Blueberry Yogurt

He loves everything blueberry. 

Never mind that his little 2-year-old self is capable of demolishing a pint of blueberries in a single sitting. When blueberries collide with that other love of his - yogurt - he's in gastronomical heaven. 

"Mmmm... mom, booberries!"

Andrew was born a few months after I turned 40. I never realized my life was missing this rambunctious, affectionate, funny, adorable, clever, blue-eyed kid with a mop of curly blond hair - but here he is! He has an birthmark, a stork's bite really, on his forehead, shaped like a heart. When he was born, it was deep and purple, almost like someone had smeared blueberries on his forehead, and on his eyelids, and down the back of his neck and even spilled onto his back and shoulders. The midwife declared it was bruising from the birthing process, but it became clear after a week or two it wasn't going anywhere. It would be a  part of him, part of my beautiful Andrew.

Now, on the cusp of two and half, it's no longer purple but a increasingly lighter red. However, it's still prominent and highly visible; the other children who had stork's bites had their decoration fade long before, but his continues. Because of his fair complexion, it may never go away. It worries me (will he get teased as he gets older? will it effect his self-image?) but it also endears him - it is simply Andrew. 

My blueberry-loving baby.

A Post About Nothing Redux

Hi.

I'm back.

Queue dramatic music

I really don't have a lot of say, except I've decided to write.

Yep, heard that one before

Seriously, I want to write.

Uh huh... you mean for more than five minutes? 

Yes, I mean more than five minutes. Sheesh.


I want to try something. I'm going to try posting something every day for 30 days. I thought about starting a new blog to do it, but let's face it: I'm lazy and don't want to when I have a perfectly neglected blog just sitting here waiting to be posted on. 

Maybe it's restlessness from this whole COVID thing. Maybe it's being on a the cusp of a transition in my life, being 42 and realizing there's lots of dream left undone (can you say mid-life crisis?). Maybe it's just a need for intellectual stimulation and trying to keep away from stupid com boxes.

Ready? Set....

Journey

I haven't been writing. 

Well, that's not accurate, I have been writing. Just not on the blog. I've been busy writing on Facebook, and Internet forums, and writing a book of sorts about money management. That one started as a project for a family member to tell them everything I wish someone had told us 10 years ago, and it kinda morphed from there. I've been writing out assignments for my kids and copywork for them to copy. I've been filling out forms. I've been writing the stories my kids dictate to me, to capture their beautiful, vivid imaginations in this moment of time. I've been writing emails and lots and lots and lots of texts. 

At the end of the day, I've been writing a lot of nothing. Which in my mind, equates to not writing. 

Why is it important that I write? Besides the fact that I can rarely form a coherent sentence these days, there is something immensely satisfying about writing that I don't get from any other medium. Part of that, I suppose, is because I'm such a visual person; there's something about seeing the words on a page that I find gratifying. Something that is beyond even what I feel when I play a sonata well on the piano. 

It's important that I write because it captures my life. Moments are quickly forgotten, and having this blog has proven invaluable for me to reflect on our journey. Details about Abby's illness that I've forgotten 10 years on (even when, as they occur, you don't think you'll ever forget them). Episodes in my children's lives that fade from memory. Reflections of my state of mind and soul at any particular moment. 

In short, it's all about the journey. 

The Combine

It must have been back when we still had cable. 

How I had never seen it before  (and never read the original novel!) still eludes me, but a few years ago I was watching "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" for the first time. Like so many, I was riveted by it. I actually knew nothing about the storyline prior to seeing the movie, but after that I was fascinated by the metaphor of  "The Combine". 

It was serendipity, really, that made me watch that movie when I did. It was only a few days later than my Amazon book order arrived, which included the John Taylor Gatto book Dumbing Us Down: The Hidden Curriculum of Compulsory Schooling.  In the forward of the book, written by David Albert, it makes reference to "The Combine" starting on page xv. 

In actuality, writes Albert, John Taylor Gatto wrote the Monarch Notes for the novel "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" (Monarch Notes, from what I gather, are similar to what I knew as Coles Notes growing up), and it's "the only book of Gatto's likely read by students undergoing their slow death in what passes for 'educational institutions' these days". The notes, explains Albert, are a masterpiece in themselves. 

