So Many Screens, So Little Time Together

I have little doubt that my teenage daughter and her friends get tired of their middle-aged mothers waxing poetic about "the good old days." 

Often, our memories aren't even that rose-colored. Much of the time, we're pointing out all the privileges and luxuries that our offspring enjoy that we didn't — or couldn't — way back when.

Invariably, the greatest contrast between the then and the now falls into the category of technology. 

When I was growing up, our family had one television. (In fact, it was a black and white one until my father splurged when I was in the sixth grade and we moved up to color.) Five people, one TV, and just three networks plus PBS and a couple of independent stations — until cable came along which more than doubled our options and gave us what seemed like a magical new one, the commercial-free movies of an early HBO.

Even with all those alternatives, though, the television was a great entertainment unifier. When it came down to it, you had one choice really: watch what everyone else was watching. Or don't watch at all.

(Does anyone remember books? But, I digress.)

Consider the very different situation in our wired household today. We have a much smaller family, but many more screens. We have three televisions, all color (a small one in the kitchen, a medium one tucked into an antique Chinese cabinet in the living room, and the widest widescreen we could fit into a built-in in what we call a family room but what is, in essence, a TV and a couch). And, we have far fewer televisions (per capita or otherwise) than most contemporary families we know.

But, wait. There's more. With apologies to Madonna, we are living in a digital world. So, we need to count the four computers in the house (one each, plus a company-owned laptop that my husband brings back and forth from his office each day). I received an iPad for my fiftieth birthday (the screen of which has since been cracked, and not by me). Plus, we each have an iPhone, which can stream YouTube videos, entire TV episodes and movies too. 

So, measuring by today's more varied options, we have eleven screens for three people. I'm sorry (or maybe proud) to say that no one owns an Apple Watch yet. 

Then again, check with me in a year or so. 

What does all this mean? Well, choice, obviously. We have more than a thousand channels via our cable company, plus time-shifted DVR recordings, on demand options and pay-per-view. Thanks to my brother (who has, for years, been the supplier for our media habits), we have access to Netflix and Amazon Prime, which adds tens or maybe hundreds of thousands more titles to the mix. Our DVD and VHS (yes, VHS) collection would be massive by 1999 standards and is still respectable today.

And so, in addition to a rather mind-numbing number of options, the other byproduct of all this is that there is no reason, pretty much ever, for the whole family to relax together in one room in front of the same screen.

Assuming my husband has no handyman projects, I have no deadlines and the offspring has no homework, you can usually find us in separate rooms, consuming different programs. This leads to peaceful cohabitation perhaps. But not much else. When your show of choice is over, there's no one to compare notes with.

There are a handful of exceptions. (We watched Downton Abbey together — via a boxed set pre-ordered from amazon.uk. I highly recommend this route to any other rabid fans. You'll get the final season two full months before the rest of the yanks.) But, in general, in our house and others, television has become a rather private and isolating activity.

Would I rather take a step backward to less choice but more family time?

Yes, yes I would. 

But, don't tell my daughter. 

She doesn't need another confirmation of how out of it I am.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Gone Girl Interrupted

Yesterday, my teenage daughter participated in a big biannual equestrian competition. She and a teammate rode a 6-mile marked course through woods and fields, through water, over fences, logs, and embankments. The goal was to get as close as possible to an optimum ride time — which is paced by an expert rider earlier that day and not revealed until the awards banquet that evening. In theory, if you are riding efficiently, but safely, you should be close to the target time. (Another horse mother once called it a "crap shoot," and there's an element of truth there too.) At any rate, it's called a "Hunter Pace" and takes place in a truly bucolic setting about an hour north of Boston.

The first time she rode in this event, my husband and I had no idea what we were in for. At a three-phase show, you can watch your rider do dressage and jump in a stadium. Then they go off on a cross-country course, but only for five or seven minutes. In a Hunter Pace, you're lucky if you see the first and last two jumps. The rest of the course — an hour or more — you're stuck waiting around. After we figured it all out that first year, we had just one question ...

"Where are the Bloody Marys?"

Over the (many) years since, we've focused on the art of tailgating. It all began with a Mexican serape, the Boston Globe and some muffins. Then we graduated to those folding chairs that soccer moms use. Then a folding table. Eventually, my husband found an oriental rug at an odd lots warehouse store. Add some champagne and orange juice, ripe strawberries, bagels, spreads and smoked salmon, and ... voila! We were transported to an earlier, horsier, classier time. 

