Facebook.
My husband broke the news to me while I was straightening my hair this morning, “The kids want Facebook accounts so they can stay in touch with their theatre friends.”
Huh. Now, see, I thought my husband and I were of the same opinion on this matter. We don’t use our kids’ names or put their photos on-line. We want them to have lives that are not forever documented on video for as long as possible.
Can you imagine? My god, I wouldn’t want more than 20% of my life before the age of 25 available on-line. And to be clear, that 20% would be me sleeping. In my own bed. Alone. In response to his bait, I said nothing.
Then I remembered my son telling me how Zander was taping rehearsals because this is the last show he can do with the youth company because he is now 18. (I use his name because he is 18, and because he readily uses his name all over the net.)
Facebook.
My son said on the way home from rehearsal this week that he kept running away from Zander because he didn’t want to wind up on Zander’s FB page. I felt like crap.
“No, buddy, that’s okay, you can be in his videos.”
“But mom, he’s going to upload them. You said—“
“Well. This is different.”
My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. So it would follow that they would first approach their dad with what was surely going to get shot down by me out of the gate. My husband is the harbinger of all-things-bad-ideas.
In the car this afternoon, I asked. “So. Dad said you guys want Facebook pages. Is that true?”
Daughter, “Yes.”
Son, “Uh-huh.”
Long dangerous pause.
I love wielding so much power. Mwaa-ha-ha. “Here are the ground rules…” They nodded and made we-understand noises. They didn’t care if I said they both had to do the laundry until they moved out. Darn it, why didn’t I say that? “Okay, you guys we’ll set up the accounts.”
My son was silent. My daughter was silent. I could hear their telepathic victory dance, and I giggled. Crap. Here we go.
Facebook.
