Phone-y Baloney

             

After much reminding that, "Cara got a phone when she was in the sixth grade," Ryan is now the relatively happy owner of a cell phone.

I say "relatively" because he really wanted a phone that looked suspiciously like a Nintendo DS.  He also floated the idea of procuring an iPhone.

Cara: "He wants a phone with a data plan?!  I had to wait until I was 16 before I got a data plan!"

I almost wept thinking about how sad it is to be a Salfino kid.  I, on the other hand, somehow made it to the far side of my 40s before obtaining a phone with a data plan.

MOVING ON!

I didn't get my kids phones until sixth grade because I am always dropping them off, picking them up and generally aware of where they are all the time.  Unlike when I was a kid and pretty much every kid in the U.S. was told to turn off the "Mr. Ed" reruns, get out of the house, and not come back until lunch, dinner or "until I call you." And when the moms called for you, they literally just started yelling from the front door.  If you didn't hear her because you were indoors, or wandering aimlessly in the woods, a park or a strange neighborhood, you maybe got lucky if some other kid passed and muttered, "I think I heard your mom."

These days, kids are dropped at school or the bus stop and picked up at the same spot.  They're dropped at their after-school sport or activity, where parents often sit, watch and wait -- both because they feel guilty that they're not more a part of their kids lives, and because car pools are such a hassle to work out, it's somehow easier to suffer through driving their kids both ways.  If kids are actually dropped off at the venue, parents have emails and schedules that tell them exactly when to return.

Which brings me back to my point: if the kids aren't ever left alone, why do they need phones with unlimited talk and texting, never mind a data plan?  Obviously, because they need to keep up with the Joneses.  God, Mom!

A couple of people over the years commended me on not getting Ryan a phone.  "You're raising a normal kid," they'd say.  Actually, I was a) just too cheap to buy him a phone in the first place, b) loathe go on search-and-find missions for a phone he'd undoubtedly lose on a daily basis and c) averse to replacing phones he'd undoubtedly leave somewhere.

                                                      

But I'd just smile and nod.  What was I going to say? "Why would I get that #%! boy a phone?!  He had a DS stolen when he left it at a Five Guys for seven minutes before he realized he didn't have it.  He loses DS games and chargers on a regular basis!  He HAD an iPod that went missing for five months, and the only thing that bothered him about not having it was that he was forced to listen to Mike's old iPod that's loaded with Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones.  Did I mention headphones are as disposable as water bottles to this kid!"

But my son persevered with his phone aspirations.

Ryan: "I'll be able to walk home from school and you won't have to worry about me. When I'm at track, you won't have to wait for me -- and I can call you if we end early.  If I'm in town with a friend, I can call you so you know where I am.  And you can drop me off at the gym and I'll just call you when I'm done.  "

I always had a quick "Negatory" response for all those arguments.  Yet today, he has a phone.  As usual, it was not me who bought it for him.  He appealed to his tech happy dad while they were junking an old TiVo at Best Buy.

He sent his first text to me as he was exiting school, where I was waiting to pick him up: "Can I skip the gym today?"

...And there ya have it.

Morning Rush

I'm a disgrace to my profession.  No, not chauffer-laundress-chef-secretary-social secretary-gardener/landscaper-maid-grocery service.

I'm a disgrace to the fashion industry about which I spend my professional life writing.  I've had this inkling for quite some time.  But it was put into sharp focus today when I read a NY Times article about moms who wear Prada, Gucci and all manner of designer duds to drop off their little darlings at school.

Apparently, it's becoming quite common for NYC moms to bring their kids to school carrying Celine totes and wearing Christian Laboutin shoes -- y'know, the ones with the red soles.  If my shoes are ever red on the bottom, it means Ryan's spilled something and neglected to clean it up.  Again.
 

To be honest, I don't even want to say what I wear when I'm racing my kids to their respective schools.

Before you say, "Why do you need to race these kids to school?," let me just put it out there that our town doesn't have bus service.   We have five elementary schools and one high school.  Somebody, about 100 years ago, had the quaint idea that the children would all walk to their "neighborhood" schools.

Well, many of us in our neighborly town of 18,000+ never got around to regularly having our kids walk.  Especially in the morning.  For us these days, morning is when we're desperately trying to get Cara to school on time, with her 30-pound book backpack, gym sneakers & clothes in a drawstring backpack, tennis gear in another bag and, if she's lucky, a piping hot cup of tea in her hand.

My son's school starts a little later than the high school.  But with much arguing and ranting, I manage to get him and his gear in the car at the same time as Cara, so he's actually early for school every day.  All of which leaves me looking, well, a little rough around the edges.

What I'm not is the Manhattan-style "calculated casual."  I mean, I'm looking casual, but in that "what a slob" kind of way.

It wasn't always like this.  When I used to walk the kids into their pre-school, and in later years when I waited with them until they went into their grammar school doors, I made somewhat of an effort.  It wasn't Rag & Bone jeans with a Prada coat and boots.  But it wasn't my current sleepwear-meets-sweats-meets-"Look away, man!" either.

I'd feel worse except I know I'm not the only person in Rutherford dropping off my kids wearing the Ab Fab combo of pajamas, Merrill slide-ons and my kid's sweat jacket.  You know how I know that?  Every now and then, some idiot kid -- and by "idiot" I mean, "rat bastard out to humiliate his mother" --  leaves his lunch in the car.  You see a mom start to pull away, jam on the brakes, then jump out screaming and waving a lunch bag.  And you think, "There but for the grace of God go I...."

I do manage to brush my teeth -- in case I get pulled over or into an accident.  And I get my contact lenses in -- because I'm too vain to be seen in my glasses if I get pulled over or into an accident.  I yank my hair into a pony tail and rely on Jackie O-sized sunglasses to hide as much of my visage as possible.  If I'm lucky, I HAVE the Merrill shoes on, and I'm not wearing slippers.  Although, that's happened.

Ironic how I worry about getting pulled over by the cops when, apparently, I should be worried about getting written up by the fashion police.  These Manhattan moms are going simple when they pair a shirtdress with ballet flats.  Some of them are considering snapping up some red skinny jeans to wear with their impractically high heels.

Me?  I'll be in my "Mom, dear God, stay in the car and keep the windows rolled up!" garb.  Livin' the dream....