Why I've Walked Away From Facebook (Mostly)

A letter to my Facebook friends:

I am a recovering Facebook addict.  I've dumped untold hours into it, caring significantly about people who no doubt barely think about me in return.  This isn't a complaint, a 'woe is me' moment.  On the contrary: I'm one of a dying breed of Interstitial Internet Nerds, and darn proud of it.  Social media wouldn't have been a thing if we hadn't existed.  Nor would internet dating, Massively Multiplayer Online games, or Amazon.  We were the ones who took what the Primordial Geek created and humanized it.  We proved the viability of real human connection across a digital space.  "Internet friends" were real for us in a way they aren't anymore (except maybe for our MMO Maven successors).  We use the internet and everything in it differently than those who came after us.  We tend to care more and assign more of ourselves to online interactions than does the average user.  In other words, Facebook was made because of us, but it wasn't made for us.

I've finally weaned myself off of Facebook - a good thing, all told.  (In case you haven't noticed, by the way, it's about to follow in AOL's footsteps.  Get more involved in your back-up social media system now, before the shock sets in. ;) )  I wish I could say I skedaddled because I smelled trouble on the wind.  I wish I could say I left on defiant principle, to give our reliance on an overly self-important virtual business a personal kick in the pants; to turn my back on this vehicle of peer pressure masquerading as social support (not that the latter doesn't exist, 'cause it definitely does, but the term "selfie" derived from social media culture, and that says something about its cultural environment).  Heck, I would be happy if I did it because I was just fed up with the bugs, impermanence, and significantly non-user-friendly "improvements."

But I didn't.

I left Facebook for a horrible, awful reason: I left because of your kids.

Yep.  I just admitted that.

But see, I love your children.  A lot.  Like in the movies when parents die and leave their kids all alone except for a beloved-yet-estranged friend or aunt who takes them in despite not having the time, room, or financial capacity.  Like in Jumanji.  I would totally take your kids in, even if they were a little too quiet and weird or straight-up pathological liars.  We'd have zany adventures that would hopefully not endanger their lives while bonding us together in a way that makes us family even though we're not.  (Hopefully you'd also leave us an awesome ramshackle house in which to stage said zany adventures, but we'd still make do with what we had even if you didn't.)  I love your kids like we just played a life-or-death board game, even though they almost got me killed.  I loved them the moment you told me they were on their way.  Weird?  Maybe.  But that's the Interstitial Internet Nerd for you - we bond like that.

I have a lot of friends whose kids - most of them boys - are 1-2 years younger than Berrykin.  I've watched every video and cheered every triumph; I've laughed at the cuteness and silliness and the ickiness.  I've empathized with your pain and sleep exhaustion and wished I could lend you some of my experience, just for a day, when things got really hard.  Because parenting is hard; because I truly believe parenting should be a companion effort, something we support each other through rather than competing for non-existent "best parent" medals (and that goes for people without kids, too).  It's like we think that somewhere, maybe at the Pearly Gates, we'll get upgraded for parenting the "right" way.  As if the angelic clerk would take a look at our permanent record and say, "Oh, you breastfed/bottlefed/babywore/organicked/nannied/crieditout/attachmented/stayedhome/worked/pottytrained/coslept/taughtindependence/etc/etc/etc the best way?  Congratulations, you get the cloud with the chocolate rain and cookie pillows!" 

There's a tenet among writers that we can never write the "perfect" story because no reader will read it the same way.  What they bring to the book is always going to be different, and their Toolboxes O'Life will change the story even when the words are exactly the same.  Parenting is like that; it's hard, and it's different for everybody.  Your child's story - your story - will always be unique, even if he or she is one in a throng of disposable diapers and bottles (or cloth diapers and long-term breastfeeding.  Or sleep issues.  Or no sleep issues.  Or any combination of seemingly identical options with which a Western-world parent can choose to write their infant's story).  No story will ever be the same.

We need to stop comparing, myself included.  Because comparing strawberries and peaches and expecting them to be in any way similar is insane.

And that is why I weaned myself away from Facebook.  Not because of the daily battle I was doing to get the dumb thing to load pictures where I could view them (instead of just showing me people's feet).  Not because the general atmosphere is detrimental to the way I feel about myself (though it is, and studies have shown there's a good chance it is for you, too).  I forced myself to log out because your pictures and videos of your adorable, verbally-normative kids were breaking my heart.  Even though, as I said, I would brave terrier-sized spiders for those kids.

It's no secret that in my son's story, there haven't been many recognizable words.  On the whole, this is unsurprising.  His dad didn't talk much at all until he was 5, at which point he apparently shocked everyone with his fully developed verbal skills.  His aunt and many of his cousins made up languages all their own.  Most of all, his mom is quiet and contemplative and even when she works really hard at talking more for his benefit, she probably still only speaks about half as often as the normal parent.  It's totally normal, given his genetic and social environment, that he barely put two words together once a day by the time he turned three.  Left to ourselves, I wasn't worried.

But every time you posted a video of your chatty two-year-old, or regaled us with tales of the adorable, insightful, or downright hilarious things they said, I was reminded of the biggest difference in my son's story.  I was reminded that he's at least a year "behind" in his verbal skills, and he should be seeing a "specialist" for his "deficiencies."  That hurt, but it wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that every post reminded me of the moments I will never get to have.

