We've all done it. The "ego search". Where we've Googled our own name to find out that we've won Dancing with the Stars, with cricketer Mark Ramprakash no less, made our own jewellry or developed interests in Northern European prehistory, notably the Mesolithic and early Neolithic periods.
All these Karen Hardy's sound far more interesting than me. Mind you I have danced with cricketers, but they've been far less exciting and talented, both on the field and the dance floor, than the former England batsmen. But the only jewellry I make is out of macaroni and string and as for the early Neolithic period? Some mornings I wake up thinking I'm back there.
Why do people do it? It should be easy enough to know what you are really doing with your own life. You might not like the answer but you don't need Google to tell you that either.
So imagine my surprise when I walked in on my seven-year-old ego searching herself. I was aware of her knowledge of Google. As far back as preschool the kids knew to "ask Google" when posed with a question outside their realm. Whatever happened to "ask your father"? But an ego search?
I guess I should have been happy she was developing said ego. She's not the most confident little thing, although in her mother's terribly biased opinion she has every right to be. I guess I should have been happy that she could have been thinking I've done some great things already, someone must know about them.
But the whole idea of her on the internet scares the bejeebers out of me.
According to the figures (which of course I've found on the net) one in five children is ``inappropriately or sexually solicited'' while using the internet. It's not like I'm letting her into chat rooms, and I'm familiar with the favourites she's added to the family list. There's nothing wrong, well apart from a few poor choices of headwear, when dressing Mixy the rabbit on the ABC's great Kids' Playground or steering Polly Pocket around to the mall (if you ignore the subliminal context of commercialism and that totally irritating p-p-p- Polly song).
My 10-year-old neice is a Penguin, a member of Disney's Club Penguin, ``a snow-covered, virtual world where children play games and interact with friends in the guise of colourful penguin avatars.'' She chats to friends from all over the world, waddling about playing games and having fun. It seems a terribly safe place to be, this chat room for children. You would think that Disney would have it no other way. There's plenty of information for parents about safety and privacy and what it all means. But where's the info for parents that says, ``Hey, why don't you talk to your children and take them, and their real friends, out into the snow and waddle around.''
I get it but I just don't get it. Children should be outside getting dirty, or inside reading books, or listening to music or just hanging out.
Where the internet will take this generation of children, this generation of families, is impossible to fathom. There was a story a few weeks back about families who IM each other from different rooms of the same house if they want the heater turned up or to find out what's for dinner. Yelling at each other from different rooms of the same house works for me, and it's much more personal.
Mummy's cranky voice doesn't have quite the same impact UNLESS IT'S TYPED IN CAPITALS with a :# after it or something, I don't know the net-iquette for such things.
What I do know is if the seven-year-old needs an ego search, all she needs to do is come and talk to her mother. My memory is full of information about the wonderful things she has done.
*The irony that this column has been resurrected online has not been lost on the author. :)