Beat This

At the risk of ruining my street cred, I’m going to tell you the truth: I don’t have an iPhone.

I’ll pause here, so you can judge.

{whistling out of tune}

Shall we go on?

My family has what the phone companies now refer to as “basic phones” – slidey phones with a teeny keyboard. We text and make calls with them. Well, CC and I make calls, but the kids only communicate via text. #3 once texted us from the bathroom when she was throwing up in the middle of the night. We didn’t get the message until morning.

The reason for the lack of smart phones is purely financial. Right now, braces and getting everyone back to school fully supplied are higher priorities than being able to check email in a public restroom or block pedestrians by looking up movie times while walking around the city.

I don’t look at the cell phone bill every month. Because we block all data and have unlimited texting, it’s always pretty much the same.

Eventually though, I do look at a bill and discover that #3 has managed to send 18,749 texts IN ONE MONTH. I am not making this up. She’s thirteen. I’m astounded, impressed, and appalled all at once. Thank god for unlimited texting. Still.

I immediately go around my workplace and tell every single person and then post it on Facebook. Everyone, even teenagers, agree that it is A LOT of texts. More than twice what even the most prolific texters produce.

When I get home I call #3 into the dining room. I sit her down with a pencil and a piece of paper.

Me: Did you know that you sent 18,749 texts last month?

#3: {mouth drops open}

Me: Let’s pretend that you follow the rules and don’t text in school.

#3: Ummm, okay. Sure, let’s do that.

Me: And let’s pretend that you sleep eight hours a night and aren’t texting boys at two in the morning.

#3: {looks guiltily at floor}

Me: Take away the time that you’re playing sports and eating dinner and that leaves how many hours in a day?

#3: {adds and subtracts figures} Sometimes four and sometimes eight or a little more on weekends.

Me: Let’s just call it seven per day. Now, how many free texting hours would you have in a week?

#3: 49?

Me: Good work! How about in four weeks?

#3: {scribbles} 196?

Me: Okay. Divide your total number of texts sent by your total number of available texting hours.

#3: Wait, what?

Me: 18,749 divided by 196.

#3: Can I use a-

Me: No, you can’t use a calculator.

She does much scribbling and eye rolling, but I am holding her phone hostage, so she is motivated. It hasn’t stopped buzzing since I took it.

#3: 95.6 something.

Me: You’re sending almost a hundred texts an hour! Don’t you think that’s too many?

She lights up with one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen on her.

In this moment I know everything I have been trying to do has backfired. She’s so proud of herself. Here is an achievement that far surpasses what any of her friends have done. Nobody can touch this.

I stand my ground. I am nothing if not tenacious. I summon up all my follow-through and channel my own mother’s voice as best I can, and say the only thing I can come up with. I hand her back her phone and say, “Make it less.”

And she has. The numbers still come in well over 10,000 but they are, in fact, under 18,749. She was without a phone all summer because it was broken. She texted it to death.

cellphone-repair-shop.com

Her 18, 749 texts pale in comparison to stories like this, but it’s still quite an accomplishment.

How many texts do you send in a month? What battles have you lost with your teens?

It All Started Out With Bad Directions

#1 had a doctor’s appointment today and I looked up the directions for her. In my defense, I didn’t do anything to her that I wouldn’t have done to myself. Had it been me driving, the same thing would have happened. Well, up to a point anyway. She got lost, missed her appointment, and it’s my fault. So here are some pictures, a little visual salad of my past week, while I wait for her to find her way home again.

#2’s Choir concert. She’s in the front row on the far right. She was good, and she looked like she was having fun up there (neither one of those really comes through in the picture). I harassed the tech guys (adults) at the booth during intermission and gave them our info in case they need any help. They looked kinda relieved. I’m not quite sure what I’ve gotten myself into.

*************************************

Casey, listing to starboard on a basket of clean laundry. She gets more sausage-like every day.

**************************************

Gratuitous Tiny Nephew baby foot picture.

*************************************

    

These are shots of the room that #3 & #4 share, before we spent a few hours on it. Believe it or not, this wasn’t that bad. We gathered four baskets of laundry, two bags of trash, and two bags of donations.

*************************************

    

Action shots of the puggles unmaking my bed. Casey wraps up like a burrito and Jack jumps on her head and then they bite each other’s faces through the bedspread. Neat.

*************************************

Picture my sister sent me on my phone. Look familiar? Slightly-Larger Nephew strikes again.

*************************************

Herbs that CC planted before work. This makes me very happy. We have a bajillion deer and planting in boxes on the deck is the only way to keep plant things from being eaten prematurely by animal things that aren’t us.

