Texting: Make Mine Unlimited

This is the September edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

A lot of things are different for our kids than they were for us. We didn’t have home theaters, decent video games, or twenty-four-seven kids’ TV shows. But it’s really the phones and the privacy they offer that change everything. Before my son started middle school I had made up my mind that I was not going to get him a phone.

“You’ll change your tune,” a friend told me. “What if he misses the bus?” she questioned. I rolled my eyes.

Cut to Christmas and my son tearing open a phone while his little sister calculates the number of months she has to wait for hers under the big-brother-broke-them-in algorithm. I’m still not convinced he needs a phone, but he wanted one and it was Christmas. Maybe I’m just jealous. Having a personal phone—not to mention a modest texting allowance—in the 6^th grade? I never had it so good.

Back in the olden days we didn’t even have cordless phones. They were all attached to a wall, either in your home or in public. You carried a quarter for a payphone and everyone could see you cry when your mom forgot to pick you up from soccer practice. When you got sick at school you had to use the office phone with its rotary dial and square buttons across the bottom. If you missed the bus you didn’t call anyone; you walked home. To have a private conversation at home you stretched the phone cord down that hall, pinching it in your bedroom door, then prayed your mom wouldn’t detach it from the wall while you were asking your BFF if she wanted to “go with” the new boy (who was named Curt or Tyler or Rob). Those deliriously fortunate enough to have a phone in their rooms knew their parents were listening in from the kitchen anyway.

Today’s kids don’t have to worry about parents overhearing conversations, partly because phones are rarely used for speaking to one another anymore. The important information—what band is cool, whose house they’re sleeping over at, and which color Converse to wear tomorrow—is all relayed via text. It goes without saying that back in the olden days we didn’t have our own secret language that our parents couldn’t figure out. We had to be clever and make plans while they weren’t listening or watching. (Whatever, Dad – no, you did NOT know we were “sneaking” out the sliding glass door.) Now kids speak in an ever-evolving code of letters and symbols—ikr? It’s a miracle our thumbs didn’t fall off–like the vestigial tail–from lack of use.

Popular as texting has become, I still thought my 11-year-old son was too young for it. I figured he just used the phone as a status symbol and to call me on the [many] days I forgot it was my turn at carpool. I didn’t realize he was using the text function at all until I started using it on my own phone. When my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs so I logged into my wireless account. While I was slightly under my plan limit of two hundred texts, my son was up to eight hundred twenty—two weeks into the billing cycle. I immediately called my provider to request unlimited texting.

I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we gave him the phone. I confronted him with the facts.

“But, Mom,” he almost cried, “it’s not like you can just end a conversation.”

Awww… proof that my baby boy is not yet a man.

I told him that instead of making him pay for the overage, he was going to chip in ten dollars a month toward his phone bill.

“But then I’ll have less money,” he whined.

I didn’t laugh. I did however take my platinum opportunity to ask for his phone– and read his texts. If I were a terrible person I would transcribe them here. Because they would make you laugh and reminisce over everything that was good and true and hasn’t changed about the summer before 7th grade. But I won’t. Because I am a good mother and because I’m beyond grateful for what I read there, in his private conversations with friends, both boys and girls. For now, for today–though he doesn’t realize it–my baby is as innocent as the day I brought him home wrapped in flannel and smelling like spit up. If only there were an unlimited plan for that.

You Might Be a Mother If…

Browsing around for something to write about, I became distracted by some spots on my screen. They didn’t wipe away easily so I did what any good mother would do. I put a little spit on that fancy electronic cleaning wipe and scrubbed them off.

We’ve Made it Past the Fourth of July

It’s really summer now – we’re deep into the heat of sunburn, the thick of the humidity. And what does that mean for parents everywhere? In my experience we fall out into two camps.

Parent A:  I can’t believe summer vacation is half over already! I’m starting to miss them just thinking of school starting again. It really is true – they grow up so fast. Treasure every moment!

Parent B: I cant’ believe I haven’t been institutionalized already. Actually, that might be a welcome rest. Only six weeks to go. I will make it. I will, right?

Which parent are you? On a given day?

Conservationist Rednecks in Training

My children care about the Earth. And they have lived in Arkansas for most of their lives. Hence the following exchange:

“Hey, Mom, did you know we saved three gallons of water today?”
“How did you do that?”
“We peed in the yard.”

Maternal pride swells.

My Ten Pound Baby Is Not

My daughter turned ten last week. She wanted to see her birth certificate so we got out the baby book. There on the first page a blatant error stood out. Her birth announcement read 8 pounds 14 ounces. Shocked that I would make such a mistake I searched for other documentation. The hospital record of birth, her crib identification card, and in the doula’s notes all confirmed her actual birth weight: 8 pounds 14 1/2 ounces. Damn. My second baby, the one who had to be pried out of me under anesthesia, the one with the Apgar score of 1, the one who nearly killed us both was a TEN pound baby. Ten.

Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a tiny bit. But when you have a baby that weighs in a 9 pound 14 1/2 ounces, you are allowed to round up. It’s an ounce and a half for goodness sake. And that’s just what I did, from day one she was a 10 pound baby. I told everyone, have been telling everyone for the last decade that I birthed a ten pound baby. It indicates my kick-ass-ness as a mother and underscores her tomboyish toughness. But she wasn’t just under 10 pounds; she was just under 9 pounds. The fact would not reconcile with my myth.

“I don’t care what it says,” my husband told her. “You’ll always be a ten pounder to me.”

That’s our story and we’re sticking with it.

