I get it, you love to run and you’re killing it every day in preparation for some ridiculously pointless marathon when we all know the real satisfaction you get is from having enviable legs.
I get it, Crossfit has changed your life and you now firmly believe that if everyone did it, they would all be similarly transformed.
I get it, you only eat meat and your diet makes you strong like bull.
I get it, you only eat veggies and secretly wish to lynch bacon-lovers and throttle those who think Vegan is a newly-discovered planet.
I get it, you don’t really want anyone to know exactly what you’re talking about, but feel compelled to get something off your chest, so you opt for irritating ambiguity, your posts so obscure nobody knows whether it’s actually time to orchestrate an intervention.
We are all to some extent guilty.
I happen to inundate fellow users with pictures of my children. My children being cute, being annoying, being funny, just being.
If they turned out blurry, I just photoshop the shit out of them.
If the first 13 pictures didn’t turn out, I keep taking pictures until I arrive at the winner.
If I happen upon another adorable moment to capture, I am a-gonna post it even if it comes just several minutes after my previous post of my adorable, sweet little spawn.
So, do you get it? I love my kids. Get it?
It’s so strange how much social media has dramatically altered our interaction with acquaintances. I say “acquaintances” because even though I know every single person on my “friends list”, I have probably only seen 10 of them in person in a social setting in the past year. (Oh, those are all family members.)
In the year 2005, I wouldn’t have been caught dead sharing the mundane details of my everyday life with people in casual conversation.
I would never have randomly mentioned that my year has been a complete cluster one week in.
I would never have walked up to someone every few hours to say, “Look at how awesomely cute my kid is” or “I ran X amount of miles this morning” or “Ugh, can’t believe it’s happened again. No, I won’t tell you what I’m referring to. I’ve mastered the art of the compelling tease with no reward.”
Now, we’re all guilty of oversharing and we come with plethora of justifications.
“I share all the pictures of my kids for my relatives who don’t live nearby.”
“I’m just trying to keep myself motivated.”
“I’m bored.”
So many people suggest putting down the smartphone, getting off the ipad and actually interacting with people. Well, I’m a hardcore introvert. I’ve never been one to suggest an outing with pals and now that I have children, I run from social interaction like it’s a flesh-starved zombie.
“Wait, you just wanted to… talk?”
I could sit around and read your posts and feel outraged that running gives me shin splints. I could feel guilty about the bacon I had with breakfast or the massive pile of Thai for lunch with all it’s Gluteny, gluttonous goodness.
I could even internally debate whether to ask you what your post ACTUALLY means while seething in frustration for several minutes.
But, I’m not going to hide you from my feed.
Because I get it. I get it and you’re gonna keep on getting it too, cause my kids are my world.
They provide me with the sweetest, most joyful moments of my day and then turn around and suck the sleep out of my nights and destroy me with their asshole antics.
By all means, keep shoving whatever “your shit” is down my throat.
In return, I give you… my edited life in snippets and snapshots. Enjoy.
Everyone knows that what people post on social media sites isn’t actually an accurate snapshot of your life.
You put your best foot forward, your best pic posted.
It’s all smoke and mirrors.
This is never more true than for parents of toddlers.
Here are pictures of my husband and I on daycare date night.
It might look like we’re having a lovely evening, but we actually spent the entire dinner try to hail our waitress. We watched other diners arrive, be served and finish dinner and we couldn’t even get a second round of Sake.
That b*&ch interrupted our Sake cycle.
Instead of riveting conversation, we were busy glowering at the staff, pleading with our eyes for assistance from the hostess. (who was equally oblivious to our plight)
I considered luring her by dangling our food because she was all skin and bones, but my husband noted that she clearly wasn’t interested in eating. Maybe Meth would’ve worked?
The next morning, here’s a picture of my precious daughter hugging my dog. (Yes, he looks terrified. He’s old, partially blind and has Addison’s Disease. He’s always terrified.)
What you don’t see is my son screaming in the background because he’s sick. Our punishment for a miserable night on the town was waking up early to face a feverish toddler.
My son is a real jerk when he’s sick.
I feel bad that he doesn’t feel well, but I don’t exactly feel like babying him when he’s constantly trying to throw heavy objects at my head and screaming “NO WAY” when I’m not even touching him or talking to him.
A fun day at the park? I think not.
It poured the night before so the whole playground was a soggy, mulchy mess.
We had to cut it short when my son decided to run full speed through a mud puddle in canvas shoes.
I did find it amusing that Alma wouldn’t stop berating an older girl who was playing barefoot in the mud.
“She’s gonna get her pants wet! She doesn’t have shoes on! She can’t go in the puddles!”
Her mom was nearby.
I just said, “That’s up to her and her mommy or daddy to decide honey.” (as I continued to yell at my kids to stay out of the puddles… awkward, awkward, awkward)
Here’s what else there AREN’T pictures of:
1) Our kids both instantly falling asleep as we drive off for lunch, so we have to drive around for an hour being quiet.
2) My son crying when we have to wake him up because we HAVE TO EAT.
3) My son demanding to walk outside while we’re trying to eat at Chilis, throwing all food offered to him across the room. (even slimy segments of mandarin oranges)
4) Mommy downing two margaritas.
5) Daddy saying he needs to work on the computer and mommy nearly having a nervous breakdown considering time alone with the kids.
So, I took Alma to buy white poster board to draw on with markers outside.
Look how adorable she was playing with the neighborhood kids.
What you don’t see:
1) Huck stealing all balls from the neighbor’s garage. Bouncy balls, plastic softballs, a football.
2) Huck repeatedly kicking said balls toward the road.
3) Alma looking shocked and appalled when the neighbor’s little girl wouldn’t let her have a turn at basketball. (awkward, awkward, awkward)
So, we go back inside and I serve up the kids an enviable spread of fresh fruit, Gouda and ham.
We watch Monsters Inc. for the 30th time.
I give the kids a bath, which means I get soaked from head to toe, chase around a naked maniac who refuses to put on a diaper and occasionally pisses on the carpet and manhandle my cranky daughter who screams at me to get her into her PJ’s and then screams even louder that she CAN DO IT HERSELF!
At this point, my husband is still on the effing computer and I shout downstairs, “Are you DONE YET?”
He storms up and says no, but takes over. So, then I feel like a shitty wife.
My husband can’t get his work done and I am already trying to figure out if enough time has passed since lunch for me to start drinking alcohol again.
Let’s just say the night ended with me breaking my diet to eat a Lean Cuisine and my husband telling me I had purple teeth. Wine drinkers feel me.
No pictures of that folks.
Smoke and mirrors friends.
Living The American Scream 