“Merri, why aren’t you my friend on Facebook yet?”
“Mom, remember when I used to talk on the phone, and you’d pick up on the other line and try to join in on the conversation? Letting you in on Facebook would feel like a really bad acid-induced flashback.”
“But you have to be my friend. You have no choice. I’m your mother.”
“Mom, all day long, I wipe three snotty noses, search for three pairs of matching shoes and attempt to keep six little legs from falling downstairs and/or running into traffic. For twenty minutes a day after the kids go to sleep, Facebook is my only social outlet. Don’t we socialize enough together?”
“No. Sometimes I don’t get to talk to you all week. And I need to see what you and my babies are up to.”
“Can’t we just go to the movies? I can get you all caught up during the credits.”
“Merri, you’re not funny. Chelsea let me be her friend. If you don’t let me be your Facebook friend, I’ll be really mad.”
“Mom, some of my posts and comments are wildly inappropriate. I wouldn’t feel right knowing you were reading them.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I read your commentary about the dildos, and I am not impressed.”
“Can’t you just take up a new pastime? What about knitting? You used to knit. Do you remember that matching poncho set you made for me and Cindy?”
“Believe me, I am much too busy for pastimes. I’ll probably log onto Facebook once a month if I’m lucky. You won’t even know I’m there!”
“You know what? Doug’s mother wants to be my friend, too, and she doesn’t hassle me.”
“C’mon, Merri. I’m friends with people at work, and if my own daughter won’t be my friend, they’ll wonder what’s wrong with me.”
“You know what? I’m just going to close my account.”
“That’s right. You do that. I carried you for nine months…”
“…You’re not really going there, are you?”
“…I bought you everything you wanted. I put you through college. And I’m supposed to watch the kids this weekend, unless something else turns up.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Confirm the friend request. And I want it to say ‘mother’ under my name.”
“No. That’s where I draw the line. Look, Mom—if I agree to be your friend—and that’s a very big IF—are you going to say anything to embarrass me?
“When have I ever said anything to embarrass you?” (Silence.) “OK, OK, I won’t say anything to embarrass you ever again!”
(More silence.)
“I’ll do it. But I’m going to need some time.”
Later that night, I held my breath and clicked “confirm.” And that was that. It is done.
The next day, my mother called. “I forgot to mention, you really shouldn’t talk about dildos on the Internet,” she cautioned. “If you’re going to start looking for jobs, it can come back to bite you.”
Facebook will never be the same.
