In addition to starting a new blog, completing a couple of triathlons, touring with a Foreigner tribute band, and re-grouting my bathtub, I’ve joined Facebook.
Yes, yes, I know. After waxing philosophically about privacy concerns and other pitfalls, I finally caved. I’ve changed my status from “Conscientious Objector” to “I’m Here For The Kitten Videos.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still concerned about privacy, but in the end this was the only way I could pry into my children’s lives and know where they are and what they’re up to at any given moment.
So far it’s gone much better than I’d expected. As some of you suggested might happen, I have reconnected with some old friends and family, in time in fact for the birth of a baby and the adoption of a puppy. Facebook envy started just about the third day when a friend posted a description of her morning pain au chocolat at a sidewalk cafe in Paris, but I got over that. Truly. I’m fine with it.
I’m learning to like it.
One of the things I like and dislike about Facebook is reading my son’s dispatches from what MapQuest tells me is 5585 miles away. I know that number because I looked it up while I was on the phone with my son, who was calling from the emergency room, some 5585 miles away.
Let’s break that down:
My son was calling me. Not good. He rarely calls me. There’s an inconvenient time zone difference, plus he’s 20-something and living a full and happy life, completely self-sufficient and financially independent. He wasn’t calling for money or for help fixing a flat tire.
He was calling from the emergency room. Not good, but a little good. I originally thought to write that it’s a mother’s worst nightmare to get a phone call from the emergency room, but that’s not true. My worst nightmare is much worse. Also, it was his voice on the line, so he was in good enough condition to call.
I might not have received this call if not for my new and maternal presence on Facebook. He knew I’d be reading, so he wisely braced me for the impact of the news.
First, he posted an exciting status update about buying a motorcyle. (You see where this is going, don’t you?)
I wonder if Tom’s mother will sign my petition.
(photo from the movie Top Gun, Paramount Pictures, 1986.)
I held my tongue because I’m a firm believer in the Star Trek Prime Directive. I didn’t want to intervene and alter the course of destiny . . . yet.
Also, I remember the way cockroaches would scatter in the kitchen in my first apartment right after we’d flip on the light. To immediately post my disapproval of this horrifying turn of events might send him scattering for cover, thereby defeating the purpose of my new presence on Facebook.
So, I remained in stealth mode. Watching. Waiting. Praying for the best. Hoping the peer pressure from his colleagues would be enough to dissuade him from this new “Maverick” image he seems to be cultivating. (Don’t get me started on the tattoos. Yes. Plural.)
A few days later, after several discussions about Warhammer that left me and several others completely confused, I saw glimpses of the cool kid I shipped off to the far side of the planet.
Instead of saying so out loud, because it is every young man’s worst nightmare to have his mother posting on his Facebook page, I sent him the following private message:
I signed up for Facebook to know how things are going with you. Two weeks later here’s what I’ve learned: you have some sort of Steve McQueen death wish, which I’d have been better off not knowing, and apparently you speak Klingon. Quite frankly, I’m disappointed in the dearth of kitten videos. I was told there would be kitten videos.
To which, the sweet, funny kid I handed over to the real world replied,
At your request:
Adorable, right?
I can’t believe I fell for it.
While I was distracted by the cuteness of a kitten eating sour cream, Maverick apparently soared off on the highway to the danger zone, crashed his bike, and ended up in the emergency room. Thankfully, his injuries are minor and he will be fine, but he hasn’t yet agreed to give up the death machine.
Here’s where you come in.
I know you’re feeling as helpless as I am and you’re wondering what you can do to help. Or maybe you weren’t feeling that way, but now that you’ve started to read this section, you’re sort of feeling like maybe you should because everyone else is. I’m grateful for your concern either way.
I’ve started a petition to convince him that 5585 miles is a long way for a mother to be away from the scene of any future, more serious misadventures. I call it “Maverick’s Mother Against Maverick’s Motorcycle.” My goal is to get 1000 signatures. I doubt that will convince him to do anything he doesn’t want to do because he has a stubborn streak, which I am not ashamed to say he inherited from his father. But I had to do something and those petition things seem kind of groovy.
