When our Lawrence returned from his sophomore year at college, I could not have been more thrilled. There are so many emotions and thoughts that enter a mother’s mind when one of her flock returns to the nest. I was elated to see his smile, and when he hugged me, my heart melted.
The sight of his dirty laundry didn’t scare me too much, and the debris that was soon strewn about his bedroom did little to dampen my spirits.
He was home, and I was happy.
Little Charlie, who isn’t so little anymore, was glad to have Lawrence back as his sparring partner in driveway basketball, his father looked at him as another hand on the job, and the cat surely pictured him as another available lap on which to sit.
I saw Lawrence as my big strong boy, someone who would help haul in groceries and trim the bushes. Most importantly, I saw him for his special talent and a muchneeded undertaking: household technology.
I didn’t hit him with it right away. Rather, I let him settle in, gather his bearings and preset the DVR to record his favorite shows on the History Channel.
When I could wait no longer, I finally hit him with it. I’m creative, you’ve got to give me that. I didn’t come right out and ask for help, or play the part of a damsel in distress. Rather, I made a simple statement that would engage Lawrence, spark an interest and truly strike a nerve.
“Lawrence,” I said, “my iPad is stupid.” Then I stood back and waited for the onslaught.
The younger generation truly has its finger on the pulse of technology. They have all of the fancy stuff. They know how to run the gizmos and install the latest apps. They can fix your bugs and clean your inbox, and oftentimes they let you know it might not be the iPad that is lacking when it comes to smarts.
“What do you mean your iPad is stupid?” he asked as he took a bite of the apple I was offering.
It wasn’t long before I had him right where I wanted him, sitting at my desk, staring at the computer — which has also been stupid these days — and cleaning things up like it was his job.
“Good grief,” he exclaimed when he saw I had a bajillion text messages. “This is no good,” he said with disgust when he looked at all of my photos and the sight of my inbox — with all 1,008 unread messages — that nearly brought him to his knees.
“You have a million things open on here!” he scolded when he plugged the iPad into the computer. Then he took my phone and, like a mother who goes into her child’s room and faints at the sight of the cluttered mess, he chastised me. He then went into a tirade of sorts, explaining memory and gigs or some such nonsense, and started a dissertation on how it all works.
Although I’m sure it was an intelligent, informing and quite educational lecture, I didn’t really comprehend it or soak in his wisdom.
Truly, all I heard from him was, “Blah, blah, memory. Blah, blah, delete,” and then the closing statement, “Why do you think you need all of this stuff? “Your phone is not your scrapbook,” he went on to say as he deleted some of the humorous quips I had saved from our sons during our family texts. “We’ll be funny again, and you can just enjoy that and then delete it, too.”
Why not just rip my heart out while we’re at it?
I suppose I did have my devices a little cluttered, but what good is a gig if it doesn’t allow a gal to keep stuff for the sake of sentimentality?
Things are running smoothly again. Apps are updated and programs open with ease, and I haven’t seen that stupid beach ball thing circling for a day or two.
I’ll give him some time to rest before I hit him with the next big thing and tell him how stupid our Smart TV is.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].