I will never know what sorts of adventures he took when he hid himself in the jelly cupboard.
I will never know what his horsies were doing in the dungeon, or why he put his cup in the closet (although that's a common problem among most kids, I think).
I never got to share in his two-year-old imagination explosion milestone.
I will never have that missed year of deeper, language-driven parent-child connection back, and neither will he.
I will never know what scared him for months, deeply enough that he couldn't get out of bed and would shout my name because it was the only word he had.
I will never be able to comfort those wounds, validate his fears, or help him learn to slay that particular monster.

Those were things that broke my heart in your moments of joy.  I was certainly not about to ask you to share less joy or parental pride.  We all need more of those positive moments.  My heart's ache shouldn't detract from your heart's glow.

My choice, then, was to walk away.  So I gradually slipped away, peeking in the door at the loud, strangely personal yet impersonal cafe that is Facebook from time to time.  I found a little objectivity in digital isolation, and am infinitely grateful I did so.  Not because it gave me more time to do things.  Not because I could stop matching those stupid candies and cursing the randomness in obviously idiotic algorithms (though that was a big plus).

I'm so grateful because I've found the perspective to recognize our triumphs as well as our challenges.  It allowed me to recognize the moment he actually started advancing his language.  It made me aware of him instead of his trajectory.

He may not answer questions, but he tells me what he needs.
He may be crazy stubborn about what he says, but he's funny.  We've entered "joke" stage and he manages to purposely make us laugh with four words or less. That takes brains.
He may not tell me stories, but he can count to twenty clearly. 
He may not narrate, but knows and loves his alphabet. 
He knows Sword in the Stone by heart and recites his favorite lines as he watches even though he often acts like he has no idea what I'm saying when I tell him to put on pants, or like he can't remember how to put on socks.
He thinks horses are funny and giraffes are awesome, and he may not snuggle with his toys or play obvious pretend, but he makes a darn fine whinny and he can correctly name an abstract animal from twenty paces (often more readily than his dad).
He may not say, "I love you," not once, but he tells me he loves me every time he says my name, and I'm always floored by the amount of emotion he can pour into that one word.

So he may be behind by the time he starts preschool.  He may not have the faintest idea how to socialize when he's expected to play well with others.  But that's okay, because he's learning and growing and laughing.  Today, for the first time, he used a three-word sentence: "I found Mama!"  For him, that was huge.  Without walking away from Facebook, I might not have noticed how huge, and that would have been a failure as a mommy.  Not the fact that I didn't run a constant stream of narration all day; not what he did or didn't eat; not how many hours we let him play Spyro (though the answer to that is still "too many"...but he's three, and except for the bosses he can play the whole thing by himself!).  My only failure as a mother would have been not seeing, really seeing, my son.

There you have it.  My "leaving Facebook behind" story.  But it's not really about Facebook.  It's about love.  It's about parenting.  It's about the crazy ways our culture has twisted us up about ourselves, about each other, about the difference between "support" and "being nice."

That's really why I wrote this whole thing.  To get to this point:

I appreciate the reassurance people have attempted to give me.  Knowing that you care is lovely.  But telling a parent how to compare their child differently doesn't help.  People have been telling me pretty consistently, "Don't worry - it's normal for the family."  And "Don't worry - I'm sure he's good at other things that my kid can't do."  Not helpful.  It only shifts the external focus to another external point.  (Don't get me wrong, there are times when comparisons are incredibly helpful.  Telling a parent whose child has just been diagnosed with a frightening condition, for example, of someone you know who thrived in spite of the same condition can offer much-needed hope.  Better, though, is to ask that person if you can give your friend their phone number in case they need to talk.  Or invite them both to brunch.)

We need to find "supportive" ways to talk to each other about parenting, rather than "being nice" ways.  "Connective" instead of "competitive."  Ways that focus on the individual rather than on a comparison with someone else.  I have just as many problems with it as everyone else, so I'm not saying I'm perfect.  All I'm saying is that all this awesome perspective has helped me see how we're doing it wrong.

If you're a parent, I'm going to say to you what I needed someone to say to me.  (As such, it may not work for you.  That's okay.  If it doesn't, leave me a message and we can chat about what might.)  Are you ready?  This is important.

You are a good parent.  You're probably even a great one.  All those choices you make and concerns you have are important.  They're real, and they're often hard.  They probably keep you awake at night, and that's its own bummer 'cause you need all the sleep you can get.  But they won't ruin your child.  No matter what, this child is still this child; their food source won't change them.  Their diaper source won't change them.  Their activities won't change them; we worry they will, that if our kids don't color enough they won't grow up to be creative, or if they don't hear people talking enough they won't grasp language well enough or fast enough.  We often spend so much time worrying about how our choices affect our kids that we sometimes stop seeing our kids.  Your child is unique; his challenges are his own; her strengths are hers alone.  You are the only one who can read his or her story the way you can, through your Mommy/Daddy lens.  Stop looking at other people's kids and take a breath.  You're a good parent.  Right now, for today, I give you permission to worry about one thing and one thing only: Is your child laughing?  Right this moment?  No?  Then go fix that.  Make them laugh and then laugh with them.  Whenever you find yourself worrying, make them laugh again.  Love and laughter are the only things the two (or more) of you need today.  You don't need to solve the big problems of parenthood, or of parenting this child.  Today, all you're solving is the problem of not laughing.  Got it?  Go to it!

(Just in case you're wondering, I had to change the above paragraph as I was writing it no fewer than four times because I suddenly discovered I'd written a comparison.  I didn't say non-comparative thinking was easy...)

If you got aaaaaall the way down here, thanks for reading!  I'll still answer stuff on Facebook if you want to say hello, but blog comments are nicer. ;)  And if you have an awesome online community that isn't Facebook that you think I should know about, lemme know!