Dear TikTok Parents, Stop Ruining My Quarantine

My only daughter, my middle child, turned 13 on our first day of quarantine. Gone was her overnight party with her best friends. Gone was getting together with the cousins for her birthday dinner. Gone was pretty much everything fun.

Wait, scratch that. We celebrated with a three hour, six-feet-apart photo shoot at all kinds of beautiful natural spots near our house. I even had the Instagram-ready number 13 helium balloons. I made her favorite cake, even though I had to go to four stores to find the mix (people apparently horde Funfetti as well as toilet paper). Even my daughter admitted that it was a great birthday. Not an “all things considered” great….an actual — quarantine or not — great day.

Not bad, right? We were off to a great start.

But then, enter TikTok. I mean, not really enter, it’s been in the room for quite some time. My daughter has TikToked her way through most days, often at the dinner table. I hear Renegade in my sleep. I maybe know a few dances. OK, truth be told, I found it kind of fun. Maybe I even let her record me stumbling through those dances or just driving in my car. Once before a 6 a.m. skating practice she even convinced me to spit water out of my mouth while standing in the freezing cold parking lot. She said this was a thing. (If it wasn’t, please don’t even tell me now. The damage is done.)

TikTok and I were besties.

But not any more.

Why? Because there is a generation of parents who have somehow decided to join in the TikTok revolution and the shit they are pulling during quarantine makes me miss the days when Martha Stewart shamed me with her perfect pies. I even almost appreciate Gwyneth Paltrow when I think about these parents. (Almost. Okay, no I cannot.)

Anyways, here’s an example. My daughter and I had such a lovely time on that birthday drive that we created a game. Together we’d take hour or so rides to nearby towns where we’d look at ridiculously expensive houses for sale and I’d guess the price. How fun is that?

Not fun enough. On TikTok, one mom created a dice rolling driving game. Each roll determines what direction you head in. Like, every possible combination means something. Somehow her magic dice even find elusive Starbucks drive-throughs.

Then, my daughter saw another super mom and her daughter enjoy an amazing sleepover on TikTok, special quarantine bonding style. I believe her exact words were, “Oh my God, this is the coolest mom ever. I wish — “ After a quick look at my downcast eyes and coffee-overloaded, soap-dried, shaking hands, she finished the sentence. “I wish we could do that too. Um, you’re so cool!”

Whatever. Fake compliment. (Awkward, as she would say). But I’ll play. We made cookies just like they did. But when we didn’t use a recipe, ours ended up flat like pancakes but weirdly doughy. (My daughter claims I bought the wrong kind of brown sugar. I guess that’s a thing?) We did a late night work out. They burned 600 calories in 60. We stopped at ten minutes. Maybe I kicked her by mistake. We did each other’s nails. I might have made her cuticles bleed. Oh, best of all, I agreed that she could trim my hair. Like 1/8th of an inch. But this is what happened. And I didn’t even cry.

Another example? Sure, one more before I go. Dads, by the way, are just as guilty as moms. This one dad is so inspired and so amazing that he serves theme dinners. Every night. Everyone dresses up, everyone eats theme food, and the perfect family poses for their thirteen year old’s TikTok.

My daughter has asked for a theme dinner. She has asked many, many times. But this is day 34 and I’ve had enough. It’s not happening. I’ve learned my lesson. Making a dinner two out of three kids like is as far as it goes for me. Having a meal where no one leaves pissed off is a theme I could buy into.

Dear TikTok parents, I was already a teeenager. So were you. Yeah, this new social media thing can be kind of fun and I know you’re bored, but find yourself a new hobby. Spam your Facebook friends with stories of your quaran-workouts and the cashmere sweater you sewed your dog. Seriously, anything. Make me feel lazy and unproductive. I am used to that. Just leave my kid out of it.

Listen, it’s not that I even care that my daughter thinks I’m lame. I get that. She should. She’s 13.

It’s just that this quarantine would just be a whole lot easier if she could think you’re all lame too.