The Problem with Facebook Usage and Family
Here’s a hint: It involves entitlement and a tremendous thirst for attention.
When my sister-in-law was visiting, she took a photo of my two children enjoying ice cream at a local parlor.
Without even asking, she promptly posted said photo to Facebook.
That was approximately six years ago.
And every fucking year since, my sister-in-law and mother-in-law have reposted the same goddamned photo like clockwork. (Thank you, Facebook Memories.)
But let me tell you: A shit-ton has changed since then regarding my views on Facebook — and images of my children, in particular.
Look, I’m no killjoy.
The vast majority of people in our society delight in sharing their lives and experiences on Facebook. I get that. Hell, at one point in time, I was one of them.
There I was a few years ago, when my kids were particularly small, posting them at the fair, after a kiddie run with their medals around their necks, or under the Christmas tree with bed hair and disheveled PJs.
These photos appear harmless to most. They represent the depiction of American life that has become part and parcel with existing: I mean, does a tree even fall in the forest anymore if no one’s there to capture it–and then post it?
Looking back, I didn’t think anything of it. I just posted ad nauseam. And I suspect others did — and still do — the same.
But…why?
Yes, our kids are cute, we’re proud of them, and we just want to shout it from the rooftops. But, then, why don’t we all just create blogs to serve as digital photo diaries of our — and our children’s — lives?
I’ll tell you why: It’s not just about sharing for many people. It’s about the “likes” they get from sharing — and the dopamine hit that promptly follows.
It’s the ever-present — and addictive — thirst for attention.
And the sad part is, I think the vast majority of this behavior is unconscious. Ask people, and I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that they won’t admit to being driven by “likes.”
But I’m here to tell you that they are.
I came to the realization that I don’t want my children being used as convenient pawns when a family member’s ego requires a boost.
I don’t care if you are a family member. I don’t care if you say you love my kids. I don’t care if you think my kids are “too cuuuuute, and I just want my Facebook friends to see them!”
No, no, and no.
It’s a boundary thing.
I’ve grown to believe that not everyone deserves front row access to my and my children’s personal lives. (Additionally, I’ve recognized that even my children–once they’ve grown older — might not want images of them as youth plastered all over the internet.)
After discussing this with my husband (he feels the same way), we told family members that we no longer want our children’s images posted on Facebook. And we’re not being hypocritical here: My husband and I no longer post on Facebook at all.
But this has only encouraged certain family members to show their true colors even more.
Take one relative, who, every year, reposts the same wedding day photo of my husband and me as a way to wish us a happy anniversary. This relative knows full well we won’t like, comment on, or interact with her post. Said relative won’t wish us a happy anniversary via phone, text, e-mail, or pony express, however.
Nope.
She goes to the one place where my husband and I won’t look: Facebook.
Now, how the fuck does that make sense?
I’ll tell you: It’s not about wishing us a happy anniversary. Said relative only wants attention for wishing us a happy anniversary. It’s not about my husband and me at all — or our anniversary, for that matter. This occasion is simply a reason for this relative to post and grab attention — under the guise of looking like a well-meaning relative.
I’ve also got a relative who uses others’ birthdays in the same way — as just another excuse to insert herself into her friends’ feed with a Yoo-hoo, I’m over here! Look at me!
Back when our children were babies and couldn’t walk, talk, and had zero awareness of anything, this relative would produce a photo gallery Facebook post in “celebration” of my children’s birthday — and would actually address it to our child. I mean, my kids’ lives at that point revolved around sucking their toes, naps, and watching Yo Gabba Gabba. Why the hell would someone talk to a baby through Facebook?
Again, I’ll tell you why: Because this relative got a dopamine hit from wishing my kid a happy birthday. It wasn’t about my kid at all.
And this incessant need to commemorate everything — and I do mean everything — with a Facebook post, isn’t just about birthdays and anniversaries: Even the dead are fair game.
When people post messages — directly to the deceased — please, pray tell how that isn’t a desperate plea for attention?
The dead, God rest their souls, won’t ever see it.
I can (kind of) understand someone pouring his or her heart out about missing a loved one. I still see it as attention-grabbing, don’t get me wrong. But at least the person is sharing his or her own personal feelings and not writing a message that the intended recipient will never see.
I have a name for these folks: I call them grief vultures.
Another relative of mine just posted about the one year anniversary of her second niece’s deceased husband. I’m not even sure this relative has even been in the same room with this man more than a handful of times. (It’s also worth noting that even my relative’s Facebook friends saw this post for what it was and kept right on scrolling. Read: After three days, the post had garnered zero likes.)
It is clear that my relative wanted attention — and sympathy — for posting about this person. “Oh, look at me! I remembered his death! I couldn’t tell you this man’s favorite food or what made him laugh while he was alive, but, oh, how I am grieving!”
I wonder what this gentleman’s immediate family thought about the post. I wonder if it rubbed them the wrong way. I know if he was my father, husband, or brother, it would have ignited my rage with the fire of a thousand suns.
Some may say, “No! I’m not posting for attention: I’m posting to wish so-and-so a happy birthday.” Or, “I’m posting in remembrance of Uncle Ed’s passing.”
And that person might legitimately believe they’re right.
But I argue that that person is posting to get attention for wishing so-and-so a happy birthday, that they are posting to get attention for remembering Uncle Ed’s passing.
I find it similarly disturbing, when, for example, people post prayer requests — “Please say a prayer for me” or “Please pray for my friend Shawn, he could use it!” — but will conveniently leave out why the prayer is needed.
Listen, I believe in the power of prayer.
But I also believe that there’s a thing called “performance prayer,” which is when prayer is elicited simply for the means of seeking attention.
Posting a summons for prayer — in the absence of a reason — can be viewed as a passive-aggressive way of inviting people to ask “Why?,” which then opens the door for the poster to seek even more attention by providing an explanation.
Of course, it can be true that someone is grieving or is in need of support.
But it can also be true that someone is using the passing of another or a prayer request as a means to fish for likes.
Remember: Birthday and anniversary wishes and condolences don’t automatically have to be shared online to be effective. All existed before Facebook.
To be clear, I’m in no way eschewing all Facebook posts.
Did you finally get that long-awaited promotion after busting your ass for what felt like eternity? Did your bundle of joy just arrive? Did you give in to your son’s plea for a family pet? By all means, post.
What I’m trying to say is, when people post on Facebook — and post things that often involve others, in particular, without any consideration of boundaries, their post is just as much (if not more) about themselves as it is about the other person.
There is something very icky about using children and others in general — dead or alive — as click-bait to assuage one’s hunger for a bit of spotlight, however dim.
It’s a case of too much, but never enough: The more attention posters get, the more they crave.
And I’m not here for it.