I’ll Take Unlimited Texting Please

Recently I’ve discovered the joy of texting. In a world of ever faster, it really is faster. I’m tardy to the party, what’s referred to in marketing circles as a “late adopter.” I need but another form of instant feedback like I need another little black dress. However, I can think of nothing more fun. So as my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs. When I logged into my wireless account I found that while I was slightly under my plan limit of 200 texts, my son was up to 820. This was three weeks into the billing cycle.

I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we got him the phone for Christmas. I confronted him with the facts and told him that instead of making him pay for the overage, he was going to chip in $10 a month toward his phone bill. I swear he almost cried.

“What is wrong? You don’t want to pay?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’ll have less money.”

I didn’t laugh. I did however take my platinum opportunity to ask for his phone– and read his texts. If I were a terrible person I would transcribe them here. Because they would make you laugh and reminisce over everything that was good and true and hasn’t changed about the summer before 7th grade. But I won’t. Because I am a good mother and because I am deliriously grateful about what I read there, in his private conversations with friends, both boys and girls. For now, for today–though he doesn’t realize it–my baby is as innocent as the day I brought him home wrapped in flannel and smelling like spit up. If only there were an unlimited plan for that.

Stupid Things Mothers Say

If you’re a mother it is inevitable that you will on occasion find yourself saying the stupidest things. Blame it on lack of sleep, hormones, pre-coffee syndrome, genetics–whatever, but it happens. The other morning I was picking up after my family in the kitchen when I went off.

“Whose plate is this? Why is this plate here? Who do you think is going to pick it up? The Plate Fairy?”

The Plate Fairy? Seriously? I said that. And you can’t take back that kind of stupidity. You just have to accept your punishment. This time my daughter meted out the perfect response to my ridiculous question:

“Plate Fairy – that’d be cool.”

Camping, Anyone?

This is the June edition of the print version of After the Bubbly, an award winning family humor column. If you’d like to see it in a local publication, let me know and I’ll do my best to get it there!

It was the hottest day of the year. Naturally, we decided to camp. But first, for added amusement, we spent the entire ninety-plus degree day on the lake with friends. All day we soaked in the sun and its glare off the water. Grown ups quenched thirst with beer while kids gorged on Cheetos and orange soda. We all got sunburned. As the hour got later, and hotter, friends questioned our choice to sleep in a tent. But we truly believed it would be fun.

Around six, when everyone else docked their boats and headed for the air-conditioned Nirvana of their suburban homes, we trailered up and parked ourselves at the campsite. A friend waved goodbye, saying “I’ll be thinking of you—tonight, when I flip my pillow over to the cool side.”

But we knew. We KNEW how to have fun. Not like those wimpy home bodies. We had hotdogs and tater salad and all the makings for perfect s’mores. First, we built a fire. My husband thinks of everything. Nevermind it was ninety-five degrees without a breeze. How else would we cook the hotdogs? While the fire blazed, the kids complained. Even the lake—by now one huge bathtub—offered no comfort. I gave my children ice from the cooler, which they rubbed on their reddened skin. The dog hung his head.

“It’ll be find once the sun goes down,” my husband reassured.

But he was wrong. Somehow the temperature increased after sundown. Even melted chocolate and marshmallow could not lift our spirits. In the darkness, we sat—around the place where the obligatory campfire had been. When it got too hot to expend the energy necessary to make up stories, we went bed. And by bed, I mean the ground, cushioned by a thick layer of nylon tent floor. Our spacious four-man (yeah, right) tent offered the added benefit of trapping the now liquid air.

The children and I whined and feverishly fanned ourselves with paper plates. Finally, we pleaded with my husband to go home. He wouldn’t hear of it.

“It won’t be so hot if you quit complaining.”

Our protests affect the air temperature, apparently. But you know what they say: pick your battles. So I sucked it up and persuaded the kids to do the same. We suffered in silence until I felt I might actually suffocate. I sat up and pressed my face next to the tent “window”, hoping to get some oxygen through the nylon mesh.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“Oh, nothing, Babe. Just breathing.”

That’s all it took—fear of spousal asphyxiation—to convince my husband it was time to go. The kids leaped into action. In the dark we packed the boat in record time. Our quickness was fueled by the joyful anticipation of sweet, cool A/C. I swear the dog smiled. Five minutes out of the campsite the air temperature dropped ten degrees. But that was nothing compared to the icy cotton at home, on the flipside of my pillow.

You Owe Me, Kid

This morning I sneaked a bite of my son’s bagel. When he caught me he said, “Come on, Mom! You owe me!”

I owe him? I OWE him?

“Breathe,” I said.

He looked at me as if I were an idiot.

“Did you breathe?”

Eye roll, shrug, head shake. “Yeah.”

“You owe ME.”

Have You Earned Your Mother’s Day?

This Mother’s Day I suggest you take a good long look at yourself to ascertain whether or not you really deserve that Hallmark card. Oh, sure, they say you’re a good mother, maybe even the best. What else can they say – you are their food source. But are you a really a good mother? Are you as good a mother as I am? I doubt it. Ask yourself these questions to find out.

• Do I teach my children the value of respectful communication ?
• Do I spend hours lovingly baking their favorite desserts?
• Do I steer impressionable minds toward appropriate media and role models?
• Do I protect the Earth for future generations?
• Do I explain the important things in life with wisdom and maturity?
• And perhaps most important, do I make a material contribution to the PTA?

If you can’t answer yes to most of all of these questions, what makes you think you deserve the card with the embossing and the ribbon? Much less the grocery story bouquet. Get over yourself, Mother.

Next Page »