I’m behind on posts on the blog for personal reasons (in a nutshell: I’ll be back posting soon), and in the meantime I hope you’ve been reading my Mommyish columns (they can all be found right here). But quickly, I wanted to take a second to address – as I did with the Aurora theater massacre, the Sandy Hook massacre, the Boston bombings, and the Trayvon Martin case – how NOT to talk about horrific, tragic events on Facebook. And that is exactly what the Darren Wilson verdict the grand jury handed down last night is. Completely tragic, almost beyond words.

Social media is still pretty new to us. We don’t always have the language to describe how we feel about a tragedy, or a monumentally important decision made by a judge or jury, but social media compels people to talk. It prompts us to point to the elephant in the room and comment on it. I do understand why people roll two comments into one when every post in their feed appears to be an opinion, tribute (like the anniversary of 9/11), or news link surrounding a singular subject. They feel as though they have to acknowledge it, even if it’s just to brush it off before getting to their current “status,” so instead of appearing like an oblivious moron who’s only aware of her child’s sleep schedule, a person like Megan can feel “secure” in her update.

But one of the things social media has taught us is that what matters rises to the surface. If every post in your newsfeed is about how fucked up a country is, or how racism destroys lives and families – as many of our newsfeeds are today – that’s a social cue. It’s a suggestion to reflect on what’s important in a macrocosmic way. To step outside of your own stupid bullshit and either say nothing (which is always a good option), or constructively lend your voice to the conversation. It’s an indication that right now, no one needs to read about the mundane stuff. No one cares if your kid pooped in the bath, or if he’s babbling like a cutie patootie.

If you have a problem with that, then the problem is with YOU, and it’s actually not funny. Megan might think she’s being goofy and honest by saying she “never thought she would make a post like this,” but when I read her “Hahaha,” I don’t hear a cackle. I hear nervous laughter, because that’s what it should sound like. She should be embarrassed for hijacking a story that, at its heart, is about a teenager being murdered by a cop in the streets of his hometown. She has the luxury of knowing that her baby is still alive. Michael Brown’s parents, by contrast, will now attempt to celebrate their first Thanksgiving without him.

This Thanksgiving, be mindful. Don’t be a selfish asshole. If you are outraged by the verdict in Ferguson, as much of the country is, and as I am, speak out. Take action if you can. Donate to Ferguson’s public library. Educate any racist friends in your newsfeed, if you have them, or unfriend them and make a statement that way. This case has had a huge amount of publicity, but it’s only one story out of dozens of similar stories. We have a lot of problems in the States, but police brutality, particularly against people of color, has cast a shadow over this country for far too long. 

At the very least, don’t detract from an important narrative by brushing it off to talk about your kid’s sleep schedule on Facebook. If you want to post about getting a good night’s sleep, go for it. But don’t mention Ferguson in your post. No one in that town has had a good night’s sleep since August 9th. Have some respect by showing respect. And don’t think this decision doesn’t or can’t impact you. It does, and it will, if it hasn’t already.

(submitted by Anonymous)

**UPDATE** 

After linking to this post on Facebook, over 200 people unfollowed the STFUP FB page. Many people said terrible things and exhibited, as I wrote in the thread, some of the nastiest and darkest aspects of American society in their comments. But nothing made me feel sadder than receiving this: 

This is a little boy. He’s just a kid. And he’s thrilled that a police officer won’t be tried for killing an unarmed teenager who then baked in the hot sun on a street for several hours. He’s filled with glee that the white cop got away with killing the black guy, because that’s what his parents taught him to feel. And he’s standing in front of a Christmas tree, completely unaware that he’s being groomed to have hatred in his heart, possibly for the rest of his life. He might even grow up caring more about the gun on his hip than the humanity that surrounds him, and I find that very sad.

To me, this type of update represents the face of America’s new generation of racists, and I won’t get this child’s manufactured smirk out of my head for a long time. He’s a pawn in his parents’ fucked up worldview, and they’re using him to perpetuate some deeply ingrained prejudices that have existed for centuries. What kind of person teaches his/her child to feel “excitement” over something so tragic? It’s impossible for me to comprehend. 

I’ve made no secret of my burgeoning appreciation for mothers who identify as “Mama Bears,” so it’s high time I devoted an entire post AND a column to all the ursine mamas (and papas, though there aren’t as many on social media) who are out there ripping shit up on the daily. It isn’t easy being a mama bear, constantly sizing up the next person whose limbs you want to tear apart with your razor sharp teeth and your great, big paws, and yet thousands of women take on the role with a visceral fierceness. Their primal instincts raging, mama bears rise from their slumber each and every morning (there’s no hibernating when you’re a MAMA BEAR!), ready to take on the world and defend their babies against a myriad of both real and imaginary threats.