There is also an irony that Gatto's message to us after spending 25 years in the school system and winning "Teacher of the Year" not once, but twice, is essentially about the dangers of the The Combine that is the modern school system. 

Albert talks about how so much discussion about modern schools focuses on how schools are failing. I know that certainly is the case where I live, where we score in the bottom of the heap on standardized tests nationally. But, argues Albert, as we see from Gatto's work the system is in fact NOT failing us:

Central to this understanding is the fact that schools are not failing. On the contrary, they are spectacularly successful at doing precisely what they are intended to do, and what they have intended to do since their inception. The system [...] was explicitly set up to ensure a docile, malleable workforce to meet the growing, changing demands of corporate capitalism [...] The Combine ensures a workforce that will not rebel, that will be physically, intellectually, and emotionally dependent on corporate institutions for their incomes, self-esteem and stimulation, and that will learn to find social meaning in their lives solely in the production and consumption of material goods.

I found these statements, while radical and controversial, to be eye-opening. They rang true to me. We are a society of consumers, a reality that can noted by even the most casual observers of modern Western society, and no one is immune. We are socialized like that. 

From the United Church Archives

The more I dug into the history of compulsory education in Canada, where I live (surely we're different? I reasoned), the more it became clear to me that both Albert and Gatto had a point. The icing on the cake is when I read about Egerton Ryerson and his role is creating modern schooling in Canada based on the Prussian model, and the instrumental role he played in the development of Indian Residential Schools.

I knew I wanted different for my children. 

That was at the beginning of my homeschooling journey. I have tempered my views a bit over the years - take your tinfoil hat off, Carolyn! - but the fact remains that when people ask, "What about Socialization?", my answer is, "Excellent question!". What about socialization? Do you know what that means and the impact it's having on you, me and our children? 

People intuitively know the power of the conditioning and programming that occurs in school - it's the first thing the overwhelming majority question regarding NOT sending your children to school - yet it's not a conscious thought for most. It's therefore difficult to conceptualize "education" to be any other way, even when "education" in the sense we commonly use the word is a secondary consideration in the way the system is designed. I struggle with this conceptualization constantly. I am absolutely choosing a different socialization for my children. I do not wish for them to be eaten by The Combine. 

But it's not that simple, is it? I mean, The Combine is not just school. It's television, social media, even children's books. My experience has been that twaddle almost always has a not-so-subtle message that ties to that Combine socialization process. 

(I think that's a topic I will circle back to another day - I wrote the preceding paragraph without really thinking about it, which created an "ah ha!" moment. An idea that I've never had before, and something that merits discussion after I've had time to flesh it out better.)

Okay, back on track...

What brought all this talk of The Combine up anyway? Actually, it was a job interview. 

How much am I getting paid for this photo shoot anyway?

I recently applied for a temporary job with Statistics Canada. To be precise, I applied for a position doing the 2016 Census.  I passed the initial screening, I passed the written testing, and then was called for an interview for a supervisory position. 

Yay me! Not bad for a chick who hasn't had a paid gig in over eight years. 

But something funny happened in the job interview. As we're talking, and I'm finding out more about the job and the client groups and the processes, the more I realize I don't want anything to do with it. I mean, the job would be enormously difficult for me to do anyway with the sheer logistics of child care, office space and personal availability, but there was something deeper that was making a sense of panic rise up inside me at the thought of going back to doing that sort of work. 

I suddenly realized that I felt like I was trying to scramble back on board The Combine. 

That was such a disorientated feeling. I worked for the federal government from 1999 until 2006 when Abby was born, and went back to work briefly in 2007 before deciding to stay home full-time. I actually quite liked my job back then, even if there were aspects of it I strongly disliked or disagreed with. Discussing in the interview certain theoretical and actual scenarios, and linking those situations back to my previous job, I began to understand the role I played in the entire Combine structure. 

I can't talk too much about my old job, as I am perpetually bound by the terms of my employment to not reveal confidential information. But the kind of work I did - requiring people to fit in certain pigeonholes for the purposes of administering the Income Tax Act, and ensuring my fellow employees were following work instructions to administer the Act - has suddenly left me with an enduring sour taste in my mouth. 

