2018 has been a banner year of civic involvement for the Mom of No. I have been called up for jury duty not once, but twice- once for municipal court and once for the county.
The last time I was called up for jury duty I had just delivered The Teenager, and since I knew I was going back to work before the date of my summons I couldn't claim the exemption of having to take care of a child, but I did have a logistical question that would need to be addressed. I called the information number on the summons and explained the problem to the sweet clerk who answered the phone.
"You'll need to do what, honey?" she asked me, sounding uncertain.
"Express breast milk". I told her. "I'm nursing an infant. I have a pump, that's not a problem. But I need a room with an electrical outlet, and about 20 minutes of uninterrupted time".
"No one has ever asked me this question before", she said, and then put me on hold. When she came back she told me not to worry about it; they'd excuse me and call me back at a later date for jury duty.
Apparently someone found out that my children are now teenagers; after 17 years, they finally got around to summoning me once again to perform my civic duty as an upstanding citizen.
"Tell them you already know the defendant is guilty", the Grandpa of No advised me. I'm not sure if he was serious or not. A friend of mine told me that he'd been a juror on a trial for embezzlement that had lasted over a week and involved a lot of accounting minutiae that he wasn't sure anyone really understood. Jury duty is one of those adulting experiences in America that almost everyone seems to have a story about.
I was fine with the municipal court summons, but the date the county had assigned me was a week before we went on vacation. I had a lot of work to do, and I was going to have to drive down a perpetually under construction freeway which has acquired renown for unexpected detours, accidents, and loose flying gravel cracking windshields. I was a reluctant potential juror. However, none of the exemptions applied to me so the day arrived and off I went.
I showed up at the appointed time, sat in a chair in a room with about 300 other potential jurors, and waited patiently for the proceedings to begin. As part of the jury selection process, we were shown a video about the importance of jurors to the American legal system. As I watched the video, I started to feel badly about my initial reluctance. I was going to be part of a tradition going all the way back to King John of England and the Magna Carta! This was truly inspirational stuff! Being a juror is an important part of citizenship, and I was doing my part by being present in that room!
Then the video talked about the great responsibility of a juror, and how your decisions had a life impact on other people. I started to worry. Suppose I made a bad decision? If I got selected, I would potentially change the trajectory of someone's entire life. Suppose we didn't all agree on the verdict? What happened then? Could I put my tendency towards introversion in groups of strangers aside and speak eloquently and persuasively to my fellow jurors about what I thought?
(Side note: I have been told that sometimes I have a tendency to overthink things).
Finally the clerk came out and started calling names chosen by random selection and assigning those individuals to a court. The part of me that was inspired by the video wanted to call out "Pick me! Pick me!" The part of me that was worried about not being able to go on vacation because I'd probably end up getting selected for the Trial of The Century wanted to run and hide.
I sat and listened intently to the clerk calling out the names of the individuals selected. It was obvious that in the jury room on that day were a huge variety of people from all kinds of backgrounds, ethnicities and cultures, taking time from their daily routine to fulfill their obligations as a citizen just like I was. That thought was rather inspirational as well. However, every time the clerk finished calling out a series of names, I was still a bit relieved that I hadn't been called. Pick me! No, don't pick me! I couldn't decide what I wanted.
Finally the clerk announced that anyone who had not been called was free to go. I was done! The random name selector had not chosen me. I was a little relieved, and a little disappointed. I headed back to the freeway of vehicular destruction and made my way home safely, having performed my duty as a responsible citizen.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Vacation Time
The Family of No recently went on our summer beach vacation. We all had a great time, relaxing on the beach as the waves crashed onto the shore and pelicans flew overhead, diving for fish in the surf. The Son of Never Stops Eating built sandcastles and I added some new birds to my life list. Everything went well, except some minor sunburn pain and some traffic on the way home which was only to be expected since our route took us right through two major cities.
However, the preparation to go on vacation turns me into the Mom of Everything Must be Sparkling Clean in This House. When I am preparing to go on vacation, I feel the strong urge to leave my house in pristine condition. Beds should be made (preferably with clean sheets); the refrigerator should be nearly empty except for stuff that has a long life, like mustard; and everything should be swept, dusted, and put away in its place. Bills should be all paid and all library books should be returned prior to departure. The e-mail in-box, both at work and at home, should be cleared of all messages. Absolutely no task must be left undone.