If you aren’t interested in signing the petition*, which you can find by clicking here: (link removed because the petition site asked for too much personal information) you can just leave Maverick a note in the comments section below. If you’re any good at mother-guilt, you’re encouraged to lay it on thick. He seems to have developed an immunity to mine. Let’s rally, people!
And if you’re pro-death machine, don’t try to distract me with cute kitten videos. I’m wise to that now.
Oh, Maverick. When I have spoken to cops I know in the past, they tell me it’s not a matter of “if” a cyclist has a wreck, it’s “when.” So now that you’ve managed to cross the E.R. motorcycle accident off your bucket list, it’s time to set aside that testosterone-induced immortality delusion and remember that your mother set aside nine months to grow you inside of her, and the least you can do is carry yourself to a full-term life. Worry ages mothers, especially long-distance worrying, where control freaks like us are impotent. So any fine lines, grey hairs, congestive heart failure, even incontinence issues that she may face lie clearly on your shoulders.
Iceman tells Maverick, “You’re everyone’s problem. That’s because every time you go up in the air, you’re unsafe. I don’t like you because you’re dangerous.”
Don’t be everyone’s problem.
AWESOME! Thank you for your support.
Isn’t being a mother grand? It keeps us busy and off the streets . . . what with all the worrying, sleepless nights, and hand-wringing that needs to take place.
Amen.
My hubs keeps talking about getting a motorcycle. I think he might be having a mid-life crisis or something. I have forbidden it. I have 2 young boys. I don’t need them trying to emulate their already godlike father or try to ride with him. Nope, nuh uh, no.
Besides, isn’t the entire purpose of having one of those things is to seem like a badass so as to get chicks? I mean, he already has ME. Why would he need anything else?
And for your son . . . chicks dig scars. Now that he’s had his dust up on the hog, I’m sure he has a nice scar forming. So, he can go ahead and get rid of that death trap, while still having a cool souvenir and story about his time as a motorcycle rider. Done and done.
Ohmygosh…three of them on bikes. I don’t know if I could stand that! I saw your post title this morning but didn’t have time to read it…if you’re already at Disneyworld, I hope you’re having fun.
I signed the petition, the first I’ve signed since the anti-fracking people came to my door many months ago.
Maverick, there are many opportunities to do crazy things in life, riding a motorcycle and wrecking a motorcycle are only two of them. You need to stay in one piece so you can find new and exciting ways to tempt fate. Other examples of reckless behavior include, but are not limited to, getting engaged to that weird girl with the pierced eyebrow, buying your first house without having it inspected by a reputable professional, purchasing ceviche from a shady-looking guy on the beach, driving (a traditional car) without your registration, making smart-assed comments on other people’s blogs, and tearing the tag off a mattress.
Please consider the myriad of new and exciting ways to make your mother both nervous and/or proud before getting back on that crotch rocket.
If he starts tearing tags off mattresses, I will hunt you down, Sir.
If you signed the petition, I think that means I know where you live. 123 Main Street, right?
Suuuuure! I’m going to give him advice to eat ceviche sold by a shady character and tear mattress tags off and then give my ACTUAL address!!
First off, check your FB account regularly. They change things. I discovered my phone number on there. Fun!
It’s a tough one with motorcycles. They’re ridiculously fun, but based entirely in the belief of your own invulnerability. The question to ask yourself is, “Will it be worth if something goes wrong?” If the answer is “Nothing will go wrong, I’ll be careful,” you’re not prepared for the reality of a motorcycle. If the answer is “Yes,”… are you sure you understand what happens to riders in motorcycle wrecks?
I’m sure this is a matter of perception and that you’d have written this same thing pre-KB, but it has a measured paternal tone to it. I hope he’s reading.
I wish I could say I can’t believe FB posted your phone number, but I can and it troubles me. Thanks for the tip.
Please don’t hate me, Hipster.