A job with Census would mean much of the same. I would be required to compel people to fit in pigeonholes, under threat of prosecution if they don't. I understand, and agree with, the need for good Census data, or with the need for people to comply with the Income Tax Act to ensure fairness to all.  

Damn it, I agree with good laws and good governance. Why am I having such an issue with this? 

It was reflecting on that question that forced me to ask myself why I believed in good laws and good governance.  Certainly, I've been through The Combine and have been conditioned that we should obey the Government and all laws set out by them. That led me to the uncomfortable conclusion that I follow all laws set out by the government even when I vehemently disagree with some of them. Why did I do that? Why do I do that even when I acknowledge that some of these laws (or in the case of abortion, lack of laws) endangers others?


Well, there I had to stop thinking for a bit. It was disquieting to spend too much time meditating on that. 

Hmmmm.....

Disquieting things, however, have a way of oozing back into your consciousness whether you want them to or not. 

I was, in the end, forced to ask myself if I was being hypocritical. I embrace Catholicism after all, and I choose to pass that belief system to my children. Some people argue, validly I might add, that religion is in itself a system of social control. 

 
Now, I say that this argument is valid, because from a historical perspective it is. Using Christian Europe as an example, for many generations the Church did provide a social control mechanism by sharing common beliefs, mores, attitudes, culture and laws. These things were done largely for the benefit of our salvation (although there certainly were horrendous exceptions) and the stability of society. The shared culture and beliefs within a society has historically created strong, cohesive groups, such as what existed in the Middle Ages. 

But move forward to the Reformation, and that cohesiveness starts to come unglued. Europe is no longer united under the banner of Catholicism, but starts to fragment. This paves the way for the Enlightenment, which begins the large-scale abandonment of belief in general. 

Or does it? 

The more I pondered this, the more I can't help think that because of the human need for belief and ethnocentricity is literally hardwired into us (see a summary of this experiment where it can actually be turned off by disrupting electrical activity in the brain), we simply replaced one system for another. As humanity has become increasingly mobile and groups mingle more and more, cohesiveness is further lost as thousands of groups interact, each with their own beliefs (or lack of belief), traditions, and customs. 

We no longer have Christianity as a control mechanism in our Western society, so we replaced it with The Combine. Except instead of a system that has our interests at heart (which, in theory, Catholicism does...), we have a system that has fundamentally capitalist interests as it's foundational premise. 

Now, I'm not saying immigrants are bad (they're not), or that everyone should be Catholic (okay, I do think that, but I know that's not realistic), or whatever other weird ideas you've gotten about me at this point (some of which may or may not be true, we'll sort that out later... ha ha ha!), but I'm proffering the above simply as an explanation. The Combine is something I routinely struggle with, as it seems obvious by this post. I have guilt oftentimes too because I do choose to send Abby to school, but precisely because of the social control mechanism it provides. 

So back to Gatto. In his essay/speech "The Psychopathic School", which he presented when he won New York City Teacher of the Year, he gives a description of the grind his students are subjected to in terms of influence from the two primary activities children do: go to school, and watch TV: 

Here is the calculus of time the children I teach must deal with: 
Out of 168 hours each week, my children sleep 56. That leaves them 112 hours a week out of which to fashion a self. 

According to recent reports (1990), children watch 55 hours of television a week. That leaves them 57 hours a week in which to grow up. 

My children attend school 30 hours a week, use about eight hours getting ready for and traveling to and from school, and spend an average of about seven hours a week on homework - a total of 45 hours. During that time they are under constant surveillance. They have no private time or private space and are disciplined if they try to assert individuality in the use of time or space. That leaves them 12 hours a week out of which to create a unique consciousness. Of course my kids eat too, and that takes some time - not much because we've lost the tradition of family dining - but if we allot three hours a week on evening meals we arrive at a net amount of private time of each child of nine hours per week. (Dumbing Us Down, pages 25-26)

That makes my heart ache. Our children have a scant nine hours a week alone with their thoughts. Of course, the above was written in 1990, before social media, smart phones, and the permeation of the Internet into our homes. The most recent statistics I could find stated that the average child spends 6.5 hours per day in front of screens.  Teenaged boys spend the most at eight hours a day, and many children will use multiple screens simultaneously. 

What does that mean?

