Saturday, March 22, 2014


                              My World: A PART
                                                                (as Erma Bombeck might have written it)


     My children are faceless. I have not seen a zit, a loose tooth or a giant bubble for months. Not one freckle sighting. All I see is hair parts and collicks.The collicks are at half mast, as their heads are always angled techward. I’ve lost my four offspring to the cyber universe. The chocolate milk mustaches that used to make me smile, the single spaghettio that stuck on the little one’s neck, purple Kool-aid tongues--gone. The quiet in our house is unsettling.

     There is no noise; no rumble of scampering feet, no sound of crashing vases, not even a toilet flush.They are too busy tweeting to tend to biological needs. I ask myself why I ever complained about the ruckus. Why did I whine about spills and missing socks? I’d give anything for one kid to move long enough to spill something or for one small person to search for Crystal, the Diva snake.  At least my dust balls would budge a bit.

     It used to be that I could take their phone privileges away when they didn’t take out the garbage or clean their rooms. Now their rooms are perfect, as they never do anything in them but taptaptap. Pre-teens don’t talk on phones anymore;  the term “phone” is an oxymoron. I’m not sure my children can even talk anymore. “Helloooo, are you out there, kids?” No answer. The younger generation communicates through their thumbs; mouths are obsolete. That might have sounded like a blessing at one time, but now I long to hear them bicker, watch them kick each other and revel in their tearing through the house destroying my feng shui.

     If their fingers sped across the piano keys as fast as their thumbs sent out pubescent code, I would have a Lang Lang on my hands. Fat chance. I’ll be lucky if the boys don’t need carpel surgery by the time they’re 12. Young thumbs are taking over the world, and words have become extinct. Spelling went out with CDs, and grammar and punctuation will soon be relegated to a display at the Smithsonian.

      The worst part of all of this is I am no longer needed or even noticed. I have become an invisible mom. There is no eye contact, no verbal communication, no request for counsel, no “Can we have pizza for dinner”--nothing. I am a middle-aged  nurture vessel in a Betty Crocker apron looking for love. 

     Hmm. What’s this? It looks like a present. It is a present. Oh, my gosh!  A new I-phone 5, and there’s a note. “Hi Mom. HB! <3 u! lol.”