Liar, Liar

My phone tracks my steps. Which is supposedly a nice little program. Except I rarely actually carry my phone on me.

So, now, I have these arguments with my phone —

“Two hundred and fourteen steps? No, you took 214 steps. I spent eight hours cleaning and organizing the basement. You spent eight hours on the ping pong table. And you kept dinging at me that you were dying. Dying!! On a ping pong table! I was the one trying to drag a three wheeler with four flat tires!”

Inevitably, Younger ends up eying me with concern. “You okay, Mom?”

“I’m fine.”

My phone is a liar.

But I’m fine.

Two hundred and fourteen steps?



If You Insist

The other day, my husband could not find his cell phone. Mine was upstairs, so hearing Younger turn off the shower in the bathroom, he hollered, “Hey, Younger, you got your phone in there?”

A pause. “Yeah?”

“Can you call my phone so I can find it?”

Another pause. “You mind if I dry off first?”

“No,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “We actually need you to run around the house stark naked and wet while calling the phone.”

An even longer pause. “Ooooh-kaaa-aaay. If you insist.”


We didn’t.


Living somewhere in the back of beyond, we have few options for internet. For the last eighteen months, we have settled on tethering to our phones. But we only have twenty gig of data.

So, let’s do some math.

Twenty gig of data divided by two young men equals . . . no data in about five minutes.

Since I need internet for my employment, we have warned the boys that we will shut them down at six gig.

And so we have.

Every. Single. Month.

This month they almost lasted three weeks. But on Tuesday, Younger’s birthday, I checked the current usage.

“You’re over your limit,” I told Younger.

“No, I’m not,” he stated, staring into my eyes like he had access to the Jedi mind trick. “I’m not over my limit.”

I rolled my eyes, and due to the day being his seventeenth birthday, I allowed him to continue to have access.

His dad was not so gifting. Or perhaps he is immune to the Jedi.

“Will be late. Had to stop to turn off the boys’ data,” he texted me while I was in class.

“The betrayal,” Younger howled as soon as I stepped into the house. “The treachery.”

“You know the limits, Younger,” I responded.

“How can you so betray me? Your only teenage son?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Where do you want to go for your birthday?”

“Wherever they have internet.”

“You are spending time with your family, not your phone.”

“Oh, the betrayal!”

Ah, that he has to deal with such perfidy. And on his birthday, even.

Life . . . without internet . . . apparently, it ain’t for the sissies.

I really don’t know how are forefathers survived.






Live and Let Live

The other night, unexpectedly, Younger stayed with his grandparents. When he arrived home late the next night, I hollered at him from my perch on my bed as he ran upstairs.

“Younger! I missed you!”

“Missed you, too, Mom,” he replied, easily.

But when he hit the top of the stairs, he turned to circle towards his own bedroom.

“Younger,” I yelled in dismay.

“Just a minute, Mom. I have to plug in my phone.” Then he added as an afterthought, “Love you, Mom.”

“You do not. You love your phone, not me. Otherwise, I would get a hug before your phone got power.”

“My phone is dying, Mom,” he hollered back at me. “You’re not.”

“I might be,” I cried dramatically. “You don’t know.”

He eventually presented himself for his hug, unfazed by my pouts.

I lived.

So did his phone.

And, if you are wondering, so did Younger.

What You Get

In the midst of some shopping, my husband, Younger, and I visited one of our local restaurants for dinner. Piling into a booth, we glanced at menus and quickly placed orders. Then my husband and Younger reached for their phones. And I frowned mightily until the phones were reluctantly slipped back into pockets. For long moments, the two males in our hunting party simply stared silently into space.

And then Younger looked across the booth at my husband and said, “So, Dad, why is it that water freezes at different temperatures?”

And my forehead thumped against the wood of the table.

I wanted a conversation, and I suppose that’s what I got.

Well, Younger and his father got a conversation. I got ten minutes of drooling semi-consciousness.

Which pretty much resembles our usual dinner dialogues.