Social media is a strange thing. Like a flock of technology peacocks, we display our practically perfect lives in the most bizarre ways. Every gym workout, every beer, every “cheeky” Nandos (I mean, really? What exactly is cheeky about it? It’s a bloody Portuguese chicken restaurant!), every picture of your child in their new school uniform is shared. Even what you had for your tea. If you didn’t Instagram it, did you even eat it? A friend, who is anti-social media said recently “Who gives a shit what you had for your tea? Why do I need to see a picture of that?” She isn’t wrong. We can’t bear for anyone to think we are anything less than gleefully happy. span>
I should point out that I am as guilty as anyone on social media. Yes, I am an unapologetic baby bore but I am fairly typical of my age group. Most people I know, aged between about 28 and 40, are fully engaged in a huge baby boom. Facebook is filled with scans of fertilised eggs or a child’s first poo in a potty or statuses bemoaning lack of sleep. (Christ, don’t I know about lack of sleep! See my last blog). In these desperate attempts to portray our shiny happy families, there is no mention of any other side to all this unprotected sex that 30 somethings are having with wild abandon. No one dares hint at any heartbreak.
No one dares share their baby news until 12 weeks have passed. Except for me. I couldn’t hold my own water with any of my pregnancies (not literally; incontinence has come AFTER my kids were born). I was so ridiculously excited that I was having a baby, I absolutely had to tell everyone! Not on social media but, among family and friends, it was common knowledge. I honestly didn’t get why I should keep it secret and I still don’t.
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