I suspect that the family mutt knows when we are going on vacation when I start cleaning out the fridge. She stands by the open refrigerator door looking sad and I know she knows that her people are leaving her for several days. Either that, or she is interpreting the open refrigerator to mean that she might possibly get a piece of cheese if she manages to look cute enough. That dog's motto in life is "You can never have too much cheese".
I instructed the teenagers to clean their rooms before departure, and all I can say about that is that their definition of proper pre-vacation cleaning is definitely different than my definition of proper pre-vacation cleaning, although the Son of Never Stops Eating did put all of his Legos in one large pile on his bedroom floor after some maternal nagging.
That's not what I mean by clean your room, I told him.
Mom, who cares? he responded. Why do you want us to clean the house so much? If someone breaks into the house they won't care how clean it is!
About two hours before departure, he came to report that he did not have enough shorts to take on vacation with him. They were all too small. This, despite my constant questioning (ok, nagging) during the two weeks prior to vacation about do you have everything? Do we need to go get anything? Tell me now! I don't want to hear about it two hours before we leave this house!
That can't be right, I told him. I know you have shorts that fit because we just bought some a couple of months ago. What happened to those shorts?
I don't know, he replied. They're somewhere. I don't know what happened to them. Maybe they disappeared in the washing machine.
After donning my hazmat gear and embarking on an investigative foray into his closet, I discovered the new shorts wadded up in a ball on a shelf. These shorts? I asked him, holding them up. Remember, we bought these shorts? Ooohhh, he replied, staring at them like he'd never seen them before in his life, I forgot about THOSE!
Packing crisis averted.
Finally, we were ready to leave. The fridge was clean, the gas tank was full, the luggage was packed neatly in the back of the car along with the sand castle building supplies and the beach chairs, and everyone had all their technology and charger cords. We pulled out of the driveway, ready to hit the open road. About a mile down the road, we had one more crisis to avert: did we or did we not lock the garage door?
You know how this works: if you don't go back and check, the door is unlocked. If you do go back and check, the door was locked. We went back to check, because it wouldn't be a Family of No road trip without having to go back home one last time. The door was, of course, locked.
The second departure was the charm, and soon we were on the beach, relaxing, building sand castles, and jumping in the surf. When we got home several days later, all was well, until I told the Son of Never Stops Eating that I'd seen school supplies out on a refrigerator restocking run. Vacation was over.
However, the preparation to go on vacation turns me into the Mom of Everything Must be Sparkling Clean in This House. When I am preparing to go on vacation, I feel the strong urge to leave my house in pristine condition. Beds should be made (preferably with clean sheets); the refrigerator should be nearly empty except for stuff that has a long life, like mustard; and everything should be swept, dusted, and put away in its place. Bills should be all paid and all library books should be returned prior to departure. The e-mail in-box, both at work and at home, should be cleared of all messages. Absolutely no task must be left undone.
I suspect that the family mutt knows when we are going on vacation when I start cleaning out the fridge. She stands by the open refrigerator door looking sad and I know she knows that her people are leaving her for several days. Either that, or she is interpreting the open refrigerator to mean that she might possibly get a piece of cheese if she manages to look cute enough. That dog's motto in life is "You can never have too much cheese".
I instructed the teenagers to clean their rooms before departure, and all I can say about that is that their definition of proper pre-vacation cleaning is definitely different than my definition of proper pre-vacation cleaning, although the Son of Never Stops Eating did put all of his Legos in one large pile on his bedroom floor after some maternal nagging.
That's not what I mean by clean your room, I told him.
Mom, who cares? he responded. Why do you want us to clean the house so much? If someone breaks into the house they won't care how clean it is!
About two hours before departure, he came to report that he did not have enough shorts to take on vacation with him. They were all too small. This, despite my constant questioning (ok, nagging) during the two weeks prior to vacation about do you have everything? Do we need to go get anything? Tell me now! I don't want to hear about it two hours before we leave this house!