Sometimes, I think it means we're doomed.

 

 

The Chair

The chair started it's life as my grandfather's. 

I don't recall exactly when my grandfather procured the chair, although it was undoubtedly after my grandmother passed away. I don't remember it being in the apartment they shared at the end of her life. I do remember it being in that last apartment my grandfather lived in before he died, and how he would sit there to watch TV or listen to his big-band music while rocking. 

14-month old Abby with duck lips. 

After he died, the chair came home with my parents. It lived in the rec room in the basement for a time, until it migrated upstairs. They put it in the small bedroom that was mine as a child - a room that eventually contained a crib for Abby to use when we were in Winnipeg, which was a considerable amount of time during the first two years of her life. Abby and I put lots of miles on the chair while it was at my parents, rocking, nursing, cuddling and reading.

The chair found it's way to my house earlier this year. My brother had actually called me up months before, offering it to me as he was cleaning out his spare bedroom/office in preparation of his son's arrival.

I wanted the chair! I had occasionally wondered what had happened to it, as it disappeared from my parent's house several years earlier when they got new furniture. I didn't realize it had been adopted by my brother, and had been living there. Alas, I had to say no, as there was no room at this inn.

Christina sleeping.

A few months pass, and my husband and I were contemplating what to do with the sleeping arrangements. Christina sleeps (theoretically) in a crib in our room, as the other bedrooms are occupied with other kids. We'll eventually have more bedrooms in the basement, but we're not yet done the never-ending renovation. The problem was, Christina was (and is) still waking up to nurse, and I have no where to sit. It's tough to sit on the end of the bed and nurse when you're half asleep, so I would tuck in her bed with us and nurse. Naturally, we'd both be sound sleep about 30 seconds into this procedure, and in our bed she's stay the rest of the night.

Co-sleeping works for us when they're very young, but there is a point where we just want our own space. Usually that occurs somewhere around 6 to 12 months, when they become too restless and we get tired of sleeping with little knees and elbows in our backs. We were at that point with Christina, where I needed her to sleep in her own space. With both Rachael and Joseph, we solved this by putting a double mattress on the floor of their bedroom where they could sleep. I could nurse them to sleep cuddled up in bed, and then tiptoe back to my bed once they were asleep. It was only inches to fall if they managed to roll themselves out of bed, which was rare. It worked brilliantly. 

Except, there was no room at the inn for such a plan this go round. 

What to do? We discussed getting a king-sized bed, but that was frought with financial considerations. Plus, then we'd have this ginormous bed, to resolve a relatively short-lived problem. 

What I needed, I thought to myself, was a chair to fit in the alcove of the bay window in our bedroom. Then, it struck me. 

I needed the chair. 

It was perfect. Compact, with a small footprint, it was comfy and it rocked. It was brown, so it even fit our blue-and-brown quasi-decor. But the question was, what happened to it?

Turns out my brother couldn't part with it. He had it stored in his basement. He was very glad to send it with my father in law next time he was out this way.  

I love the chair. It sits in my bay window, facing east, where the sunlight streams in the morning. A love to sit and read there, with my coffee cup precariously balanced on the window ledge. The kids come and sit on the chair and keep me company while I fold laundry on my bed. Christina curls up in the chair with either me or Daddy to read "Llama Llama Nighty-Night". I sit there and nurse the baby in the evening while my husband gathers his clothes for the next morning, and we chat.

The chair is a connection to my grandfather. It's beginning to show it's age, the arms getting threadbare in spots, and it squeaks like crazy unless you rock just so. But it's the most comfortable chair in the house. It's like a big, warm hug from Grandpa. 

I love the chair. 

So do I.

"Before I Begin..."

Image by taoty at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I often listen to CBC Radio. I like CBC. It makes me feel grown up, for one. It's mature conversation, on the most part, and there's no teenie-bopper music on it. I mostly listen to Radio One, which is the talk side (vs. Radio Two, which is mostly music). There's no ads on Radio One, except at election time. 

Which would be right now. 


They are mandated to provide air time to all political parties at designated times of day. I find them fascinating. I like Elizabeth May of the Green Party. I can't stand any of the mainstream parties (the Blue Ones, the Red Ones and the Orange Ones). The Communist Party's ad sounds like it's right out of Soviet Russia and would be downright hilarious if it wasn't for the fact that they were so gosh darn sincere. And honestly, if the Pirate Party was running a candidate in my riding, I would actually consider voting for them. 


