Interwebs and Adam Walsh, with a small dose of P&B.

I haven't written a blog in a while.  I've been spending mucho time on the interwebs being funny.

Hopefully being funny while remaining anonymous.

Which got me to thinking..........
How much control do you really have over anything you put on the internet?  How do you control who reads what you write?  What if someone gets an idea to find you and do you harm?
I find myself analyzing everything I write or share, wondering if anything I mention "in passing" could be used to identify me.  Like, if some crazy decided to stalk me, if he or she could find my house based on things I've said on the internet.

This honestly frightens me.  Granted, I read too much, and my imagination is way too active, and I watch waaaay too much Investigation Discovery channel.  But.  Crazy things happen.
I see people who post under their actual names, and use their children's names, and I wonder if that's a good idea.  I think it's smart for people to be more anonymous, only use first names, nicknames, not mention specific locations, etc.  But on the other hand, it irritates me that a person would feel they had to.  That they wouldn't feel safe enough to be free with who they actually are.  I know I would never try to look someone up and mess with them.  But maybe there are people out there who would.  Probably there are people who would.    

I'll tell you what.  Anyone who decides they want to be crazy and come to my house......I've got a big gun.  And I'm a good shot.  My husband might look like a teddy bear, but, as my sister is fond of saying, "If you mess with Mama Bear, you wake Papa Bear."  No messin' with the cubs either.

I realize I am paranoid.  But when I became a mother, I became a fiercer version of myself.  I would walk through fire for my children.  I would lay down my life for my children.  There is nothing I would not do for them.  From the day they were born, I knew that I would always put them first.  One of my biggest fears is that one of my children will disappear; be taken away from me by some evil person.  I can't even get much farther than that in my mind because it physically makes me ill to think about it.  Every time I see the story of Adam Walsh on tv, I cry.  I cry for him, 6 years old, taken from a public place and abused and killed by a psychopath.  I cry for his parents.  His parents who had to find out that the only thing they found was his head.  Adam Walsh is why I am afraid to let Tiger play outside, in our backyard, by himself.

In the end, I am simply afraid of things I can't control, and I think that's the scariest part of being a mother.

I'm done being serious for today.


Here's the skinny on the poop and boogers:
Frankenstein has horrible allergies.  So does Tiger.
Lots of boogers.  Eye boogers, nose boogers.  There are boogers everywhere.
Probably boogers in my hair.  I know there are some in the chair.
I still hate wiping butts.
Today, Frankenstein pooped her pants, and Tiger thought I farted.  He goes, "You smell like an animal."
I seriously LOL'd.