**************************************

And finally, the silver Mystery Utensil my mom gave me for Mother’s Day (I had to have my sister mail it to me because I was flying with only a carry on bag and I was sure it looked weapon-like, considering how bothered they were by my tea canister on the way out). I know what it is only because my mom told me when she gave it to me. This thing was the highlight of my Memorial Day. Anyone here know what it is?

That’s all I got.  Happy Wednesday!

For Cryin’ Out Loud (a Mother’s Day Post)

When I was a kid, I used to roll my eyes at my mom because she cried at everything. TV commercial for orange juice? She’s crying. Cute picture of puppies? Crying. Now it’s me. I cry at softball games, middle school plays, honor roll, high school concerts, library day, clay, 5th grade promotions, ice cream, swim lessons, parent/teacher conferences, and the 2nd grade wax museum. I can’t even attend Back to School Night without crying. The moms at our school like to give me a hard time about it, in that good natured way that only true Jersey broads can do. What can I say? I’m a sap. You can imagine what Mother’s Day does to me.

Mother’s Day is always a little weird in my head. Nobody in my family ever leaves me out; on the contrary, CC and the kids always do something over-the-top nice.

Often as a stepmom I feel like a hypocrite, as if I’m totally faking my way through this parenting thing that I am completely unqualified for. There must be a million other people that could do this better. I didn’t take a test, there was no apprenticeship, and I am baffled that anyone thinks it’s okay for me to help raise children. Yet it seems that at my darkest moments I meet real parents who tell me that sometimes that’s what being a parent feels like.

On Mother’s Day in particular I’m acutely aware of my shortcomings. I’m hypersensitive to that other maternal semi-absence in their lives that I can never fill, or fix. The thing about absences is that our minds fill in the gaps with details that are not entirely true. I compare myself to ideal images of  ideal mothers that no one ever asked me to emulate and fall far short. Then, just when I’m really feeling like a piece of crap, the kids give me something that says that they like me.

One year CC and the kids gave me personal training sessions at our community center, something I’d wanted since I became aware of the twenty pounds that showed up shortly after they came to live with us. Last year they gave me an iPad. Sometimes I get the feeling they’re scared I’ll leave. But I think they know I’m easily bought with homemade chocolate chip cookies. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t need the trainer.

My favorite gifts without a doubt are the things that come home from school. I am honored beyond words that they give me this stuff, and I’ve kept every last card, paperweight, ornament, and macaroni art.

This year, the awesome thing they did for me is let me leave. I’m back in Indy seeing my shiny new nephew:

Look at those ears!

And that itty-bitty foot!

I got to give my own Mother’s Day cards to my own Mom and Stepmom in person, which is good, because I’m also a crappy daughter, quite possibly a worse daughter than I am a parent, and I never mail that stuff out on time.

Before I left for Indy, there was a moment when the kids all suddenly realized that the trip I had mentioned was happening on the same weekend as Mother’s Day.

#2: NOOOO! YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!!!

That may not sound like a gift to the outside observer, but trust me, it totally is. #1 had a similar comment and even pouted a little. I was touched. I’ve thrown off their plans, whatever they were, and so I’ve already won.

#3 keeps trying to string me along, speaking cryptically about the thing she made me in school, much like I try to do to her at Christmas and her birthday. She doesn’t know it but she already gave me the best gift ever by finally selecting an appropriate dress for the Bar Mitzvah she’s invited to later this month, as opposed to her previous selections which were appropriate only for getting a fake ID and stealing a car to go into the city on a ten-day bender.

#4 asked if she could give me part of my gift before I left. She had made an awesome card on full-size posterboard that had this on the back:

"My fail Gene Simmons. But I do my fails with LOVE."

 (I realized while uploading this picture that at some point on this blog I will have to explain about #4 and I bonding over KISS.)

Most worried by the realization that I would be gone on Mother’s Day was #5. He walked into the kitchen and placed a tissue-paper-wrapped bundle and a card on the counter in front of the coffee pot, and then kind of backed away and looked at the floor. There was a gift tag on the package that said some crap about a mother’s light and I couldn’t get any farther than that because I was already tearing up. I unwrapped the bundle. It was a votive holder that he had decorated with dried flowers and paper, so that it would glow when you lit the candle. It was really cool. (It also explained why he walked up to me the other day and asked, “Are you allergic to any kinds of flowers?”) At this point, he made sure to show me that there was a candle inside, and told me if any paper came up over the top of the glass to tear it off so it wouldn’t catch on fire.

Then I read the card. I knew as soon as I saw that careful, super-neat printing, that I was done for. And I was; it was the sweetest card anybody could ever hope to get and I was a damned faucet. And then I got to the part after he signed his name:

P.S. I love you more than bacon.

If you need me, I’ll be at Costco setting up camp in the aisle with the tissues.