But I digress. 

Anyone for a ride on a pirateship?
Image by Carlos Porto at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I was listening to their tech show, Spark, one afternoon this week while cleaning up after lunch. I only caught the last few minutes of the last article of the show. They were talking about creativity, and I think specifically the guest was talking about the process of writing a novel for some odd reason. There was something he said, however, that really struck me. In fact, it struck me so much I had to get a pencil and paper and jot it down. 

He said, "The three most destructive words in the English language are, 'Before I begin... ' ". 

Image by digitalart at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I think what he meant was that the creativity process is often killed before it even gets off the ground because we want to accomplish certain things before starting into that novel we've always wanted to write. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was more than that. How many things in our life do we not do because we're waiting for something?

We don't start our "ideal careers" until we're done school.

We don't get married until we've established our careers. 

We don't have kids until we can afford them. 

But with what result? We "do" school only to discover maybe that wasn't the career that we wanted, or we're so saddled with debt we're virtually paralyzed anyway. We marry later and later, get divorced more and more, and leave having our kids so late that we have trouble getting pregnant, or we're old when we have them and can barely keep up. 

Image by Witthaya Phonsawat at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

But there's a flip side to that. 

We are unwilling to wait for things. We want to wait until things are ideal before getting married, but want a domestic partner right now, so we live together instead. We want to buy a house, but bemoan the fact that we can't afford an all-done house instead of buying that beater of a house and putting in the sweat equity. We need to have the latest TV's and iWhatevers, and then bemoan the fact that we never have time for the things that are "important" to us. 

Image by stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.ne

But it still becomes, "Before I Begin...", doesn't it? We feel the need to take these steps prior to, or even in lieu of, making these big commitments. Maybe it's a symptom of our inability to wait for delayed gratification?

We can't begin while we're busy amassing the "right nows". Amassing education that we may or may not use, collecting domestic and sexual partners that suits us for the moment instead of waiting for the one we're going to commit to permanently, reaping electronics like they grow on trees. We can't wait for any of it. 

And as a result, so many of us fail to begin.

But it's not only the big things this failure affects. It's the little moments too.

I was ruminating this blog post earlier this afternoon when Joseph came up to me and said, "Mommy, let's play a game."

What was my answer? 

"Just let me do the dishes first."

It wasn't until he walked away that I realized what just happened. And I wonder how much of the little things in life I miss out on, or how the relationships around me are impacted, all because of "Before I begin..."

Image by franky242 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Joke

Rachael is a funny, funny creature. Her world, her imagination, is something to be marveled at, envied even. She makes me laugh by just being her.

Feeding the chickens. Or so she tells me.

Those who know me "in real life" know I come from a long line of witty, funny people. I'm not quite the same caliber as my father and brothers, but I can see in Rachael that same sort of wit and desire to entertain. 



So I decided it was time to start grooming her. To tell jokes. 


Now, I've never tried teaching a three-year-old how to tell jokes before. Humour has been something that has eluded Abby until fairly recently, and even then she tends to gravitate to the very visual, slap-stick physical humour. Rachael, on the other hand, already enjoys word-play and has a very verbose aspect to her personality. How hard could it be? I thought to myself. 


I decided to start with the classic knock-knock joke. 



Me: Knock, Knock. 


Rachael: deadpan look, no other response forthcoming


Me: Rachael, Mommy says "Knock, knock", then you say...?


Rachael: continues to stare at me


Me: Then Rachael says, "Who's there?" Okay? Let's try again.... Knock, knock!


Rachael: still nothing


Me: "Who's there?"


Rachael: It's Daddy! (giggles)


Okay, so maybe not your traditional knock-knock joke, but she thought it was funny. 


Moving on... 



I decided to try the infamous Chicken Crossing the Road joke. 


Me: Rachael, why did the chicken cross the road? 


Rachael: sound of crickets in the background


Me: To get to the other side! 


Rachael: Was his family there? 


Me: What? 


Rachael: Was his family there? And the goat. It should be there too. [Insert three-year-old chatter about a family of chickens that have a pet goat.] And a car. 


