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Chrissy Teigen’s Hilarious Tweet Saga Proves Even The TSA Won’t Mess With Pregnancy Cravings

Posted: 25 Feb 2018 05:46 AM PST

Teigen got the answer she was looking for when she wanted to bring food on her flight

Chrissy Teigen wanted to bring some scalloped potatoes on her flight because sometimes scalloped potatoes are all that stands between a pregnant woman’s sanity and losing her marbles in public.

The expectant mom was apparently traveling on Saturday and had a burning question on her mind. “If I don't have a carry-on, can I bring a large ceramic casserole dish of scalloped potatoes on the plane? I am not kidding, is this okay? Is it too blunt/heavy an object? I'll cry if they throw it away,” she wrote on Twitter.

This is a perfectly acceptable question from a pregnant woman. Or any woman. Or any person who loves carbohydrates. So, basically anyone.

What’s even more hysterical is the TSA answered her back in most fastidious fashion.

Sweet baby Jesus — scalloped potato casseroles are allowed in your carry-on. I’m considering booking a flight tomorrow just to make sure this is actual reality.

If anyone thinks Teigen was just going for a laugh, please know she was very, very serious. There are some things that are sacred. Scalloped potatoes are one of those things.

Yep. Those are scalloped potatoes in the security line. LOVE. HER.

Because she is Chrissy Teigen and we are all invested. She keeps it real and we love her for it. Turns out so does everyone else:

There are just some things people don’t mess with. When my husband and I got married his mother baked our wedding cake and brought the whole damn thing on her flight — from Scotland. You do not want to screw with a strong-willed Scottish baker. Needless to say, we all enjoyed the cake and the customs agent who crossed her is probably still feeling the heat.

Pregnant women, as a species, are not ones to cross with when we are on the move. Or really at any time while we are awake. We are growing another human being inside us, dammit. If we want scalloped potatoes while we are in flight, so be it. It could have been worse; Teigen could have been craving a tuna fish casserole instead and then all hell would have broken loose.

Lucky for Teigen, all’s well that ends well.

For anyone who now has a hankering for these traveling potatoes, Twitter has you covered there, too.

She is a working mother with a toddler. She is pregnant and hungry. She is unstoppable.

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Instagram Pic Shows Mindy Kaling Living Her Best Breast Pump Life

Posted: 25 Feb 2018 05:08 AM PST

We love seeing Mindy as an Extremely Relatable mom

Someday someone will invent a way to extract milk from moms that doesn’t involve slapping on boob funnels and hooking up to a loud, mildly uncomfortable human dairy machine. Until then, we have the breast pump. The working mom’s reluctant best friend — just ask Mindy Kaling.

Kaling is a busy woman these days. She’s promoting A Wrinkle In Time alongside Reese Witherspoon and Oprah for the next couple of weeks, and she’s got a new show coming out in March, too. She’s also new mom to baby Katherine, who was born in December. So while she’s in the middle of press junket season for her movie, a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do: live that breast pump life.

Image via Instagram/Mindy Kaling

The press junket is actually her first big public appearance since giving birth to Katherine — and many of us can remember how daunting it is going back to work with your breast pump in tow.

Kaling seems to be handling it just fine.

Instagram Photo

She’s always been incredibly likable and real — from her social media presence to her characters (Mindy Lahiri forever). But her mom content in particular is Extremely Relatable Content.

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Make-up free mom’s night out? Double yep. Even sweeping on eyeshadow or curling my lashes now feels like someone’s asking me to clock in 26.2 miles.

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Who among us hasn’t squealed over a twee “mommy and me” matching outfit set. Come one, that right there is downright adorable.

We love everything about Mindy the Mom. Lonely breast pumps and all — we’re so here for it.

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The School Shooting Survivors Are My Heroes, And This Is Why

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST

PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) is defined as “a mental health problem that some people develop after experiencing or witnessing a life-threatening event, like combat, a natural disaster, a car accident, or sexual assault.”

In the hours after the car accident that took my 18 month old son’s life, I remember the visual assaults that would play through my brain, over and over. It was like a movie on rewind that I couldn’t unsee. It was horiffic.

I remember saying to my sister that I kept hearing rap music in my head. Straight up 90’s rap. We figured it was somehow my bizarre way of processing what had happened. Perhaps it shielded me or distracted me from thinking about what had taken place.

My husband and I were diagnosed with PTSD shortly after the accident that took our Benny from us. Roughly a month after our son’s death, we began seeing a psychotherapist who diagnosed us. We spent the better part of two years working with her on a weekly basis through our grief and trauma. We still call her up from time to time as needed. Grief never ends.