That can't be right, I told him. I know you have shorts that fit because we just bought some a couple of months ago. What happened to those shorts?
I don't know, he replied. They're somewhere. I don't know what happened to them. Maybe they disappeared in the washing machine.
After donning my hazmat gear and embarking on an investigative foray into his closet, I discovered the new shorts wadded up in a ball on a shelf. These shorts? I asked him, holding them up. Remember, we bought these shorts? Ooohhh, he replied, staring at them like he'd never seen them before in his life, I forgot about THOSE!
Packing crisis averted.
Finally, we were ready to leave. The fridge was clean, the gas tank was full, the luggage was packed neatly in the back of the car along with the sand castle building supplies and the beach chairs, and everyone had all their technology and charger cords. We pulled out of the driveway, ready to hit the open road. About a mile down the road, we had one more crisis to avert: did we or did we not lock the garage door?
You know how this works: if you don't go back and check, the door is unlocked. If you do go back and check, the door was locked. We went back to check, because it wouldn't be a Family of No road trip without having to go back home one last time. The door was, of course, locked.
The second departure was the charm, and soon we were on the beach, relaxing, building sand castles, and jumping in the surf. When we got home several days later, all was well, until I told the Son of Never Stops Eating that I'd seen school supplies out on a refrigerator restocking run. Vacation was over.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Not the Mom Judge
A few weeks ago, a Facebook friend of mine posted a link to an online "mommy" article. It was one of those "Dear Fellow Mom, let me explain all the stuff you are doing wrong and I am doing right" columns that gives advice to other mothers on how we should all be raising our little cherubs. In this case, it took the form of a mom who had observed another family allowing their offspring to use their technology while eating a meal in public, and this mom took the opportunity to explain to other parents why, based on a one-time short term observation, she felt that letting your kids play on their technology during dinner in a restaurant is a BAD IDEA and you should NOT DO IT.
Um, uh-oh. You better send me that application for the Bad Mom Club, because I definitely qualify for membership on that criteria. Although, now that I think about it, I probably joined the Bad Mom Club years ago. Disregard that application.
The day the Son of Never Stops Eating discovered Angry Birds, it was like a gift from Above. I loaded up the app on an old iPhone and took it with me wherever I went. If he started getting a little impatient and I wasn't done with what I needed to do, out came the Angry Birds phone. I'm sure someone, somewhere, looked at the kid blissfully playing Angry Birds (sound turned way down, of course- I do have some compassion for my fellow human beings) and thought, what a terrible mother that woman must be, letting her kid play Angry Birds while (fill in activity). It was either that or thirty minutes of "Are we done yet? I'm done. Let's go, Mom. Time to go. I'm done. Talking is closed. Are we done yet?". Pick one.
For some reason, those articles become less frequent the older the kids get, or maybe I just notice them less, but that is one good thing about having teenagers as opposed to small kids: either there is less Mom judging, or I'm just at the point in my Mom career where I'm purposefully oblivious to it because I have other stuff on my mind, like nagging my teenager about college applications or wondering why there is no milk in the fridge when I know that we bought four gallons two days ago.
A few months ago, I was in a restaurant with The Teenager after a campus tour. We were both wiped out and ravenously hungry after hiking about six miles all over a college campus while listening to a perky student tour guide explain why this particular university was an amazing place, and all we could think about was food. When we sat down after ordering, a younger mother with a very cute little boy sat down near us, and the little boy started doing what little boys do: he got up and started moving around.
What I was thinking: Boy, do I wish I had that much energy, because, oy vey, my feet are killing me and my brain is on information overload.
She looked over at me and, looking bashful, apologized for her son. I suspect she might have been expecting a torrent of Mom judging. I just laughed and told her not to worry about it. I was honestly so tired that a circus could have set up shop in that restaurant and the only thing on my mind would have been "Feet hurt. Bring food".
At least her son was fully dressed. I once chased a naked toddler around a department store while the toddler yelled gleefully, "Pants are OFF!" and other shoppers stood with mouths gaping wide open at the very public demonstration of my inept mothering skills, so I am definitely in no position to judge anyone else's parenting technique. That might have actually been when I first joined the Bad Mom Club.
