About Me

Mom Gets the Message

     The tiny little screen on my cell phone taunts me.
Millions of teenagers text every day, I remind myself. Most are,
right now, texting their way through high school math class. If
they can do it, so can I.
     I am determined not to fall behind in the technology race,
but quite frankly I wish it were more of a relay than a sprint. At
least that way I could hand off the baton when I got too tired
to keep up. I can’t blame it on age, either, though there is
something to be said for technology being our kids’ native
language. But our parents aren’t exactly intimidated by
technological advancement. I recently had dinner with a 67 year-
old man who whipped out his Blackberry to show me some
family photos, and moments later, checked his calendar on the
Blackberry and sent an email from its tiny keypad to confirm a
meeting. No, I think it’s really a matter of desire to be part of
the information age.
     Actually, I’m managing to muddle my way through a good
portion of the 21st century just fine. Turns out it’s the
simplest of devices that stumps me: the cell phone.
     My 8th grader has a cell phone and when we bought the
plan I almost opted out of the four dollars extra for unlimited
text messages. At 10 cents a pop I thought, how many
messages can a kid rack up? Turns out, if I hadn’t gone with
“the plan” we’d have been making payments on all those texts
until he graduates high school.
     One recent afternoon Nick and I were headed to do some
shopping and in the course of the morning his phone rang so
many times I thought there must be some something wrong.
So I checked through the mass of messages to see what was
going on. Turns out, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Here’s how one text
exchange went:
     “hey”
     “whats up”
     “nothin U”
     “eatin lunch”
     “Cya”
     “bye”
That’ll be 60 cents please. I was certain when I scanned the
inbox on his phone there were going to be some juicy details,
some innermost teenage thoughts revealed on the little screen.
Not so much. Unless “ whats up” qualifies as teenage angst I’m
still in the dark. I just don’t get the thrill of staying in constant
communication, and am certainly annoyed by the expectation
that it’s necessarily a good thing. Still, I have to remind myself
that it’ll be a very long adolescence if I can’t master this one
simple communication technique. I may shelter my kids from a
lot of typical American media hype, but I certainly don’t want
them at a disadvantage when it comes to living in the world
we’ve created. So rather than dismiss something that is
obviously a very important part of their culture I decided to try
embracing it.
     Which leads me to the part of the story where I am staring
at a tiny little screen, my not-so-nimble fingers diligently
working to text a message to my son. My hope is that we may
develop a new way of communicating and, secretly, that he’ll
think it’s a little hip that his mom texts him. Then again, he
would wince if he actually heard me say “hip.”
     I laboriously peck through the alphabet (who decided it was
a good idea to have numbers and letters on the same little pad
anyway?) trying to send one simple text message. Eight
minutes and three tries later – this would have taken roughly
three seconds for any 14 year-old worth her salt – I confidently
push “send,” smiling at my newfound skill.
     My message reads: “Ridd the Bus hom.”
     Well, at least I’m trying.

    Contact Charla at Belinskis@comcast.net

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