It was a lot of work. It was a lot of talk therapy. My husband did EMDR to try to deal with his flashbacks, which is similar to a tapping therapy. I had done some visualization within 24 hours of the accident, which helped me tremendously.

Living with PTSD is awful. It affected my life tremendously. I couldn’t return to work for fear of having to talk to clients and co-workers. I couldn’t drive a car because I was terriffied of everything that could go wrong. Everything I did seemed to bring me back to the accident. Anxiety had taken over my every thought.

I remember not wanting to leave the house for fear that something could happen, or that someone might recognize me from the news. I was scared of the questions that could be asked by people, no matter how well intentioned. Fear had become my new friend.

I mention this because I was 33 at the time of my son’s passing. I was an adult and I was traumatized into terror by what I witnessed. It changed me. It changed how I viewed the world and how I thought. How could it not?

I have been watching the news for the last week and I sit here in awe of these teenagers that walked away from one of the deadliest shootings in history and immediately took it upon themselves to enact change. Children, who upon watching their peers die did not run away and hide. They stood up, banded together and have decided to fight.

I am not a psychologist, but I wouldn’t be surprised if most of these kids now suffer from PTSD. And yet there they stand, day after day fighting for gun control. They are fighting through their fear and their terror to try to make it so there won’t be another school shooting.

These kids are my heroes. And I have to keep saying kids to remind myself how young they are. When my son died, I was a grown adult and I cannot imagine doing what they are doing. I cannot imagine fighting so hard and so publicly.

They’ve been slandered all over the press. These children that chose to put themselves out there have been attacked. I have never been more sad for my fellow man than when reading what is being said. With all that they have gone through and all that they have seen, they are speaking out. Instead of them being honored, they have been disgraced.

What have we become when we attack our children for speaking out? We should be supporting these kids, not tearing them down. They have suffered immeasurably. I cannot imagine during my most trying time if I had been attacked by the press. I don’t know how I would handle it.

These kids need to know that we are behind them 100%. They need to know that we are there to help them when they need it. They need to know that we are fighting alongside them. They need to know that the adults will not fail them this time.

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This Is What It’s Like To Be A Victim Of Sexual Assault

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST









And most of all, anger.

These emotions overwhelmed me on December 23, the day I was sexually assaulted.

Drinking makes you vulnerable. Wearing revealing clothing makes it your fault. Walking alone in dark places puts you at risk.

Sexual assault is painted in a way that puts it as the girl's fault. But that was not my case.

In fact, I was wearing not-too-tight flared jeans and a long sleeve, blue shirt that went all the way up to my neck, surprising right?

The flashbacks are vivid. I see a place that was supposed to keep me safe, but sadly it was the opposite. This place, which was supposed to be full of fun and transformative memories, became a source of the worst experience, the worst memory, of my life. This place, my school, looms large and ominously in my mind.

It was not a typical school day. It was the day before winter break, and I was in charge of my first anti-bully campaign: movie day. Through fundraising and the admission price I raised $300 for Know Resolve, an organization working to reduce youth suicides. All that good, though, is lost in the ugliness that followed.

The boy was a friend, one I'd known since ninth grade. One I trusted.

In the control booth of the school's auditorium, I was excited for the movie to start.

"Break up with your boyfriend. I will treat you better." His hands overpowered me. I was trapped. Pushed up against a table, I was unable to find enough strength to push him off of me. Helpless, scared, speechless, I realized I wasn't just a victim of bullying. Now I was a victim of sexual assault.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight back. I wanted my friend that stood right next to us to make him stop. I wanted the 200 people that sat two feet from the wall that my body was pushed against, to cut him off. But my body froze and the words that filled my mouth were gone. At that time, my words felt gone forever.

Embarrassment filled my head. I did not want anyone to find out. Instead of pushing him off of me, my friend made the situation worse. She confronted the principals. In that moment, my bad dream came into a reality.

"He admitted that he was wrong, but it's all up to you. If you go to the cops, we will suspend him. If not, we aren't going to." Why was that my choice? Isn't that supposed to be their decision?

I was the victim, not them.

New emotions filled my mind. He was getting away with harming my emotional well-being. In that situation, I didn't matter. All that mattered was, the school's reputation. Sexual assault can't happen at their school. Reality check: it did. To me.

Two weeks later, my parents were informed. That day was the first time I have ever seen my father cry.

One day.

He was given a one day suspension.

