I have ruined Facebook for my children. Or so they say. See, any time parents sign up for something -- MySpace, Twitter, YouTube, texting -- the level of it-ness sinks like a deep sea diver in leaded boots.

So as payback, my younger kids, the teenagers still living at home and practicing the refined art of being cool, have refused my numerous attempts to friend them. Which, of course, makes me suspicious. What the heck are they posting? Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll? Or is it sex, drugs and rap?

In any case, I confronted them with their most recent rejection earlier this week.

''You can't be friends with your mother!'' one howled. ``It's so . . . so . . . lame.''

I pointed out that their older siblings are part of my friends network, but this line of reasoning did little to sway them. Their older sister is very pregnant and her profile photo is a full-view shot of her bulging belly. One brother posted pix of his twin daughters and the other of his girlfriend.

Tame, all so tame -- but older siblings are still way cooler than mothers with funny haircuts. Siblings are young. Their hair is gelled. They're pictured doing fun things, like partying. A photo of a middle-aged woman who is clearly your mother, on the other hand, slides right into embarrassing. And if she happens to comment on your wall -- Ack! Don't even go there. The potential for humiliation is immeasurable.

Nonetheless I keep trying to open the lines of Facebook communication with my teens, sending them friend requests about once a week, which they ignore at their peril. Last week one accused me of stalking him.

He's right. When I visit other family members' pages, I click on every picture in which he appears. Checking, just checking.

I am not a prolific user of the social networking site, however. I rarely leave a message on my wall, though every once in a while I tell myself I should, if only because so many prefer that form of communication. Truth is, I just don't have any serious thoughts to share on a regular basis -- child-rearing pretty much took care of that part of the brain -- and I'm really not that interested in a running commentary about anybody else's deep brain matter either.

Yes, I know, that makes me sound old and crotchety. So be it. I don't want to clutter my life any more than it already is.

To be hip, I still check on my friend requests and browse through friend suggestions, some of which I ignore. If I don't know somebody, why would I want to be friends, right?

I'm also constantly asked to take quizzes and join causes, all of them seemingly interesting and worthy, but I never manage to get around to it. Cooking, laundry and that minor diversion called a job get in the way. Plus, these events don't seem REAL.

Maybe because it's all so public. There are friends of friends posting comments that make me feel like I'm eavesdropping. Some photos are far from flattering, and the occasional flash of pseudo-intimacy is . . . well, uncomfortable for somebody like me who knows, personally and professionally, the value of privacy.

But maybe that's the point, to live life as if one is performing. These days nothing really happens unless it's recorded, posted, filmed, blogged, permalinked or commented on -- which may explain why my three teenagers don't want me in their virtual audience.

After all, what might a mother with lightning-quick fingers say in front of the whole entire world?

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