Are you a Facebook Mum?

Warning, this is probably going to be a rant-post. I say probably because, to be honest, I never really know how my posts are going to turn out.

Soon I am starting uni. I have noticed, thank you. I have been freaking out about for about – two months at least now. Before that I had to deal with moving countries and the approaching loss of my cat. It was not so present.

I have been reading and mailing and trying to become the optimal student before I even set foot in the university. They are probably already annoyed with me. Anyway, I am – especially at night when all is quiet and my parents go to bed by eleven as the good, stand-up citizens they are – a maniac from time to time. When you lay there, your mind starts spinning and reminding you that you need to do the most unimportant things tomorrow and that because you have not done the little things, you will never get to do the big things, like apply for jobs and find an apartment and shit.

And then come the phone calls. It is custom among family members who live apart to call, from time to time and inquire on how they are doing and all. Apparently my sister and I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

It is also custom to brag about your children’s accomplishments during these phone calls.

“My offspring is starting university soon.”

“The fruit of my loins just got a job. The other one has done it all already and is living in her own apartment, studying and working! My blood and flesh can do it all!”

  • So obviously, my seed is destined for greatness!

You may have got the idea that I am exaggerating at this point. But this is a subjective post, in case you hadn’t noticed.

And then, when the relative says something like: “Oh, good, that’s in two weeks then! So not long!”

HOW IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL?

It was okay the first time. After you have mentioned my academic career in every phone call to Britain ever made, it is starting to add to my anxiety.

Noticed how I leave the room when you do that?

I know, I know, we are your children and you are proud of us – but did you mention the fact to our relatives that I bought an amazing pair of culottes, made from vintage material and I love them? I am very proud of this purchase.

Fact is, parents love to brag. About standardized stuff – like school and jobs and marriage (don’t worry that is not happening any time soon). Every family reunion I get to tell every body what I am doing and what I want to do in the future. I should start making stuff up. I am going to be an astronaut, people! I have a passion for urban bee-keeping, but I would love to become a freelance sex therapist.

If they like it or not, they are comparing their children and the way their lives are headed.

Facebook, for example, has opened up a new way of bragging to “Facebook Mums”.

What are Facebook Mums, you ask?

Well, Facebook Mums don’t know the difference between a public comment section and a private message. They probably haven’t heard of Facebook Groups and privacy settings either. They love public displays of love and affection. They post pictures of their 14-year old sons and write: “My handsome baby boy <3” or when one person writes about their child’s exams coming up, all her friends (not the child’s friends, the mum’s friends) comment: “Don’t be nervous!” and “All the best to you! And STAY CALM 😉 ❤ :D”

Said “child” WAS calm, until you fucking brought it up!

The other day I saw a picture someone posted on Facebook, it had a cheesy background and a text saying “I need my daughter, because…” bla bla bla and some cheesy lines and an appeal to “like and share if you feel the same way”. Oh really, so was this picture created for the love of daughters or to get likes and shares? Hm..

Anyway, under the picture there was an array of comments by Facebook Mums who did not know what private messages were. Thousands – really – thousands of comments about their daughters and why they love them and need them and why they are their everything and…this is the internet (especially Facebook). Nobody really cares.

For everyone:

We are not personal dolls with painted faces, we have real inner organs that can produce lots and lots of lovely stress hormones. We have ears and we are not just are accomplishments by your standards, okay?

And no, Mum, this post was not inspired by one singular event just now while you were on your business trip. This has been building up for a while.

Sorry for the ranting. And yes I realise I am being cynical. But what other choice do I have?

On that note – but not really, I just really like this song and I want to leave you a little bit disturbed:

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