My mother is what it took to make it five. Her over-protective mom powers came out. The principal's hands trembled as my mom did what the school board should have done — got involved.

I never wanted to step foot in that school again. When the principal found out that I was transferring, he cut down my classes to three instead. All I had left were three classes to take to graduate. I loved school. Why would I only want to come to school for three hours because I was the victim? I lost valuable time in my own education.

Senior year was supposed to be made of laughs, smiles, and the year to make all the farewell memories. My senior year was nothing like that. I cried more than I smiled. My positive memories turned into a nightmare.

Every day, the flashbacks continued as I ran into him in the hallway. I wanted to hide… from the feelings that were eating me alive.

He knew my schedule. There was no place to run.

Prom was cut two hours short. Because everywhere I looked, he appeared in the distance. Staring, maybe not staring at me, but in my mind I couldn't get away. I had to get out of there.

As the legal case began, it constantly reminded me of the events on December 23.  I didn't have the strength to face him in court. I gave him a plea deal: fourth degree sexual criminal conduct was charged.

The thing is no sexual assault story is alike. Our wounds need to be healed, our stories need to be understood, and our words need to be heard. We all need to be supported.

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If CVS Can Stop Selling Cigarettes, Then These Stores Can Stop Selling Guns

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST

Every single one of us should feel deeply disturbed by our country's sick gun problem. For years, we've been waiting for Congress to act. We've called upon our leaders to enact comprehensive laws that would better protect our kids and families from preventable gun violence. Countless mass shootings later, we're still waiting.

While we continue to urge Congress to act, there are ways that everyday Americans can help make guns less accessible, right now. Here are two strategies that don't require congressional approval and can begin today:

1. Move the Market

Follow the environmental health movement's lead and unite everyday consumers to diminish the presence and influence of guns. Let's urge Everytown for Gun Safety to launch a market campaign targeting retailers that promote, advertise and sell guns. Let's demand that Walmart, Big 5, Cabela's, Bass Pro Shops, and Dick's Sporting Goods stop selling guns. Let's demand that they prioritize our kids over their bottom lines by being part of the solution rather than contributing to the problem.

Let's make retailers want to be on the right side of this problem. For example, Target stopped selling tobacco products in 1996. In 2014, CVS stopped selling cigarettes "because it conflicted with their purpose of helping people on their path to better health." Let's put pressure on the market so that retailers who eliminate guns from their shelves are praised as strategic and competitive.

2. Start Local

Organize the sensible voices in your community and reach out to your city council. Work to eliminate the promotion, advertisement, sale and purchase of guns within your city. Strive to deglamorize guns, and make them less accessible, less convenient, less ubiquitous. Connect with your school board, legislators, teachers, local businesses, and high school students to find ways to effect change locally.

If cities can legislate single-use plastic bags and styrofoam, then we surely must have the ability to legislate guns. If we can regulate and restrict the advertisement of tobacco, then we must demand the ability to do the same for guns. Let's urge our local newspapers and media to eliminate their promotion and advertisements of guns. This isn't a new concept as many newspapers stopped accepting tobacco advertising years ago.

I have a kindergartener and a preschooler, and every weekday I worry about them being murdered at school. How in the world have we come to accept this as a normal concern of parenthood?

Sadly, I know what it's like to lose a child. My 11-month old son died in my arms in 2012. I cannot stand by while more and more families lose their children to preventable gun violence.

We are not powerless. Let's speak up, move the market, and get involved in our communities. Boycott retailers that sell and promote guns. Join the marches. Donate to Everytown for Gun Safety. If you're a gun owner, keep your guns away from angry men and join the call for common sense laws to prevent gun violence. We have waited long enough. It is now time for every one of us to act.

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Just When You Think Traveling With Kids Can’t Get Any Worse

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST

Travel and kids. Two uncontrollable variables thrown into the same mix. Some new parents are so terrified of the whole ordeal that they just put travel on hold for the first few years of parenthood.

But in today's world, where so many parents live at least a flight away from family, putting off traveling is simply not an option. And many of us still believe that going on vacation with kids will somehow be relaxing. Traveling with your family is definitely worth it–don't get me wrong. But getting there or coming back can be… something else entirely.

Two weeks ago, I traveled alone from Paris to Chicago with a layover in Philadelphia with my two small children (4 years and 15 months). It was disastrous and involved several meltdowns from both children and me. The long hours on the first flight were enough to completely drain the life out of me, but the stop at the Philadelphia airport really did me in. I arrived in Chicago at the end of that never-ending day, a shell of a person, my kids both asleep in my arms, the three of us with tear-stained cheeks.  We had survived, miraculously. 

