My mother called me up yesterday. "Guess what?" she says brightly. "I went to Yahoo, and typed in 'Carrie Richmond, and up came..."

My mind froze and my fingers went white around the receiver.

"...wedding pictures!" she finished happily. "And guinea pigs, too. You need to update, though."

Mom knows about my journal. I've mentioned it to her before, though always with the happy knowledge that Mom didn't have a chance of finding it; until very recently, her only access to the web was with text-only Lynx, and she didn't know how to use that at all. Now that she and Dad finally bought their new computer, I suppose I really should have seen this coming. In fact, I believe I did try to head her off early on, but she was completely oblivious to what I was trying to say.

I don't want to forbid her to read. That's not my style, and it would hurt her a great deal, though I'm almost positive that she would respect my request. I'm not worried about her seeing anything that I've written, with the exception of the memories of my abuse. Though she's acknowledged that it happened, and has apologized to me for it, I don't think she'd be happy with finding evidence of it here, where anybody could find it. There's the community to think of, you understand. Family reputation, you know.

I don't mean to belittle her concerns. They're perfectly valid; if another band parent were to come across this, the concert-night whispers could make her uncomfortable in the utmost. But this is my much-needed therapy. She's healing in her way; I'm healing in mine. I need to be able to be open, and not worry about who in my hometown might be reading.

Back to the conversation. I explained to her that I did, indeed, have another website, one of a much more personal nature. I didn't specifically say that she should stay away, should it turn up in another web search (frankly, I'm shocked that it didn't), but neither did I give her the URL. I explained, with a laugh, the strange phenomena of online diaries, and how many of us can bare our souls to complete strangers, but prefer that loved ones not come to view. And I left it at that.

I suppose I'll have to wait and see what she does, now that the ball is in her court. I'm not nervous anymore, just ready. The knowledge that Mom may find this haven of mine doesn't frighten me. (Does that sound convincing?)

I think I managed to thoroughly shock one of the Head Start teachers today. Every Monday, they bring in two groups of kids for stories and to pick out books; Boss-Lady usually takes the morning group, and the afternoon kids are mine. I usually just read the same books that Boss-Lady picks out for the first group, which saves me a bunch of hassle. Anyway, since she was sick this morning, she hadn't read to the first kids, so I got to choose the stories myself. I chose something cute, and Old Black Fly. "Old black fly's been buzzin' around..."

If you know the book, then you're probably already grinning, seeing where this is going. If you don't know it, suffice it to say that the story concerns a hideous little fly getting in everybody's food and faces. After annoying his way through the alphabet, he meets a very messy demise; the illustrator covers two full pages with colorful fly gore. Quite charming.

Anyway, the teacher was unfamiliar with the story, and she seemed a bit hesitant to enjoy it; I think the purposefully ugly pictures threw her for a loop. When we reached the book's climax, all the kids screamed in delight, and the teacher's face was a perfect picture of disgust. It was all I could do not to burst into laughter at her expression.

Interestingly, we have another edition of the story, done as a board book. Looking for something nice on which for your toddler to teethe? Imagine the photo opportunities!

Eric had to go to the directors and bail out on playing the trumpet. It's not his fault really; what with working long hours every day and never taking a weekend off, he's not had time to even think about picking up the trumpet and getting back into shape. The directors looked disappointed, but there was nothing he could do. I suppose if I had felt like being in a generous mood, I could have volunteered, but it's been so long since I played, and that, coupled with the fact that I was never any good to begin with, would spell disaster.

Another Easter without the prospect of an egg hunt, though, has kind of depressed me. I wish we were going to Grandma's for Easter, as is family tradition, but with our work schedules, it's just not feasible. I have to work Saturday morning, and Eric's pretty sure he'll even have to work Easter Day. I miss my baby cousins; I miss seeing the determination on their tiny faces as they circle the trees in search of the brightly painted eggs, completely missing the one on which they've almost stepped five times.

Eric says we might have an Easter dinner. If he's working, I'm not sure when we'd have the time.