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TBH I Wish I Didn’t Know

There are some things as a parent, heck, as a grown adult human being that I never ever needed to know.

One of those things? The fact that my daughter has this weird propensity to make the dreaded duck face every time she is put in front of a camera.

How do I know this you ask? Facebook slaps me upside the head with it every time I log in and find myself staring at my daughter either trying to give the entire world cyber kisses or doing some weird animal imitation thing involving quacking. Either way, Facebook is showing me I’ve failed as a mother.

Another thing I never really needed to know? How my teenaged nephew thinks he’s a first class criminal living in the inner city; has forgotten his entire education and thinks he looks all bad ass with his baggy pants pulled so low I can see the peach fuzz in his butt crack. To read what he’s writing you would believe he grew up in the hardest of ghettos, been shot at a half dozen times and served hard time in the slammer. The truth is he was raised in a middle class suburb; works at a fast food restaurant (although I suppose that could be construed as a prison) and the only time he’s been shot at was the time my kids chased after him with a water pistol.

But thanks to Facebook I now know he’s working hard at releasing an album based on the criminal oppression he’s faced thanks to the X-box, society at large and boxed mac and cheese. Watch for it would ya? He’s anticipating it to be the next big thing since Bieber.

Another thing I wish I didn’t know? My son clearly doesn’t understand the most basic rules of grammar, my best friend’s kid is well on the path to becoming a professional stripper and too many kids are obsessed with TBH.

To. Be. Honest.

I miss the days when the only way I’d have known any of this was if it was written on the bathroom wall, someone passed me a note in class or I heard it from one kid who heard it from another.

I totally just aged myself didn’t I?

TBH, I am not actually friends with a lot of children on the internet. I’m not one of those creepy adults who befriend every single child they have come into contact with in a desperate bid to preserve their own youth.  The kids I friend either have to be biologically related to me, my husband or one of the few people I’d happily give one of my kidneys to. And in theory, I like being able to quietly monitor their online behaviour and activities because not only does it allow me a window into their mysterious teenaged lives but also it has provided me with a multitude of teachable moments I may not have otherwise as a parent.

Our world, like it or not all you fuddy duddies, has become a digital world and I am in the unique position of being able to embrace this new fan dangled technology while teaching my children how to harness the power of the Internet.

But lately? Lately Facebook is making me loathe the children I’ve previously loved and oh yes, it’s making me judge their parents. Adults I love or am legally required to be nice to thanks to my marital contract. I just want to yell at them, “DONT YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR KID IS DOING ON THE INTERNET??”

Not to mention, Facebook is turning me into a narc.

And don’t even get me started on the rage I’ve felt when I’ve come across cyber bullying directed at one of my children or kids I love.

Like raising children in real life, I’ve come to realize raising kids on the Internet means the same thing. It’s all very fluid and what worked with one child doesn’t mean it’s going to work with all the children in my digital family.

This must mean I’ve reached cyber adulthood. It also must mean it’s time to either defriend some annoying teens in the hopes of preserving a relationship with them or you know, learn how to use that magical ‘mute’ button on the Internet. I’ve heard good things about it.

It’s either that or start fighting fire with fire.

And that’s gonna mean a whole lot of pictures with me dressed like a stripper in training, while making the dreaded duck face, preferably while posing in a bathroom mirror as I hold the camera myself; talking some gangsta smack while erasing any traces of grammar from my intellect and whine about my parents not understanding me every chance I get.

TBH that last part shouldn’t be so hard. I’ve only spent six years as a blogger perfecting that skill.


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♦ Don’t Call Me a Special Needs Blogger
♦ Nickelback Makes Me a Better Parent
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