There's something about traveling with small children that makes you, as a parent, unbelievably vulnerable to a crisis situation. In many cases, you have no choice but to rely on the goodwill of another human being, especially if you're the only adult and you have more than one child to care for. And, sometimes, all you can do is pray. There is a reason why so many parents have serious anxiety about traveling with small children. It's like going into battle. You might very well be reduced to your most basic instincts.

The struggle is real, but the passion and love of discovering new parts of the world with family in tow is such that many parents are willing to risk having an anxiety attack or two on the flight. I'm definitely not the first traumatized mother, nor will I be the last, unfortunately. That's why I co-founded a community of traveling parents, Bébé Voyage, so that we could support each other on our trials and tribulations of traveling with our babies.

Here's a roundup of some pretty wild travel with kids’ horror stories. For every single one of them, I thought, that could have been me. Maybe it could be you?…

Things can get primal quite quickly, as you can see in Naz's story. "Diaper leaked right through my lap straight onto my thighs and butt!" she recounts.  "I had a huge wet patch on my butt and crotch when landing at the airport. Had to get luggage and look for a shower for both baby and me! I think he peed like three litres during that flight."

Reading Tavia's story in her blog “A Brave Nomad” almost makes you think that The Odyssey must have been a walk in the park compared to what she went through. Things certainly get downright primitive in her anecdote of being separated from her husband and breastfeeding son during train travel. Here are some of the more salient details of her journey that will make your hair stand on end:


On her recent trip from Vienna to Bratislava with their 23-month-old and 5-month-old and her parents, Tavia got on the wrong train in Vienna with her toddler and parents while her husband and baby had gone off to buy food. She realized that they were on the wrong train when it left the station ahead of the expected schedule. Then everything spiraled out of control–her husband was stuck at the Vienna station with her baby whom she was still nursing. To make matters worse, she had no way of contacting him since he had no working cell phone.

Tavia went into meltdown-mode when some good (Austrian) Samaritans stepped in to help. They contacted the Vienna train station who located husband and baby.


Together with the Samaritans, Tavia and family got off at the next stop where they were supposed to rendezvous with husband and baby due to arrive on the next train. However, when that train pulled in, no husband and baby were to be seen!

After suffering another meltdown, Tavia and family were escorted by a kind but only German-speaking station employee to a bus stop. It was only when Tavia saw her husband and baby get off a bus that she understood what had happened. The train he was supposed to be on had somehow broken down and he had ended up on the bus instead. For any mother reading her story, Tavia's anguish is only too palpable. I felt her acute panic of not knowing how and where to find her husband and that her helpless baby could very well starve.

That parental fear is equally tangible in Simonetta's tale of her London-South Africa ordeal. As in most of these travel horror stories, once one element is out of whack, it sets off a disaster domino effect. In Simonetta's case, forgetting a simple sheet of paper made her entire trip spiral out of control. While on a layover in Istanbul, she discovered that she had forgotten her 18-month-old daughter's birth certificate.

She ended up having to spend the night in Istanbul, rebooking flights for the next day going to Cape Town instead of Durban. Needless to say, this incurred horrendous flight, car rental, and AirBnb rebooking fees. Not to mention the stress factor. "It was the first time I literally felt the adrenaline leave my body," says Simonetta.  "I lay in bed and couldn’t stop shaking. My arms, my legs, just my whole body." Fortunately, a friend of hers managed to email her the birth certificate.

When traveling with kids goes wrong, we get so worried because we don't know where we'll sleep, if we'll ever sleep, if our kids will eat, if they will be ok. Our survival instincts run wild and it can get very emotional. I certainly felt poor Natalie's pain when she recounted her journey from Iquitos, Peru to Nashville, TN via Lima, Miami and Dallas–four flights back home with her 21-month-old and her husband.

To set the stage, Natalie and her baby already both had bad colds  After an emotional farewell to her husband's family and almost missing their Lima-Miami connection due to the delayed Iquitos-Lima flight (because of an Amazonian rain storm), the worst was yet to come. The baby refused to sleep during the overnight flight. "You know how there's always that one baby crying on every flight? That was us," says Natalie.  "Except that she didn't just cry, she screamed her head off. Top of her lungs, red faced, can't breathe, screaming."

The baby was in agony with her aching ears and all efforts to calm her down failed. While some passengers were sympathetic, others were clearly not. Finally, she fell asleep on Natalie's lap. But Mom couldn't budge during the rest of the flight as otherwise her baby started screeching again.

