I f there is one thing I’ve noticed lately, it’s the way that our family is plugged in. Not with extension cords protruding from our bodies as they reach into the nearest outlet, mind you, but heaven forbid that we don’t have the latest technological advancements within easy reach at all times.
Smartphones, laptops and thanks to Santa’s generosity, we now have a sound bar that makes the family room shake as if a rocket ship is making a launch for the moon.
Why, we’re one robot away from George Jetson and his boy Elroy.
Avid readers may recall a recent column in which I lamented how our eldest son, Vernon, is so in tune with today’s technological advancements that he can walk into his campus home and practically speak his environment into existence.
Our Huey can communicate with his peeps as he checks the stats on his favorite teams while programming the coffee pot to make him a hot cup of joe.
I’m no Internet Irene, but I am able to type on a keyboard, search the Internet with ease and, thanks to remote access and Vernon’s brilliance, I can now email everyone who used to be in my Outlook Express address book straight from Gmail.
Go, me. That being said, I couldn’t help worrying that technology was messing with the family dynamic and decided to put a nix on electronic devices during meaningful moments such as dinnertime and when I needed someone to take out the garbage.
In an attempt at good parenting, my beloved spouse (who possesses little or no techno-savviness) and I had put the kibosh on all CT-ing (church texting), MTT-ing (meal time texting) and especially FTT (family time texting.)
I’ve learned that the bad thing about most parental rules is that if you’re going to effectively enforce them, you have to follow them yourself except for the occasional “Because I’m the mom, that’s why.”
Yet on Christmas Eve (the epitome of family time), I sat amid my brood in the family room where they were watching none other than a football game. Colorful commentary was being tossed around right along with a football that occasionally flew past my head at warp speed.
While I’m sure my presence was integral, necessary and all out warranted, no one paid me much mind.
Having grown bored of football games sometime back in November, I passed the time by filing my nails and admiring a new bracelet that I’d purchased for me for Christmas.
To be honest with you, I was almost giddy when I felt my cell phone vibrate; indicating that I’d received a text. I’m all for focusing on the family and bonding with the unit et al., but curiosity got the best of me and I slipped the device out of my back pocket to see who had messaged me.
You can imagine my bliss as I read that a close family friend had, only moments prior, asked his gal to marry him, and she said yes.
“Yay!” I happily texted his mother back, “Can I tell the rest of my family?”
I’d barely hit send when our very own Lawrence pointed in my direction tattling, “Dad! Mom’s FTTing!”
“Lori!” Pat chastised, “who would you be texting on this most holy of nights?”
“Yeah, Mom,” joined Huey as he echoed his father’s sentiments, “who is so important that you’d give up family time for them?”
“Some things warrant FTTing,” I said in my defense.
“Like what?” questioned Huey.
“I can’t tell you until I’m sure it’s OK for me to share with you,” I responded.
“It’s a secret!” proclaimed Lawrence.
“Are we going to Disneyland?” asked Charlie with glee. “That’s it, isn’t it!”
“I know!” said Huey. “She’s going to surprise us with tickets to the bowl game. I can’t wait to post it on Facebook. Although I certainly would never do that during family time.”
When my dear friend texted back that I could spread the news freely, I interrupted the boys’ fantasy guessing game with, “No! Craig asked Courtney to marry him tonight, and she said yes!”
Although I’m sure that on the inside they were as happy for the newly engaged couple as I was, they ceased their celebration and slumped back into their chairs as Charlie maliciously informed, “Dad, if Mom gets to FTT, then we all should” and in doing so got me in trouble all over again.
I’ll bet that Jane Jetson would never have gotten into this type of a conflict with George.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at [email protected].