A few months ago, my daughter very hesitantly allowed me to be her friend on Facebook.

At first, I was so happy about it. Finally, the day had come. We would share inspirational memes and click like on each others crap. Much bonding and fun would be had! realityShe ignores any comments that I make. She doesn’t like anything that I post. I imagine she cringes whenever I make my presence known. I linger over the “like” icon, questioning myself on whether or not I should say something laced with motherly wisdom when she complains, or tsk-ing her when she says something that I don’t approve of.

Basically, it’s all too much TMI.

Now I regret having weaseled myself into her social media life. It feels like I am a stranger in a foreign land and I forgot my passport. Or even worse, a bakery without any money.

If she says she’s bored, I want to reply that perhaps she could clean the bathroom.

If she posts random things that I don’t understand, I feel out of the loop. (Because I am.)

If she posts negatively about herself, I want to tell her that she’s beautiful. (She is.)

Her taste in older men is disturbing. I have a website that sells chastity belts bookmarked, just in case.

I’m her mother, not her friend. She’s my daughter, not my friend. That comes later, if I play my cards right.

If there had been such a thing as Facebook in 1992, you can bet your sweet bippy that I would not have been very thrilled to have my mom as my Facebook buddy.

I can still think like a 17-year-old if I try hard enough.

On a side note, my mom reads my blog, although she has admitted that she skips anything that has to do with my vagina.

Thank God, because that would be awkward.

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