Upon finally arriving in Miami and making their way through the interminable immigration line, baggage claim, and Customs, they were selected for a random bag search. "Didn't they see we were sick and tired and had a sick and tired baby?" Natalie questions. Usually, after collecting your bags and going through Customs, you drop them right back off for the connecting flight. However, because of a scanning error, Natalie and family had to take all five suitcases, in addition to two backpacks and the exhausted toddler (in a baby carrier), and walk at least a mile to recheck them. "The Skylink train wasn't working so we had to walk, and walk, and walk," she continues.

Two flights later and after having dealt with many disgruntled airport employees, they finally made it to Nashville. “I don't think I have been so tired since I gave birth," she admits.  "And just then, my daughter decides to throw up all over me and herself. At this point,  I'm too tired to care as I wipe vomit off of us with baby wipes and tell sympathetic (and possibly disgusted) onlookers that we're fine."

This is just a small sampling of the many tales that came out of my traveling parent community. It was a difficult task to figure out which story to feature in this article and even to cut them down. Each story was worse than the previous one. In fact, each one could have been its own novel. These stories illustrate how parents and small children at airports are unjustly treated like cattle.

Try as we might to prepare for any eventuality, there is always going to be room for error when it comes to traveling with small children. It's difficult to control how small children, particularly babies, will handle travel, but conditions at airports and on planes for parents, particularly in America, do nothing to help.

Why does it have to be this hard? Why are arrangements made for the traveling elderly, but there's next to nothing when it comes to the tiniest humans and their caregivers? When traveling the world, clearly every other country prioritizes our tiny citizens. The U.S. has a lot of work to do.

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What I Want To Say To My Middle Child

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST

Dear Middle Kid,

Hi there, sweetheart. It's me, your mom.

Let me start by saying that I think you're amazing. You're smart, fun, funny, passionate, and a hundred other things I notice on a regular basis, but probably don't tell you enough.

I see you. But I don't know if you know that I see you. You, who are sandwiched between your siblings. You, who doesn't get the excitement of being first at most things or the sentimentality of being the last. You, who may sometimes feel a bit lost amidst all of the perks and problems that go along with being the oldest and the youngest.

You, my middle child. I want you to know some things.

Yes, it's true. You sometimes get the shaft when it comes to your parents' attention. As hard as I've tried not to let it happen, I've watched it play out time and again.

With the first kid in the family, we have to figure things out. Everything they do, every stage they reach, every milestone they hit is totally new to us. Parents have to figure out how to handle each of those things, and so much of it is trial and error that the oldest does a disproportionate amount of our focus.

And the baby of the family . . . well, they're the baby. The last baby, which means that everything they do, every stage they reach, every milestone they hit is the end of an era. We know how quickly it all goes by now. We know what things are important to really cherish and what things we can let go. So naturally, the youngest gets a bit more spoiling than the rest.

But while it may seem like your siblings get the best of us, that's not actually the case. Because you, my middle child, you are the story between the bookends. You are the sweet Oreo center of our family life. You are not on the outside—you are the inside.

That's not to say that your status as the middle child defines you. You are who you are. But sitting in that in-between space will impact who you are in ways that you won't know until much later. I know. I was a middle kid too. And honestly, I wouldn't trade that for the world.

There are some distinct advantages to being in your position in the family. You get the privilege and the pain of being both a younger sibling and an older sibling. Both of those roles will teach you and mold you in ways that your siblings won't experience.

You get the advantage of being closer in age to your siblings than they are to each other. You have the most opportunity to forge strong bonds and shared childhood memories.

You don't have to deal with the pressures oldest kids tend to feel, and you don't have to always feel like you're trying to keep up with everyone else like the youngest can feel. You're free from a lot of expectation that gets laid upon your siblings.

Tucked in the middle, you also get to experience the fullness of these years when we're all together as a family. The oldest and youngest miss some things as they leave before and arrive after everyone else. You're right there in the thick of it for the longest.

And yeah, sometimes it sucks to be the middle kid. Sometimes you'd like to have a more defined role, perhaps. But that's also one of the best things about being a middle child—you can be anything you want to be.

Research shows that you will tend to be more open-minded than your siblings, and also better at negotiating, which are qualities that will serve you well throughout your life.

But research also says you may end up feeling more distanced from your parents than your siblings, and that's the one thing I am determined to avoid. Because you are not any less my child, any less my heart, any less the light of my world than my oldest or youngest. I never want you to feel that that's the case. I never want you to question, even for a second, your place in this family and in my life.