So, to all the young mothers out there, just know this: you don't need to apologize to me for your little kids being little kids. Other people might express annoyance, or start telling you what you really should be doing. If you see me looking at you, I'm probably mentally reminiscing about the days my own kids were young and doing pretty much the same things your kids are probably doing right now. So if you need to pull out your version of the Angry Birds phone to get something accomplished, go for it. I'm certainly not going to judge you.
Um, uh-oh. You better send me that application for the Bad Mom Club, because I definitely qualify for membership on that criteria. Although, now that I think about it, I probably joined the Bad Mom Club years ago. Disregard that application.
The day the Son of Never Stops Eating discovered Angry Birds, it was like a gift from Above. I loaded up the app on an old iPhone and took it with me wherever I went. If he started getting a little impatient and I wasn't done with what I needed to do, out came the Angry Birds phone. I'm sure someone, somewhere, looked at the kid blissfully playing Angry Birds (sound turned way down, of course- I do have some compassion for my fellow human beings) and thought, what a terrible mother that woman must be, letting her kid play Angry Birds while (fill in activity). It was either that or thirty minutes of "Are we done yet? I'm done. Let's go, Mom. Time to go. I'm done. Talking is closed. Are we done yet?". Pick one.
For some reason, those articles become less frequent the older the kids get, or maybe I just notice them less, but that is one good thing about having teenagers as opposed to small kids: either there is less Mom judging, or I'm just at the point in my Mom career where I'm purposefully oblivious to it because I have other stuff on my mind, like nagging my teenager about college applications or wondering why there is no milk in the fridge when I know that we bought four gallons two days ago.
A few months ago, I was in a restaurant with The Teenager after a campus tour. We were both wiped out and ravenously hungry after hiking about six miles all over a college campus while listening to a perky student tour guide explain why this particular university was an amazing place, and all we could think about was food. When we sat down after ordering, a younger mother with a very cute little boy sat down near us, and the little boy started doing what little boys do: he got up and started moving around.
What I was thinking: Boy, do I wish I had that much energy, because, oy vey, my feet are killing me and my brain is on information overload.
She looked over at me and, looking bashful, apologized for her son. I suspect she might have been expecting a torrent of Mom judging. I just laughed and told her not to worry about it. I was honestly so tired that a circus could have set up shop in that restaurant and the only thing on my mind would have been "Feet hurt. Bring food".
At least her son was fully dressed. I once chased a naked toddler around a department store while the toddler yelled gleefully, "Pants are OFF!" and other shoppers stood with mouths gaping wide open at the very public demonstration of my inept mothering skills, so I am definitely in no position to judge anyone else's parenting technique. That might have actually been when I first joined the Bad Mom Club.
So, to all the young mothers out there, just know this: you don't need to apologize to me for your little kids being little kids. Other people might express annoyance, or start telling you what you really should be doing. If you see me looking at you, I'm probably mentally reminiscing about the days my own kids were young and doing pretty much the same things your kids are probably doing right now. So if you need to pull out your version of the Angry Birds phone to get something accomplished, go for it. I'm certainly not going to judge you.
Sunday, July 9, 2017
Let the Plans Begin
As the Teenager moves into her senior year and starts to make those important decisions about what she's going to do after high school, I keep thinking that in three years, I will have another rising senior in high school, but his senior year experience will likely be very different. As a parent with one typical kid and one kid on the autism spectrum, I've learned that transitions can be bittersweet- as one prepares to fledge the nest, I'm reminded anew that the other nestling will probably be sticking around for awhile.
As long as he leaves me enough milk for my morning coffee, he's welcome to stay, but he can't stay in our nest forever.
I've recently seen several articles about "autism-friendly" master-planned developments being planned or built. These planned communities offer lovely homes, employment and transition planning, social skills therapy and recreation opportunities, and almost anything else that a young adult with autism could possibly want. These communities seem wonderful, and they do present a solution to those with the resources to make it work.
