First Mobile Phone

Mobile phones – they’re everywhere. They have taken over our lives, creating social barriers (ask any waitress how many customers they witness sitting opposite each other on their devices) and causing havoc and heartache on the roads.

Unfortunately, there’s no escaping them and hopefully our future generations are educated, like the P addiction which has many in its ghastly grip, on the perils of these devices for they too can be an ominous addiction.

Since starting intermediate, my oldest has been asking for a phone for his birthday. Apparently he is the only one in his vast group of mates without one. At first I was aghast. But after reading an article on mobile phone protocols for youngsters, followed by an incident last week where I was stuck in traffic and 20 minutes late for picking up the boys from cricket practise, I had a re-think.

This morning, Master 11 unwrapped a mobile phone for his birthday. 

Of course he was rapt. I had had a tutu over the weekend, loading my contact, along with a silly photo, before realising it would pop up on his phone every time I rang and it’s respect I’d most-likely be after – not a piss-take. So I replaced it with a more appropriate one and sent him a birthday message to find. I also phoned myself from his phone and loaded his contact, along with a photo into mine. It was strange to see his name on my phone, especially when he didn’t know yet!

I was having fun but decided to wrap it up before I personalised his phone with an embarrassing ring tone and screen saver. During the half-hour before he caught his bus this morning, my phone was going a little crazy with messages from family members for him. So I sent the callers his new number so they could call him direct, and mentioned he was off to catch the bus in five minutes (so they might not get much response from him in front of his friends).

He didn’t recognise his phone subsequently ringing from his pocket and missed them all. But he must’ve got it sorted on the bus for several minutes later my brother text: “He’s not so chatty when with his mates!! 😉”

I well-remember getting my first ‘brick’ for my 21^st birthday. I was home for holidays and opened my present in my room, then thought I’d be funny and ring my mum in the kitchen on the landline to order breakfast in bed. My brick didn’t fit in my pocket so I carried it round the gym with me later that day. Of course I didn’t really need it and I didn’t receive a single call. Not many people had mobile phones back then so I thought I was pretty cool.

In hindsight I wasn’t cool at all and my birthday boy’s phone is a lot flasher and has access to a whole range of things, half of which I am, no doubt oblivious to. Therefore, as I explained to him this morning, it comes with a lot of rules: 1. He conducts chores to pay the $5 a week top-up, 2. No social media until he is around 15, 3. It is to be left on the bench at night and 4. If I suspect he is on websites that I wouldn’t approve of, I am allowed to do a random check of his phone. Privacy of his phone will come later but he is still of an age where supervision is needed while able to access the internet.

Oh and 5. Respectful texts to your mother. I already received one from the bus on his way into school updating me on how many new contacts he had installed since leaving home 15 minutes earlier.

I turned a blind eye to the lack of grammar and asked if he had loaded his uncle’s contact and why wasn’t he very chatty?

“I couldn’t really hear him,” came the reply. “But I did hear him singing Happy Birthday”.

Ah yes, I can imagine the shame in that. Looks like he’s discovered the volume button then.

Beach to Basin

If this tropical cyclone settles then tomorrow we will be running the Beach to Basin. However, this year I feel a bit like I’ve cheated myself, only signing up for the 6.8km run. I have a good excuse – the kids will be running it too, excepting Missy, who, for reasons which will become clear further down, has been booked in to stay at her nana’s.

Last year after ‘turning myself out’ like a horse for the winter and much of the summer, I decided, with three weeks to go, to sign up and start training for the 10km event.

I also added pressure to myself by trying to beat my PB of 49 mins from the previous time five years earlier. But I had my sounds, a comfy pair of running shoes and three weeks training under my belt – everything was going fine. There was the usual flow of youngsters, using their initial burst of energy – Hare and the Tortoise-style – only to run out of steam further down-track and look up surprised when passed by the same geriatrics, pacing themselves, who they had shot past earlier.

Along I plodded making good time, when I rounded a corner and bumped into my daughter with her dad. Unbeknown to me, they had entered the 6.8km version at the last minute and she was not looking too happy about it.

Oh dear. As a mother I was torn. Do I stop and console her or carry on to try and keep time? I settled for a quick hug and some encouraging words before, feeling terrible, carried on around the bridge where, with my finger on the button to start my ‘home-straight song’, I bumped into her twin brother who was in fine spirits. So here I had a dilemma – did I push on for the sake of making the finish line in the allocated time or ditch the PB and slow the pace to take this rare opportunity to run with my son? I looked at his delighted face and it was an easy decision. We ran side-by-side for another kilometre – by far the best part of the journey - before he started to lag to a walk and, good-naturedly, encouraged me to go on.

Again I felt terrible leaving him behind but I looked back and he gave me a big thumbs up so, finally putting on my home-run song, ran the rest of the .5km duration, coming in three minutes late, before running back to encourage him over the finish line.

Big bro had already finished before me and, later, Missy whimpered over the finish line so it was reunions all-round. That split-second decision to forego beating a silly PB created a special moment in time for me and my boy and one we will never forget, the photographer having captured it.

Here’s hoping to create a few more tomorrow.

Opposite Sex

According to my children the opposite sex is disgusting. 

Whether or not they change, or have already changed, their views is not going to make a difference – I have a feeling they will be in outward denial for a long time.

They are constantly giving each other grief about some particular boy or girl in their class, rendering the poor victim pink-cheeked and vehemently denying the accusation.

The oldest came home from his second week at Intermediate with some big news:

“Mum, at the end of Year Eight, we have to ask a girl to dance!” he declared with repulsion.

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“Because some Year Eights on the bus told us.”

I’m not sure if they were just taking the Micky but I decided to go with it. His utter dismay was amusing.

“So who are you going to ask?”

“No one!” Then: “Can I take you?”

Well this was saying something, considering I’m one of those embarrassing mothers.

“Sure,” I beamed.

It’s actually a good thing my kids aren’t early bloomers, like some of their classmates who follow them round with crazed crushes, much to their embarrassment. Thankfully, Master Ten is way more into his cat, affectionately re-named “Baby Girl”, who can do no wrong in his eyes.

As soon as Bella (her real name) walks into the room, it’s like a celebrity has stepped into our midst.

“Baby Girl!” one will announce and they all jump off their perches in front of the square box to mob her.

Today at 1am there was an almighty crash and I leapt out of bed to investigate. Too blurry-eyed to find the crash casualty, I focused on the culprit instead: ‘Baby Girl’ leaping from the windowsill, having arrived, rather ungainly, through her Master’s window.

“Meow” she announced in her overly loud pitch, to which all the kids sat bolt upright in their beds and simultaneously called her. But Baby Girl was more interested in making a beeline for upstairs to check out the contents of her dish, before making her way back down to my bed to annoyingly lie across my face.

The next morning I remembered to mention to Master Ten to check for any carnage in his room. He returned a little sombre.

“Bella has broken all my Lego base and my big space ship – now I’m gonna have to start again.”

It was true – his room is Lego Central and hours and hours of work had been destroyed in an instant.

But unlike when I accidentally broke his Lego jet boat while doing the hoovering one day, after which he didn’t speak to me for several hours, apart from reverting to her full name, his prized cat went unpunished.

Nevertheless, even if I am second-best in his eyes, at least Baby Girl won’t be accompanying him to the school dance, if indeed there is such a thing.