"Carson, please pass the cream cheese and lox."

This year, we invited two couples to join us, as well as the other parents from our daughter's stable. The day was foggy at first but it soon burned off and we were left with bright sun and clear skies. From our vantage point, near a flowering tree in front of the first set of jumps, we watched my daughter and her partner, and then dozens of other teams head off. Meanwhile, our new puppy played with another family's Jack Russel and sneaked bites of ... well... pretty much anything he could get his paws on. It was an idyllic day. 

Until I lost my iPhone.

First of all, for the record, I rarely lose anything, much less an expensive smartphone. I will confess that there had been much bubbly enjoyed and that once it was time to pack up, everyone had already had a bit too much fun and sun. It was a little chaotic. Also, the terrain was not exactly on my side in terms of being able to find said missing phone. There were acres of tall grass and dandelions. Horses, trailers and cars coming and going. Plus the restroom facilities consisted of a single port-a-potty. I don't think my phone was in my pocket when I used it, but ...

I don't want to think about it.

At any rate, I was well-fed, a little sunburned and without a phone. We went back to our picnic area — twice — but no luck. I tried the "Find my iPhone" app on my iPod when I got home. No luck. At the awards banquet (btw, my daughter came in third, mentions the proud mama), we left our number with the event coordinator, just in case. But, it was becoming pretty damn clear.

The iPhone was gone, girl.

This morning, I took a two-hour break from work and drove to the nearest Apple Store at a mall three towns over. Fortunately, I qualified for an upgrade. Unfortunately, I didn't have my old phone to trade in. The difference was $189 out of pocket. (Wait, isn't "out of pocket" how I got into this mess in the first place?)

I told myself what I always tell my daughter. "It's a thing, not a person. It's just money, not life or death." Still, $189 is $189.

I'm trying not to think about it.

The remarkable thing, the truly amazing thing, is that it really was just about money. Thanks to the "cloud" (and my fairly anal retentive backup routine — I never lost a phone before, but I've lived through some fairly horrific computer crashes), virtually all my data, apps, contacts, photos and music are back. I lost some money (did I mention it was $189?) and some time, but otherwise, my life and my phone will go on exactly as before. Exactly.

We warn our teenagers to be careful. That everything online is permanent.

For the first time, I can say that I'm glad it is.
 
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

One Thing At A Time

In his youth, my husband waited tables for many years at diverse fine dining establishments. (He was also once the "Wharf Rat," wearing a fuzzy life-sized rodent costume in honor of a seaside restaurant's concept cocktail — but that's another story.) When we go out for dinner, it drives him nuts if a member of the waitstaff doesn't work efficiently. For example, if he or she is carrying a pitcher of water to someone else's table, passing by your half-empty glasses along the way. Or if they come over when you've finished eating, ask if you'd like coffee or dessert, then leave with your new order in hand but without any of your finished plates.

I never worked at a restaurant, but I did sell shoes all through college and after hours to supplement my first job in publishing (because the salary they were paying made it very clear that they only wanted to work with young people who had trust funds). The same concept of efficient traffic applied there as well. If I was going back into the stock room for a pair of red suede boots, I should pick up the pile of discarded high-heeled pumps and strappy sandals on my way.

Despite years of yoga, I still try to do more than one thing at a time — often with alarming consequences. My office is on the top floor of a nearly 200-year-old house. The stairs are steep, winding and uneven. When I need a coffee refill, I'm never content to simply carry my mug downstairs. Oh no, that would be too easy and shockingly inefficient. Instead, I grab the cup, my empty yogurt container and spoon, the outgoing mail, rough drafts to be recycled, and my cell phone. This leaves no free hand to hold the stair rail. 

Suffice it to say, I don't need yet another broken foot.

Nevertheless, fractured metatarsals aside, I'm not satisfied unless I'm accomplishing as much as possible. People like me typically point with pride to such obsessive and foolish behavior as "multitasking."

Of course, my teenage daughter and her generation have brought the concept of multitasking to a whole new level. When she heads up to her room after dinner to do homework, there's a lot more going on than one might think. Yes, she has her colossal AP U.S. History textbook open, notebook next to it, pen at the ready (only 24 pages of notes tonight, no worries). But, she also has her laptop running. She's uploading a video to Vimeo, streaming iTunes and emailing a teacher. Meanwhile, her iPhone is also in use. She's participating in multiple group texts, reviewing another teacher's PowerPoint slides, taking and posting study selfies, and playing Trivia Crack.