Me: A car? 


Rachael: Yes, a car. They need to drive down the road to get home!


.......


I think I will try getting a book of kids jokes from the library. 

Roads

I know. 



Don't say it. 


I've been a bad girl. 


I haven't posted in, literally, forever. 


Is this something I need to go to confession about? 

How has your journey been? 

Grand Valley

Mine's been interesting. Different. Divergent. I feel like I'm on the cusp of something wonderful, and large, and momentous.


Okay, I often feel like that. And maybe someday it will come true.


I guess I'm thinking about a road because of a couple of conversations I've had recently. About where we're going, not only as individuals, but as a people. As a society.

One block at a time

We build our futures one block at a time. Really, where we build them is totally up to us. Or is it? How much are we the products of our own choices, and how much are we the products of our socialization? Who would we be, really, if we could be anyone without that tearing down and building up that is our sociological upbringing? Without the blatant commercialization of everything in our day to day lives?

Negociation is key

Our lives are something that requires a great deal of navigation. Some of us, I suppose, navigate like we drive a car... by the seat of our pants, never stopping for directions, relying on instinct, intuition and just blind luck to arrive at our destination. Or just going for a leisurely cruise, seeing where we end up. 



Others need a map. A detailed map. Like a CAA Triptik, with all the rest stops preplanned, all the sight-seeing meticulously marked, and a detailed milage log kep. There is a specific destination in mind that must be arrived at by a specific date. 

Which one am I? I don't know, a little of both. I don't really know where my destination is anymore, and I'm mostly okay with that. 


I have more thoughts about this, but really need my destination to be bed right now. We'll chat more later. 

Stuff

Pst. 



Hey.


You. 


Yes, you. 












Happy New Year! 


Okay, enough of that. 


This is a story about stuff. 


Not, not that Story About Stuff. 


This one is my own. 


In this case, it's the story about MY stuff. You know, the stuff that accumulates in the recesses of a house. 


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have been purging. And purging. And purging. And a month or so later, I'm finally starting to make a dent. 


Well, a small one anyway. 


It never fails to both fascinate and horrify me that we can accumulate so much stuff. My husband and I don't consider ourselves materialistic people. We only have one income. Yes, we have three children, but our ability to acquire is seriously hampered by our financial situation. 


So where does stuff come from? 


Well, a lot comes from friends and family. I am so grateful for them. They alone provide me with enough hand-me-down clothes to comfortably clothe my children. My parents give gifts to us and our children, all year round. We are very blessed in that regard, that we never have for want our material needs. 


But there's a catch. I hoard. 


Yes, there it is. I admitted it. I tend to hoard. 


I went though all the kids clothes. I gave away 12, yes 12 garbage bags of clothes and shoes that no one will wear because we simply have so much. I lent out 8 boxes of clothes to friends who have babies/toddlers and Rachael has outgrown her clothes. I still have clothes coming out of my ears!


Yeshe. That's a lotta stuff.


I realized something today, however. What's the deal with me hoarding? Am I not trusting that God will provide for us? I mean, it's reasonable for me to hang on to Abby's clothes that she's outgrown at this point as Rachael will grow into them in the next couple of years. But do I really need six boxes of clothes in size 3X? I needed clothes for Joseph. I ended up with 4 people giving/gifting me clothes from their own kids for me to pick through. I kept a box or two of each size of the nicest stuff, and gifted the rest on. 


Sorting though box after box after box of... junk.. I realized that a lot of stuff I was hanging onto "just in case". Or sometimes it was "in case someone needs it someday". We have never wanted. God has always provided. Or, at least our family and friends have. 


My new year's resolution? To let go. To not let my stuff hold onto me like that, and to trust that I will find what I need when I need it. It's also to know the limits of our stuff. Joseph doesn't need four giant diaper boxes full of infant toys. He "needs" one, and a small one at that because his sisters' toys are much more interesting anyway. Do we really need hundreds of books when there's thousands for free at our fingertips at the library? Do I really need all those fancy dishes that have never seen the light of day? Do I need those trinkets that have sat forgotten in a box since moving over two years ago? 


What are your resolutions? And what is your "stuff"?