Did I tell you I have a motorcycle license? Everybody lays down their bike once. At least Maverick got it out of the way early and wasn’t seriously injured. Now he’s in the clear!
Oh, great. Another reason to worry about you! Stay safe.
Maverick, this is somebody else’s mother talking. You KNOW that I only want what’s best for you. I won’t know a moment’s peace until you sell that death machine and get a nice, safe car. Maybe a Ford Fairlane?
And do you really think you’re going to look hot when you’re 65 and those World of Warhammer, faded tats have dropped about 5 inches south on your drooping, flabby old body?
After all I’ve given up for you, do you want to give me a heart attack? Now, listen to somebody else’s mother and be a good boy. Eat more vegetables. And would it kill you to call a little more often?
ps. my daughter ignored my friend request. Le sigh.
I’ll talk to your daughter. After this fab comment, I owe you.
Dear Hipster, you caved to FB? Now it seems I’m the only holdout. So lonely out here in holdout-land. Still, I’ll try to pen a few words for your son. Here goes:
Dear Maverick: I don’t know you, but I, too, am the mother of a son. It’s not easy, you know. We try hard to ground you guys in the “good stuff” while letting you soar with the “fun stuff.”
You don’t need a motorcycle to be cool. Tats either. Don’t you know you’re already cool, just because you’re you? Just because you’re living on your own, not in Mom’s basement. Because you’re working and earning your own money. Because you’ve had the ONE mishap that serves as every cyclist’s wake-up call, the one that convinces you that cars — with lots of steel and airbags — are much safer.
I know you love your mom. Every son does. You don’t want to hurry her into an early grave over worry, do you? I mean, sure, she worries. ALL moms worry. Even the ones who say they don’t. It’s in the Mom Book, you know. And worry is a killer. Just like motorcycles. Get my point?
Your mom loves you and it would tear her apart if something bad happened to you. There’s plenty of time to find out what Heaven is truly like, ok?!
You’re good, Debbie. Very, very good.
I’m torn. I was anti-bikes for so very long. Organ donors was the politically incorrect way we’d refer to the motorized two-wheel thing. Alas, then I met our daycare provider. She and her husband are bikers. Serious bikers. They wear serious gear when they ride – full outfits from head to toe. They are safe and respectful. They’ve raised two kids who are also serious riders. Again – the kids wear full body gear when riding.
Having seen safe-riders, my views have changed. If Maverick can take it seriously – and don full body-wear, then I think he should do it. Respecting both the road and other other motorized vehicles on the road.
Of course, when my boys come to me proposing a bike purchase, I reserve the right to retract all of the above.
I think I’d handle it much better if he were closer to home. Honestly, I was mock upset about it until I got the call from the emergency room and started trying to figure out how to get to him. It’s a long way to Hawaii, but I’d swim it!
Dear Maverick,
Your mama was right. Girls do not REALLY dig tough boys with bikes. We like nice guys with safe jobs, electric cars and kittens (see video above. Oh ya, you sent that.) Be a dear and trade for a scooter. We’ll send you a cool plastic hula girl for the handle bars and you’ll be just as cool.
I wish I could help you. With 13 tattoos and counting and being a long time lover of all things that two wheeled, well I tend to be on the side of Maverick it seems. Nothing wrong with spying though, I am hooked up with both my sons and their significant others, I am always embarrassing them and telling them what to do and what I think of what they are doing on their Facebook accounts.
Wow — 13 tattoos! One for each of the original colonies.
I wish I could help out here, but I gave up guilt-tripping for Lent. Well, ok. I didn’t, really, but it seems like such a good idea I just did.
Not only that, I regularly ride my bicycle without a helmet. And I occasionally give a re-read to the post that gave rise to the “Borderline Sociopathic Blog for Boys”. It’s good for girls, too. In fact, your son’s inspired me to go down to the biker bar for a burger at lunch today.
Once upon a time, I had a friend who landed in the hospital because the girl who was shelving books in the library fell off her step-stool, grabbed for the shelves, and pulled a metal shelf over on my friend’s head. You never know.