My best friend has three children several years older than mine. (Two are in med school and one is pursuing a PhD in nursing — underachievers all.) She told me that it took her youngest much longer to finish homework than the other two. The reason being that by the time the youngest was in high school, the kids had smart phones and access to all of the life-enhancing apps I've outlined above.

The idea of simply sitting in one place and studying for an hour or two (or four) is absolutely alien now. So I wonder are we raising a whole generation of people with attention-deficit disorder? Or are we witnessing the rise of a race of super efficient multitaskers extraordinaire?

And, if so, how will we pay for all those broken feet?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Science Experiments

Before he was a movie star and an awards show host and a bestselling author, Steve Martin was a stand-up comic. I had his record albums (remember record albums?), and there was a particular schtick that was funny then ... and hilarious once I was a mom. It's from his 1978 "A Wild and Crazy Guy."

"I got a great dirty trick you can play on a three-year-old kid. See, kids learn how to talk from listening to their parents (evil laugh). This is a good one. So, what you do is you have a three-year-old kid and you want to play a dirty trick on him, whenever you're around him, talk wrong. So now it's like his first day at school and he raises his hand, 'May I mambo dogface in the banana patch?' Give that kid a special test."

A wise woman told me that "Having a child is the greatest act of faith you can commit." I agree with this. But, they're also our best ever art project. Talk about a blank canvas! Talk about creative opportunity!

Once, when my daughter was about two, we went down to New York to visit my family, and brought my younger brother back with us. So, basically, this thirtyish single man spent five hours in the backseat next to his toddler niece. After a while, he must have gotten bored so he started feeding her pieces of candy and then timing how long it took for the sugar to kick in enough so that she got hyper.

"Stop it!" I scolded from the front seat. "She is not a science experiment! Stop it! Stop it!"

Now, with that same daughter almost-seventeen, we're going through quite an interesting experiment again — one that may blow up in our faces.

Two days ago, my daughter's iPhone seized up. It froze. Not on any usable screen, mind you. It froze on the apple start up screen. Wouldn't synch, wouldn't restart, wouldn't shut down. Dead, dead, dead. Dead as a doornail, Mr. Dickens. 

She was heading to the stable when she informed me of the device's untimely demise. She was somewhat irritated, of course, but simultaneously supernaturally calm. She plugged it into the old car's cigarette lighter (remember cigarette lighters?) and hoped for the best. She arrived a half an hour later and the phone was still ... dead.

What does a concerned parent do in the face of a Macintosh product crisis? Make an appointment at the Genius Bar, of course. Strangely enough, there were no time slots available for three days. This would corroborate my daughter's theory that this was actually the start of a global iPhone armageddon. Nevertheless, I grabbed the first available appointment (and backed up my own iPhone, just in case).

So, here's where the experiment comes in ...

Can my daughter survive — can life itself exist — without texting, browsing through pictures, Facebook-ing, Instagram-ing, Vine-ing or playing solitaire?

What reaction will we get at the Apple Store? Will they give her a new phone? (Unlikely.) Will I buy her a new phone? (Very unlikely.) Will she have to subsist with a disposable flip phone until our AT&T contract is up so we can get a new smart phone at a discount? (Strong possibility.)

As many experiments do, this one has already yielded some surprises. For once, I am somehow not to blame. Whoa! Maybe my daughter is growing up. Maybe she realizes that there are some things out of even my control.

Or maybe she's just glad I didn't teach her to talk wrong.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Unlimited Data

A week ago, I attended a reception where I met a very successful, very driven, professional woman. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a smart phone plus an iPad stacked in the other. As we talked, she bemoaned the fact that she never seems to be able to disconnect. Her colleagues and clients send her emails 24/7. And, if she doesn't immediately respond, they call to see if she's all right. For better or worse, this bright young thing has been so responsive for so long that she can never take a break.

Or, as my best friend's Nana Mimi would have said, "She made her bed."

I can't relate to this. Granted, there was a time when I was unfailingly conscientious too. But, at 52 with myriad middle-aged commitments, priorities and responsibilities ... um ... not so much anymore. Send me an email and I will certainly get back to you. But please, dearest, don't hold your breath.

To top it off, my new pal told me how much she hates her smart phone. "But, I can't switch providers," she shrugged defeatedly, "I'm grandfathered into unlimited data."

Now that, I can relate to.

