Sometimes I think about the magical place called the World Wide Web. I ponder the internet tubes, and the 100 bagillion gigabytes of memory that encases our modern collective conscious. I reflect on how we put ideas, images, information out into the cosmos of the computer, and then basically relinquish all control.

Whether it’s emails that could be forwarded, Facebook profiles, twitter accounts, flickr, youtube, the content that you expel instantly transforms from private to public with a click of a button. It is one thing to expose yourself, but what about your children? Am I exploiting The Munch by blogging about her? Or more accurately, how do I morally reconcile this exploitation?

What I tell myself so that I can sleep at night is that she inspires me. Watching a person develop has given me insight into thinking about the socialization of humanity. My human experience of raising a child connects me to every human that is either raising their own children, wants to someday have a child, or even thinks about their own childhood critically. I can only hope that what I write makes people laugh, or think for one moment out of their day, and isn’t that worth something meaningful?

But I can’t help but wonder how The Munch is going to feel about my blogging about her. Is she going to be happy to have this chronicle of our life together and cherish it? Or is she going to deeply resent me and I am going to find myself trying to explain my motivations on the Maury Povich show? What if she becomes bitter and holds a grudge against me for writing about her poo? I can see it now, wearing all black, with fishnet stockings on her arms and dark blue lipstick covering a perpetual pout dangling a cigarette. I will be trying to potty train her, and she will be give me the finger and pee right on the rug. “Why don’t you write about that one mom!” And the sad thing is… I probably will.

“Hey guess what mom… you’re exploiting me by writing about exploiting me. So screw you!”