However, what gets lost in social media, in the articles about how wonderful these communities are that leave people with a glowing feel-good sensation of success- problem solved, moving on now, nothing to see here- is that the cost is high; it's out of reach for many families (including the Family of No), and it's not a temporary expense.
As I watch friends whose kids who are on the spectrum and who are slightly older than the Son of Never Stops Eating begin to transition out of adolescence into early adulthood, it becomes clear that the rumors are true; the need is great and growing and that the resources are few. Because autism is a spectrum, needs vary significantly. The needs of adults with autism are not issues with easy resolutions. This great need is not an issue that gets the voters stirred up; adults with autism don't have powerful lobbies or money to contribute to political campaigns. Especially in the current political environment, one message is clear: if you have an adolescent with autism, you are on your own.
The Son of Never Stops Eating will likely be very capable of living independently with some moderate supports, although he might eat a lot of cheese sandwiches and skip the veggies more than his mother might like. In his ideal home, he has lots of hamsters (unlike his parents' house, with a strict One Hamster At a Time rule) and a room just for Legos. However, that isn't true of everyone. Some individuals need less assistance; some will need a great deal more.
It isn't just housing that must be considered. I don't know yet if the Son of Never Stops Eating will be able to drive, but if he can't, then he will need to be able to access mass transportation or live somewhere he can walk to work. It also needs to be affordable; which is a challenge in itself in our rapidly growing area. He will need to be able to access medical care, the grocery store, his favorite Big Box store, a bank, and perhaps most importantly (at least to him) a good donut shop.
Determining how much he can work without losing the benefits that will be enabling him to work in the first place- like job coaching- is like trying to untie a Gordian knot of government rules and regulations with one hand tied behind your back. His current job of choice, "Taking care of hamsters", has possibilities but none that will pay all his bills. He'll need an understanding employer and co-workers who don't mind a conversation (or several) about "The Simpsons" or "The Loud House".
Finally, he will need to find his community- friends, recreational opportunities, people who know him and will watch out for him.
Our family still has a few years to work on our son's transition plan. I know all too well that these years are going to zoom on by. I also suspect, because nothing autism-related is ever easy, that other issues will arise in our planning which I am, as of yet, blissfully unaware. Like many before us, we are beginning the hike up the mountain of transition to adulthood planning with a faded map and few signs to mark the trail. However, it is time to start the journey; we shall see where the trail takes us.
As long as he leaves me enough milk for my morning coffee, he's welcome to stay, but he can't stay in our nest forever.
I've recently seen several articles about "autism-friendly" master-planned developments being planned or built. These planned communities offer lovely homes, employment and transition planning, social skills therapy and recreation opportunities, and almost anything else that a young adult with autism could possibly want. These communities seem wonderful, and they do present a solution to those with the resources to make it work.
However, what gets lost in social media, in the articles about how wonderful these communities are that leave people with a glowing feel-good sensation of success- problem solved, moving on now, nothing to see here- is that the cost is high; it's out of reach for many families (including the Family of No), and it's not a temporary expense.
As I watch friends whose kids who are on the spectrum and who are slightly older than the Son of Never Stops Eating begin to transition out of adolescence into early adulthood, it becomes clear that the rumors are true; the need is great and growing and that the resources are few. Because autism is a spectrum, needs vary significantly. The needs of adults with autism are not issues with easy resolutions. This great need is not an issue that gets the voters stirred up; adults with autism don't have powerful lobbies or money to contribute to political campaigns. Especially in the current political environment, one message is clear: if you have an adolescent with autism, you are on your own.
The Son of Never Stops Eating will likely be very capable of living independently with some moderate supports, although he might eat a lot of cheese sandwiches and skip the veggies more than his mother might like. In his ideal home, he has lots of hamsters (unlike his parents' house, with a strict One Hamster At a Time rule) and a room just for Legos. However, that isn't true of everyone. Some individuals need less assistance; some will need a great deal more.
It isn't just housing that must be considered. I don't know yet if the Son of Never Stops Eating will be able to drive, but if he can't, then he will need to be able to access mass transportation or live somewhere he can walk to work. It also needs to be affordable; which is a challenge in itself in our rapidly growing area. He will need to be able to access medical care, the grocery store, his favorite Big Box store, a bank, and perhaps most importantly (at least to him) a good donut shop.
