Technological Puberty

As we ready for another school year, Ri-Ah is facing puberty. I shouldn't be having these sleepless nights. We've had all the talks. All seemingly one-sided. Where I stumbled over my words and her eyes glazed over. "Mom, they told us all about that in school."

"Really," I'd reply.

"Yes, in Tech-Ed."

"Hummmm.... Tech-Ed, they couldn't have covered everything. You need me to teach you about this stuff. I'm your mother. I know about these things. I watch CNN."

And last year, I thought, maybe this gauntlet would pass us by. Most of the children filing out of her school were either pulling out a cell phone or plugging into an i-pod before the school doors could hit them in the backpack. I was smiling, and thinking, maybe she won't be enticed, but I was wrong.

Last week, she asked for an email address. Without blinking an eye, I said, "Sure." She had had a yahoo account many many moons ago, but never used it. So this was a fine step towards maturity. Not a problem.

Then, earlier this week, along with picking up the usual two gross of pencils and pens (All of which will somehow evaporate before Thanksgiving.), notebooks, a new backpack, index cards, post its, you get the picture, she asked about a cell phone.

I took a deep breath, and as I pushed our overflowing cart from notebooks to ink cartridges I knew my decision was made.

Of course, I've told everyone, even Ri-Ah that it's my second phone. That I am allowing her to use it so she can call me. An electronic leash, as such. So that she can be out of my sight without me requiring certain medications to hold my embarassing mother bear anxieties at bay.

I justified the purchase on two levels, besides the medication thing:

1. The price of gas. Do I really need to drive her to and from school? It's less than a half of a mile from the house. With this she can call me when she gets there and when she is going to leave. Already I feel better.

2. It gives her some freedom without me giving up my parental rights.

Still it's my phone. We've had it two days and it's set to speed dial, me at home, my cell, (for when I'm out running errands), her grandparents, in case she can't reach me, and then those important numbers she felt she truly needed -- five of her closest friends. My phone, remember.

And then the second shoe fell today. Or to be more truthful, in that first hour with my cell phone in her hand, while shopping for a ringtone that was to be all hers, on my phone, (Of course, I get to pay for it.), she asked if she could buy an ipod.

"What," I said, "Frank Sinatra isn't your kind of music?"

She didn't even answer. I got the look. You know the one, straight lipped, eyes peering over the top of her glasses, kind of looked like me when I'm aghast at the little ones. I took a deep breath and asked the another question, "Who's paying for this?"

I should have expected the answer. Afterall Ri-Ah is responsible. "I will."

So for two days we shopped around. Visiting every electronics department within a 30 mile radius of the house and hitting every, and I mean every internet shopping site. The criteria, price -- with or without taxes and shipping. And last night we got.

We weren't in the house two minutes when she made the gentle request to put the software for the tiny device on MY computer. I took a sharp intake breath. This technological maturity was going to be stepping directly on my electronic fingers; the going price of motherhood. I pushed her off for the time it took to put the little ones to bed, and then gave in.

I won't mention the two hours it took me to install the software on my computer and then get it to talk with that little device. I won't mention the fact that during the installation my computer has now completely forgotten that it's closest and dearest electronic neighbor is a scanner.

This morning, I got up early in order to secure my two minutes of computer time. All of a sudden I see vailed looks of "Mom you're on your computer again" coming my way.

Technology, you have to love it.