Whether it’s protecting a toddler from a grumpy cafe owner, bullying another child on the playground, or throwing a plate of food on a bride at her wedding, mama bears know that attending to their children’s well-being and survival is always of the utmost importance. Even if that means screaming in a stranger’s face because she parked in a “parent parking” space. Even if it means growling at a fellow department store shopper for literally no reason at all. The mama bear is focussed. She is alert. And she *will* kill you – or write a semi-crazy status update about you on Facebook – if you’re not extremely careful. 

Now, let’s get to know some mama bears! GRRRRRRRR.

1. A Mama Mumma Bear’s Mission Statement

I’m guessing that before Jen had kids, she was one of those people who went around saying stuff like, “I’ll be your best friend in the world until you cross me or one of my friends. After that, you’re fuckin’ dead to me.” That’s like the drama queen precursor to the mumma bear mission statement. If it sounds like Jen might be starring in a crime-thriller drama meets National Geographic documentary of her own design, it’s because she probably is.

2. LOUD AND PROUD AND IN CHARGE EXCLAMATION POINTS

If you mess with the bull, you’re gonna get the horns. And if you mess with the mamma bears nest, you better watch out cuz she will fight back!!!!!! I mean, right?? This is like a slogan for a new generation. Amen!!!

Mamma Bear Erica appears to have many redeeming characteristics (spelling not chief among them), but being an effective communicator has to be her strongest trait. Do I believe that Erica is a nest-keeper and CAPS aficionado who loves her kids more than anything? Probably. Do I think that Erica’s version of “fighting back” involves permanent facial scars, shattered glass, busted tires, and light arson? Oh hell yeah. 

Our story begins back in 2011 when a submitter started sending me random pictures of sandwiches. Sean’s sandwiches, to be exact, which were being delivered to the world via his mom Laurie’s Facebook page. Over the course of several emails, I got to know a wide variety of sandwiches in young Sean’s diet – of his own design – and boy, did they look tasty.

Every day, for god knows how long, Sean made himself a new type of sandwich inspired by both the culinary arts and his limited understanding of “foods” and “cuisines.” And every day, Laurie posted a picture of Sean’s sandwich du jour (aka his ‘SOD’, or 'sandwich of the day’) on Facebook for her friends to see (and imagine eating / fear). A chef needs to start somewhere, and for Sean, his entryway into the food industry involved two slices of bread and a tiny amount whole lot of imagination. Also, several jars of peanut butter, as most dreams require.

I can only assume that by now, three years later, Sean is packing himself gourmet sack lunches filled with delicacies like Cajun turkey and aged cheddar roll-ups and homemade pop tarts with artisanal dipping sauces, but for today, thanks to Laurie’s unwavering dedication, let’s take a glimpse at the origin of Sean’s foodie journey. As was the case with Brenda, Mindy, and the ridiculous parent protests covered thus far on the blog, this post isn’t about scorning a parent for offensive wrongdoing so much as peering into a world of deep obsession. Laurie may be considerably saner than the parents who freaked out about the shortage of “Frozen” merchandise or the woman who lost her shit over her kid's birthday party hat, but her decision to post literally dozens of photos of Sean’s mildly disgusting yet totally banal sandwiches (which are a far cry from Scanwiches, mind you) is a real testament to her intestinal fortitude.

Prepare to have your tummy rumbled.

Something you’ll quickly come to learn is that Sean is a big fan of mixing breakfast with lunch, in sandwich form. Cool concept, except clearly no one has schooled Sean on the joys of a breakfast burrito or any other kind of proper brunch item. Forget about getting creative and using pancakes in place of traditional bread. Sean’s sandwich scope is so restricted, he just winds up with peanut butter, jelly, and “rabbit food.”

Fiber One® Original aside, this particular photo was posted during a brief window of sincere amusement in the process of building the official 'Sean’s sandwiches’ gallery. At this stage, Laurie’s friends are still along for the ride and happy to contribute funny quips. But by the time Laurie posted the sandwich in the next example, her friends had grown impatient and repulsed.

“Stay tuned” is the kind of thing you say to people who aren’t throwing up in their mouths in response your son’s latest inedible creation. I’m not sure you could pay any of these people to take a bite out of this peanut butter and scrambled egg sandwich, but I can tell you FOR SURE that it needs hot sauce. (And I suppose some cheese, like Emily suggested, but at the same time that sounds disgusting.)

Can you guys even handle what Sean made for himself on his birthday?