uncertain.

Charlie quickly got into the spirit of tearing open presents, and often said, "is that one mine? is this one mine? is it mine? is it? is it?" And I cringed just a tiny bit because I hate the idea of Christmas being all commercial and raising a kid who just expects stuff. So we gently reminded him that other people have turns, and that we can stop and slow down to enjoy the present most recently received.

There was no Christmas story - the boys are too young and I don't know where to begin.

My family is all out-of-state, so that made me a little sad. No Scrabble or Monopoly or Balderdash. (Just wait until the boys are old enough. I am totally raising them to be game guys. Take that, hubby.)

But still, it was a happy day. The four of us were all together, there was snow on the ground outside and it was peaceful and warm inside, we all had days off and time to cuddle and do nothing. And, Jerry was so thoughtful - he got me my first pair of sexy pajamas, that both revealed the lovelies while concealing the mom belly. I felt spoiled, but in a good way.

And then Charlie started acting extremely sassy, apparently thinking that Christmas means the children are kings for a day. And with all the excitement and overstimulation, Will would not go down for his second nap, so he fussed and arched his back, and it took forever to get him down.

Then we made a huge dinner (my part: homemade croutons. Hubby's: everything else. Hey, I was in charge of naps.)

All in all, a wonderful day.