Determining how much he can work without losing the benefits that will be enabling him to work in the first place- like job coaching- is like trying to untie a Gordian knot of government rules and regulations with one hand tied behind your back. His current job of choice, "Taking care of hamsters", has possibilities but none that will pay all his bills. He'll need an understanding employer and co-workers who don't mind a conversation (or several) about "The Simpsons" or "The Loud House".
Finally, he will need to find his community- friends, recreational opportunities, people who know him and will watch out for him.
Our family still has a few years to work on our son's transition plan. I know all too well that these years are going to zoom on by. I also suspect, because nothing autism-related is ever easy, that other issues will arise in our planning which I am, as of yet, blissfully unaware. Like many before us, we are beginning the hike up the mountain of transition to adulthood planning with a faded map and few signs to mark the trail. However, it is time to start the journey; we shall see where the trail takes us.
Monday, July 3, 2017
Data Limit
Way back in the olden days, before Wi-Fi and smartphones, back when a word processor was a typewriter and if you wanted to listen to music on the go you had to get a device that would play cassette tapes, the Mom of No was a teenager with a part-time job.
Every two weeks I'd get paid, and then I'd head to the mall to spend my hard earned fortune on clothes and accessories, because that was what you did if you were a teenaged girl in the 1980's; you spent your money on neon Flashdance-styled sweatshirts, hair spray for that big hair look, and jelly shoes to go with your jumpsuits. I owned a yellow and black jumpsuit that I considered at the time to be the height of fashion, but now I look at photos of me wearing it and realize that I really looked like a tall bumblebee with extremely fluffy hair. My mother probably tried to warn me and I probably rolled my eyes at her and muttered "whatever" under my breath.
No, I'm not telling anyone where those photos are. They exist. That's all you're going to get.
Evidently things have changed considerably, because teenagers- at least the ones living in the Household of No- don't spend their money on clothes. One spends it all on Legos, and the other spends it on Starbucks and data.
If you had told me back in the 1980's that in about 30 years I'd have a teenager who spent her money on food and data, my reactions probably would have been, "Huh? Data? Like, where do you buy that? I've never seen a data store at the mall. And what is Starbucks? Coffee drinks? Oh, gag me with a spoon!".
When the Teenager got her first smartphone- claiming that she needed it "for school",with the age-old claim (that actually ended up to be true in this instance) that "everyone has a smartphone except me"- I added her to the family data plan and told her what her data limit was. I was confident that she would not need more than the amount of data the plan provided; she had Wi-Fi at home and Wi-Fi at school, and who sits around playing on their phones when they're hanging out with their friends or out in places where there is no Wi-Fi? After all, the purported use of this device was for "schoolwork".
Ha ha ha. I was clearly the Mom of Naïve about Technology, because it soon became readily apparent that this phone was going to get a lot of use. Almost immediately, I started getting text messages from the Household of No's cell phone service provider about "data use alerts". Apparently, data was needed to listen to music while walking to and from school, and on the bus to band activities, and the "Wi-Fi speed at school isn't very good", and I learned that watching videos apparently eats a lot of data.
When I formulated retorts to these arguments about why the data amount allocated to teenager use wasn't actually sufficient, I realized I was starting to sound like the Grandpa of No. Why do you have to listen to music while walking around? The chirping of the birds isn't enough music for you? Why are you using your phone at school? Aren't you supposed to be paying attention in class? Do you ever actually talk to people, or do you just sit around on your phone looking at pictures of kittens and people doing insane stunts on You-Tube?
Then the Teenager acquired a part-time job. The first month she went over her data limit (twice), and I informed her that she owed me $20. It's a good thing you have a job, I told her. Now you can pay for your own data.
OK, she said, shrugging. Just take it out of my debit account when I get paid.
You realize you worked almost three hours to pay for that data, right? I asked her. Twenty bucks for something that isn't even real.
MOM! I said I'd pay for it! she responded in that "Mom! Whatever!" tone of voice parents of teenagers know all so well.
