I never blogged regularly from the start because I’m not all that big on sharing details about my family.

I don’t mention the boys’ names on my blog here, and I rarely post photos of them – or their names – on Facebook, Instagram or elsewhere. Though I do post an annual back-to-school picture, because they’re really cute.

I don’t mind talking about random things from the past, like when I climbed out the roof of a lava tube. Or how I do stupid things or speak at some conference. That kind of stuff. But I don’t like sharing that much about my family. They’re my personal, private part of me, the part that I get to experience and talk about with my friends, but I don’t have to share with the world.

But since embarking on my #YearOfWriting, I’ve talked about them a lot more than I usually do. It makes me feel weird.

First, I don’t think that other people really care. Why would you? This is my family, not yours. Why would you care?

Second, I don’t really feel the desire to tell you all about my family. I live a very public life on social media and don’t really care what y’all think of me. But my family? They’re something different and I want them to have control over what you know about them.

Thing is, I’ve been writing about them more than I would have thought. I try to be rather oblique and I still don’t mention their names.

I mean, I guess it’s OK. Lots of people blog far more personal things than I do. I’m just kind of a private person, despite appearances.

Hopefully, the kidlets won’t care so much about this in years to come.

Photo by Evan Hamilton via Flickr Creative Commons.

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