You, my one-of-a-kind, awesome, precious middle child. Please forgive your parents’ fallibility, then take this role and run with it.

And know as you go, know that you are loved, utterly and completely, now and forever.


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What Happened When My 71-Year-Old Mom Joined Facebook

Posted: 24 Feb 2018 06:00 PM PST

Growing up, having a quirky mom was always a mixed bag. My mom — aka, Linda — did questionable things like take me to see my first R-rated movie at the ripe old age of three. I'll never forget seeing The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas in the theater, looking around to notice there was not another child in sight. I loved every second of it, and wouldn't change experiences like that for the world.

On the other hand, Linda also did things like exercise in high heeled shoes, tell us and our friends to drink soda in the morning if the house was low on milk, because the dog loved milk and she didn't want him to be disappointed. When I finally went off to college, she would leave long, drawn-out messages on my very public answering machine about the latest philosophical teachings of her favorites gurus, the ladies of The View. But nothing could really prepare me for what would happen once Linda decided that it was time to get caught up with the world of modern technology and, wait for it…join Facebook.

Before I tell you about my mom's struggle — or should I say, how the rest of us are struggling now that my mom has been bitten by the "social media bug" — it's important to point out that, modern technology aside, my mom is really smart. She's a writer, a teacher, an avid reader, and can more than hold her own in a heated discussion on current politics. She just cannot, for the life of her, figure out how to get a handle on this crazy thing called "the Internet."

Having a parent discover, at the age of 71, after spending much of her life as a SAHM, that she now has a platform in which to share all of her own off-beat opinions, ideas and personality traits with anyone who will listen is a scary concept to say the least. Figuring out the latest technology is difficult for almost anyone — even someone of my generation who has been using a cell phone since college. So, we can all understand how, for someone of an older generation who once made calls from one landline to another via operator, figuring out modern devices is like one big volcanic science experiment waiting to erupt, and it will eventually inevitably spray every innocent victim in its midst with the messy remnants of a somewhat catastrophic trial and error situation.

For many, 2017 will be notoriously written in history as the year Donald Trump became president. In my family, it will be begrudgingly remembered as the year that Linda became the world's first official Facebook overachiever. Since that day, she has shared roughly 4,376,932 images of birds, rainbows, and cute puppies. When my siblings and I had our first intervention, telling her our concerns about her overuse of the "share" button, Linda just responded, "Oh, my followers would be so upset if I didn't pass on all the things that bring me joy."

Linda, unfortunately for her children, had discovered some sort of calling. We could almost see the halo of importance she now possessed, as she channeled her inner-Sally Field, proclaiming, "They like me….they really like me."

As if my brother, sister, and I weren't lucky enough to have our mom do things like wish a "Happy Birthday to her dear friend, Bernice" on a completely random person's wall, or leave a comment under one of our friend's pictures that "their mom looks great," when it was actually their sister, I would say we've been most blessed that Linda loves nothing more than to thoroughly narrate what is happening in any picture we post, and follow that narration with at least a a half-dozen completely non-related emojis of her random choosing.

If I put up a picture of my son playing the drums, you can bet money she's going to leave a comment explaining to all my facebook followers, "That's my grandson, Ean, playing the drums. Ean is 9-years-old. He loves football, pizza, and once held a tarantula at camp (bicycle, panda, ocean wave, fire truck, rain cloud)." An image that was supposed to just capture of a brief moment in time becomes a drawn out historical-documentary.

She means well…she loves her family and wants to share her pride and gratefulness with the world. And, whether you're interested or not, if you follow Linda or her relatives, you've just been held temporarily hostage to her random brainstorming and unfiltered stream-of-consciousness. To say the least, my mom's idiosyncricies have followed me out of the real life realm and into the virtual world.

But I also really have to give credit to my mom and all the "Lindas" of her generation who are trying so hard to figure out all this madness that is advancing faster than the speed of sound. Honestly, I'm glad my mom wasn't too intimidated to try to keep up with the world around her. As she gets older and my siblings and I get more concerned about her well-being, she still gets to participate in experiences, but from the safety and comfort of her own home. It's less time my siblings and I have to worry about her getting hurt by venturing into the outside world, and her destruction can be contained to the less physically dangerous cyber-space.

Mom, keep up the good work. If nothing else, you're keeping the world entertained, one incorrectly-posted comment at a time.

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What Happened When My 71-Year-Old Mom Joined Facebook

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