The constant internal debate of sharenting online.

The politics, the light and dark side of sharing life online.

"Is it strange we have not announced this pregnancy on social?" My husband questions.

"Well, no, I don't think so," I respond.

"You have told everyone you have bumped into, including your old boss's wife, the guy who owns the supplement store and the little old lady you were chatting to in the park. Most people know, don't they?" A-ha. I have him here.

He nodded in agreeance before spitting out, "But we did it last time?"

He was right. I thought. So why did it feel so different now?

The last time I was pregnant was five years ago. It was an era of posed and premeditated pregnancy announcements, a contemporary custom in which influencers and ordinary people participated. Frankly, back then, we announced everything with little to no care about where our photos would end up. Granted, a lot of the time, most of these photos were nothing of significance — who else is still trying to blot out the açai bowls that stained our feeds? This was the era before we lifted the veil on social media and shared only our shiny, best selves. We pretended everything was as flawless as the ghastly Sierra filter we insisted on using on our images. That is precisely how I announced my pregnancy with our first son (Sierra filter and all). I remember wanting to make it perfect and how I was quite literally bursting at the seams to announce the impending member of our family. The image was of my husband with a big, goofy grin holding Sonny (our dog and firstborn RIP), and me also with a big, goofy grin, holding the sonogram image, jeans unbuttoned as though giving proof of the life in my womb. He was not even born yet and was already used as a prop.

Not only did I not even consider where my photo would end up five years ago, but I was also blissfully unaware (and probably much more self-centred!) of how my pregnancy announcement would incite any emotion other than happiness. Apart from the aesthetics of my first pregnancy announcement, I was not worried about any backlash or concerned with the feelings of others. I have interviewed and had DM conversations with many mothers. I have read too many stories of sorrow and hardship when it came to fertility, watched many live breakdowns on IG and spiralled down too many deep dark holes of TikTok to not now be hyperaware of the struggles. So to announce that we were pregnant so easily left me feeling a tad undeserving. Why were we blessed with good fertility and no history of miscarriages or trauma? I felt guilty that we were the minority who had the privilege of timing our children. (I am considered a geriatric, for crying out loud!) So, instead of posting a cute, pre-constructed image with a witty “here we go again” type caption, I sidelined my baby news and highlighted the agony of incurable pregnancy migraines. I downgraded my own excitement about a second child to be more in tune with the algorithm and palatable for others.

If it were up to my husband, he would have taken out an advertorial in the local newspaper and plastered our faces on bus stations with the words "Another boy!" Instead, he'd have to settle for sharing the news the old-fashioned way in real life as my mind is still muddled about whether or not I want to or it is ethical to share images of our sons online. However, despite all the information, my elation and pride for my 1.5 kids are still pressing against the logic. I feel almost compelled to share and as though I am being deceitful if I do not.

This piece was originally published by the memo, click the ‘Read More’ button to read the full article.

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