Feel free to fix up that tag. I’ve only just started on my coffee.
I’m very impressed that you were able to hyperlink the text in a comment! Just getting around to reading this. That was a great link. . .. .Libraries are dangerous places.
I’m with you on the motorcycles, Hipster. Too scary. Glad your son is basically okay though! I think you will come to enjoy most of th contact facebook will provide. However, a colleague of mine who specializes in social media posted something today about a survey that said 1/3 of users reported that Facebook makes them unhappy. I commented, why would someone use it if it makes them unhappy? After reading your blog post today, I see how the unhappiness can be unexpected.
One of the faux news shows (Daily Show or Colbert Report?) pointed out that the respondents in that or some similar survey were German college students. It was a funny bit. Excellent observation and words to live by: if something’s making you unhappy and you have a choice, choose to stop!
“…this was the only way I could pry into my children’s lives and know where they are and what they’re up to at any given moment…”
Exactly! I did the same thing. Though I did use a fake name (which I shared with my son of course) so that I wouldn’t have have to reconnect with anyone. It’s nice to keep tabs on him, but at the same time I read something he’s posted, cringe and think about hitting the “unfriend” button!
There is a certain “Cassandra” complex to it — having knowledge but not being able to do anything about it. Thanks for commenting, “TJ,” which I assume is an assumed name.
The cockroach/ light analogy is perfect. This too is my technique, but it’s hard not to like all the cool stuff, and inspect all their latest “friends.” Luckily mine haven’t tried to befriend a motorcycle yet. Maverick, be kind to your mother. Get a tricycle.
A tricycle — there’s a thought.
On another note, it’s not that there was anything *not* to like about your previous look, but I like your new look.
LOL a mothers nightmare. Their kids on a motor-bike. Mine seems to think I got it out of the system when I rode with my first boyfriend. Ahem… she’s just lucky that I couldn’t afford doing anything about it – yet.
The feeling of freedom that you have on a motor-bike is amazing. I think it can only be beaten by a horse, but I am ridiculously allergic to them.
Then again – you can fall off a horse and get seriously injured. My mum also dies every time she knows I am in a car – well me driving the car.
I think she conveniently forgotten what she once said to my dad about 5 years ago “Why can’t you just drive more like your daughter!!” (Which must have been about the biggest insult she has ever thrown at him without being aware of it. She doesn’t drive, my dad has been driving for 45 years at that point, and I have more been the occasional driver since I’ve made my license).
So I truly understand your fear, but I also understand that there are things that one is drawn to, which aren’t too safe. I hope the two of you can come to a mutual agreement such as: I can live with you having motor-bike if you promise not to drive reckless and within speed limits. (From my experience the majority of accidents happen because people overestimate the speed, the lightness of their vehicle – after all it is not a car, and well, there is a difference between the stability of two and four wheels)
I’ve arrived at the conclusion that no matter what he does in life, I’ll worry about him. It’s helping me to see all “dangers” as equal to a paper cut. Getting the call from so far away, though, did shift my perspective a little. As a friend of mine said, that’s why God invented online travel companies. I’ll be able to get to him if he needs me. Even if I have to swim.
I’m late, but I intend to be effective.
The bike, it has to go.
You’re going to make mistakes. Sounds as if your mom is wise enough to let you make them. Be wise enough to recognize them when you do. There is no shame in recognizing when you’ve gone off the path. There is quite a bit of shame in not being able to unzip your own fly because both your arms are in casts.
I’m glad neither of us knows that from personal experience. Unfortunately, one of us is currently still in a position to find himself staring longingly at a urinal if he doesn’t learn from his near miss.
A man looks after his mom, start by not making her sweat this bike thing.
I nominate this comment for Freshly Pressed. Effective and hilarious. In the words of Bartles or James or both, thank you for your support.
I meet a new batch of indestructible, super talented twenty-somethings every few months. You’ve got to meet em where they are.
Even immortals pee, Maverick.