Consumed

My sporadic blogging is annoying. Yes, even to me it's annoying. I often have ideas rattling around inside my head (see, when I shake it you can hear them rolling around like marbles!), but never seem to commit to them. 



But this idea is compelling me. You see, I must write about Facebook again. 

I know. I hear your groans and I feel your pain. But bear with me. 



I've written previously about my departure from Facebook. And about coming back. Yes, I know, I'm obsessed. But this phenomenon of social media has long both intrigued me and worried me.


I remember years ago when Facebook was still "new" (Abby was a baby), a friend of mine told me that she had posted pictures of my child (and other friends' kids as well) on Facebook. I was livid. I tore her up one side and down another and made her swear she would never, ever do such a thing again. I swore I would never join such an insidious website, as I saw very clearly the apparent dangers without every truly understanding what either Facebook, nor the dangers, actually were. 

Eventually, after being bombarded with invitation after invitation, curiosity got the better of me and I joined. And I was hooked. 


My own feelings of malaise and mistrust was replaced by, "Wow, look at how cool this is!" I posted photos of my kids. I updated my status umpteen million times a day. I watered my imaginary garden and served meals at my virtual restaurant. 

But then, one day, I had to turn it off. But by then, it had become so deeply ingrained in our culture and our daily lives that leaving suddenly left a void that was not easily filled. But I also felt a sense of freedom that I never realized I lacked. 


However, in the end, I relented to the incessant pressure and rejoined. I missed finding out the nitty-gritty details of the lives of my sister-in-laws. I wanted to enter contests that you must have a Facebook account to be enterable. I needed to know when playgroup as cancelled. We have lived an uneasy coexistence for several months again. 


But then two things happened. 

Firstly, I realized that the majority of my status updates came not from friends and family, but from businesses. Products, newsletters, media outlets, etc. The information I was consuming was not about the personal details, but about mass consumption. That bothered me, because the whole point of me rejoining Facebook was to have personal connections that were getting hard to maintain any other way. I was obviously deluding myself. 



The second one, however, I must credit Dan Meisner, the CBC Radio tech columnist. His idea was not new, and it was something I think I had intuitively concluded on my own, but he expressed it very succinctly in an interview. 


We are users of Facebook as much as we're the product that Facebook sells to it's advertisers. 


I'll say it again. We are the commodity that Facebook sells. 

That idea startled me. I know we often trade data in exchange for benefits. Things like Airmiles, PC Points, Aeroplan, all use your data to develop marketing strategies. In exchange, you get free stuff. I admit, I love PC Points. I get free chequing and have cashed in literally hundreds upon hundreds of dollars of free groceries. 


If I was truly concerned about my privacy, I wouldn't participate in those types of merchant-reward programs. I would pay everything is cash instead of using credit or debit. But I don't. I accept the trade. 


But somehow Facebook is different. 


Facebook is slick. You like a page? Click on the "like" button. It follows you around as you browse and live your online life, even if you're signed out. I have seen examples of this, and it disturbed me. 

Yes, I like it!

Unlike something like, say, Airmiles, where you have to actively submit your information by handing over your Airmiles card, Facebook collects data on you without you even knowing. And I know they're not the only game in town that does it, but they are very, very good at it. 


Everyone is so excited about Social Media and how powerful it is. It helped power the Arab Spring, and is a driving force behind the Occupy movement. But at the end of the day, it's just something else to be consumed, and to consume us. 

I don't really know how to finish this post. I feel like I have this valuable insight, but not sure how to use it. I find myself on Facebook less and less since coming to these realizations, but can't seem to sever myself completely. It has me thinking, however, about my privacy and my consumption habits, and wondering whether or not I will be consumed. 


I am reminded of the story of Lot, when he is fleeing from Sodom and Gomorrah. The angels tell him: "Get up, take your wife and your two daughters who are here, or else you will be consumed in the punishment of the city." (Gen 19:15) Perhaps there is a lesson there. He did flee with this family, and avoided being consumed in the punishment, but his story did not end happily. His wife, disobeying the angel's command, turns to salt. His daughters conceive children fathered by Lot, who went on to found new nations who were the enemies of Israel, and the enemies of God who were ultimately destroyed.

 

I shudder at what the implications of our consumption may be.