I now understand how my mother probably felt when she tried to warn me about the bumblebee jumpsuit in the dressing room at Macy's 30 years ago. Now when I think about that atrocious fashion mistake, I wish I had saved my money instead- but at the time it seemed like the best possible use of my hard-earned wages. As the Grandma of No said so many years ago when I would make dubious (to her) purchases with my own cash, "Hey, it's your money!".
At least data doesn't clutter up her room, get left on the floor, or outgrown. It doesn't fall out of fashion two days after it was bought, or become part of embarrassing photos from the 1980's best hidden away in old photo albums and stored in some undisclosed location.
Every two weeks I'd get paid, and then I'd head to the mall to spend my hard earned fortune on clothes and accessories, because that was what you did if you were a teenaged girl in the 1980's; you spent your money on neon Flashdance-styled sweatshirts, hair spray for that big hair look, and jelly shoes to go with your jumpsuits. I owned a yellow and black jumpsuit that I considered at the time to be the height of fashion, but now I look at photos of me wearing it and realize that I really looked like a tall bumblebee with extremely fluffy hair. My mother probably tried to warn me and I probably rolled my eyes at her and muttered "whatever" under my breath.
No, I'm not telling anyone where those photos are. They exist. That's all you're going to get.
Evidently things have changed considerably, because teenagers- at least the ones living in the Household of No- don't spend their money on clothes. One spends it all on Legos, and the other spends it on Starbucks and data.
If you had told me back in the 1980's that in about 30 years I'd have a teenager who spent her money on food and data, my reactions probably would have been, "Huh? Data? Like, where do you buy that? I've never seen a data store at the mall. And what is Starbucks? Coffee drinks? Oh, gag me with a spoon!".
When the Teenager got her first smartphone- claiming that she needed it "for school",with the age-old claim (that actually ended up to be true in this instance) that "everyone has a smartphone except me"- I added her to the family data plan and told her what her data limit was. I was confident that she would not need more than the amount of data the plan provided; she had Wi-Fi at home and Wi-Fi at school, and who sits around playing on their phones when they're hanging out with their friends or out in places where there is no Wi-Fi? After all, the purported use of this device was for "schoolwork".
Ha ha ha. I was clearly the Mom of Naïve about Technology, because it soon became readily apparent that this phone was going to get a lot of use. Almost immediately, I started getting text messages from the Household of No's cell phone service provider about "data use alerts". Apparently, data was needed to listen to music while walking to and from school, and on the bus to band activities, and the "Wi-Fi speed at school isn't very good", and I learned that watching videos apparently eats a lot of data.
When I formulated retorts to these arguments about why the data amount allocated to teenager use wasn't actually sufficient, I realized I was starting to sound like the Grandpa of No. Why do you have to listen to music while walking around? The chirping of the birds isn't enough music for you? Why are you using your phone at school? Aren't you supposed to be paying attention in class? Do you ever actually talk to people, or do you just sit around on your phone looking at pictures of kittens and people doing insane stunts on You-Tube?
Then the Teenager acquired a part-time job. The first month she went over her data limit (twice), and I informed her that she owed me $20. It's a good thing you have a job, I told her. Now you can pay for your own data.
OK, she said, shrugging. Just take it out of my debit account when I get paid.
You realize you worked almost three hours to pay for that data, right? I asked her. Twenty bucks for something that isn't even real.
MOM! I said I'd pay for it! she responded in that "Mom! Whatever!" tone of voice parents of teenagers know all so well.
I now understand how my mother probably felt when she tried to warn me about the bumblebee jumpsuit in the dressing room at Macy's 30 years ago. Now when I think about that atrocious fashion mistake, I wish I had saved my money instead- but at the time it seemed like the best possible use of my hard-earned wages. As the Grandma of No said so many years ago when I would make dubious (to her) purchases with my own cash, "Hey, it's your money!".
At least data doesn't clutter up her room, get left on the floor, or outgrown. It doesn't fall out of fashion two days after it was bought, or become part of embarrassing photos from the 1980's best hidden away in old photo albums and stored in some undisclosed location.
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