Shane wants a Facebook page.
He began plying me several months ago, just after the school year started. As a sixth-grader, he is now “running with the big boys”.
“Everyone has one, Mom.”, he said with a note of exasperation only attainable between the ages of ten and twenty-one or twenty-two.
“I’m not responsible for “everyone”, Shane. I’m only responsible for you.” This answer has never been particularly effective. I’m not sure why I continue to use it.
“What? You think I’m a baby? You’re treating me like a baby. I’m not a baby, Mom.” The inflection placed upon the last word effectively vanquished every other word he’d uttered. Somehow, he’d stretched a three letter word into two syllables.
“Who among your friends has a Facebook page, Shane?” When all else fails, back them into a corner.
“Valerie.”
“Valerie?” I pretended to stifle a laugh. “Valerie? The same Valerie you described to me as “an only child who gets whatever she wants” Valerie?”
“Well, other people have one, too!” He failed to turn his head before I saw the blush crawl up his cheeks.
Reasoning that there might be safeguards for children on Facebook, I attempted to open a page for my son a couple of weeks later, only to be stopped dead in my tracks upon entering his birth date.
“I’m sorry, Shane. You have to be thirteen to have a Facebook page.” I said in hopes that my monotone would camouflage my lack of sincerity.
“Well then, how do all my friends have one?”, he asked with a defensive tone that assured me he believed they actually did.
Our discussion opened with an appeal to his morality and ended with, “Why did you have to put my real birthday? Couldn’t you just make me thirteen?” There was a cursory mention of MySpace that I quashed without argument.
This morning as I wrapped the flaps of “the world’s softest bathrobe” around my legs before placing them atop the desk, Shane stumbled into my office.
“Morning, Glory!” I say it every Saturday morning in hopes that he will remember, long after I am gone.
“Mornin’”, he mumbled his answer while scratching his abdomen underneath his robe.
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah…I want a blog.”
My carefully arranged feet flew from the desk as I whirled in my chair to face him.
“A blog?”
“Yeah. I want a blog.”
This evening we sat down together, and created his blog. We agonized over the name for at least twenty minutes.
“Do you do this a lot?”, he asked.
“What?”, I answered, as my head lay in my arm on the desk.
“Think like this.”
“Yes. Yes, I do, actually.”
A short time later, we finally arrived at a name we both liked. He chose a template, and I set the privacy settings. When we were done, I gave him the chair.
“Ok, write!”, I said, leaving the room.
Thirty minutes later, he found me.
“I’m done. Check it out. I need your opinion, Super Star.” The moniker drew dust on it’s delivery.
His words were powerful, his feelings palpable. My editorial eye immediately honed in on a couple of awkwardly crafted sentences that upon rereading only added to the poignancy of his statement.
“It’s good, Shane. It’s really good.”
And, his little man’s chest swelled.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
This was beautiful. I only joined Facebook because my oldest would be turning 13 soon and the weekly school missives included a cautionary word from the principal advising parents to be aware of it. Little did I know I’d be hooked myself. 🙂
I love Shane’s persistence, wanting to be recognized on the internet, and settling on a blog. What a very cool memory you two forged.
This line, though, got to me a little: “Morning, Glory!” I say it every Saturday morning in hopes that he will remember, long after I am gone.
Beautiful sentiment, mom.
Awwwww…I say “Morning, Glory” also. At no particular time…and I got it from my mom…who is long time gone. He will remember, as I do, with love.