When my now teenage daughter first got an iPhone, we shared a family plan that had all these complicated categories of calls and rollover minutes and a pool of shared data. It wasn't the most expensive plan we could get, but it certainly wasn't the cheapest. The guy at the phone store was courteous and helpful and tried to dumb it down for me ... 

May I stop here, please, and assure you that I am many things, but "dumb" isn't one of them. I'm happy to forward my high school — or university — transcript if you have your doubts. I run a business that actually involves complex marketing analytics (as well as lots of pretty pictures). Dumb, am not I.

I was, however, at least twice the guy's age, so he probably assumed I had already lost whatever cognitive abilities I had once had.

But, I digress.

We left the store with a plan in hand and all was well. Until it wasn't.

My daughter (with a September birthday and an overindulgent mother) was one of the earlier kids to get a smart phone. As more and more of her friends caught up, guess what happened to our data usage? It went up. And, guess what happened to our cell phone bill? It went up.

Through. The. Roof.

I called, frantic, and tried to get to the bottom of the sudden $100+ increase. The customer service rep offered to remove the overage (yes, they can do that!) if I changed plans. He recommended some options — none of which I understood. They all sounded good until the part when he'd say "... then if your daughter exceeds her data limit ..." 

"Just make it go away," I told him.

"Well," he hesitated, "You could upgrade to unlimited data, but it might not be the most cost-effective ..."

I interrupted him. "Just make it go away. Please." And he did.

The bottom line is that we pay a fairly high monthly bill. It's always the same (within about 50 cents, due to variable taxes, which I will never understand). It's predictable. I don't have to check line items of mysterious charges. Or nag my daughter about how much she's texting and what it's costing.

I have nothing against moms who choose to go another direction. In fact, I admire them. But right now, I have neither the bandwidth, nor the patience, to deal with à la carte mobile phone charges. I want the all-you-can-eat buffet. I want the one-size-fits-all. I want to set-it-and-forget-it.

Alas, my carrier has discontinued unlimited data options. We, however, like my harried new acquaintance, are grandfathered in.

Hallelujah!

Changing plans is absolutely not in my plans.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Back-Up Plan

Correct me if I'm wrong. Isn't technology supposed to make our life better? Faster, easier, more convenient. In my recent experience, this is not the case.

So not the case.

I'm no stranger to the digital world. I run a virtual ad agency. My husband is a high tech product marketing consultant. Most significantly ... we have a teenage daughter.

Between DSL, WiFi and Fios, we have taken our poor little antique house and rewired it within an inch of its life. Suffice it to say that the founding families of our colonial town didn't anticipate our need to get into walls and under floorboards.

Back to my earlier — apparently incorrect — assumption. I thought technology was supposed to enhance our lives. Not drive us crazy.

The past week was particularly hectic and stressful at out house because we were about to leave for a family vacation. You know the truth about vacations, don't you? You work twice as hard the week before and twice as hard the week after in exchange for a week off. Some quick math and you'll see that you're actually netting an extra week's worth of work. Hmmmm.

The first thing to go? Our WiFi. The east coast has been through some severe weather recently, so we figured service was down. But, nooooooooo, according to our good friends at Verizon, the issue was not theirs. It was ours. Our router was toast; they would send us a new one. No problem. It would take 3-5 business days to arrive. Problem.

I was anticipating a slippery drive (or a long walk) through blizzard conditions to the nearest Starbucks, when my handy husband pulled off one of his minor miracles. A touch test confirmed that the router was overheating. So, he pulled out and positioned a small but powerful fan. The WiFi still wasn't working, but we could connect our PCs via Ethernet (don't bother to look it up; just take my word for it) and ... ta da ... Internet access was restored. For a few hours, anyway, until the router overheated again. We gave it a rest, restarted and were in business again. Rinse and repeat.

Just when we thought it was safe to go back into cyberspace, it was our daughter's turn. Where to start? Her iPhone was bugging (texts wouldn't text, photos crashed, the vibrate mode had a mind of its own). Any Mac user knows that the answer is to sync. But, noooooooooo. She couldn't sync because her MacBook startup disc was full. We deleted some (a lot!) of files. Then, she was told that she couldn't sync because her iPhone was full. She couldn't delete anything from her iPhone without syncing. She couldn't sync without deleting. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Total. System. Meltdown.

Total. Teenage. Meltdown.

I thought I had saved the day (yeah, right) when I discovered a rogue ghost iPhoto library on the admin drive of her laptop. A couple of years ago, her system was wiped clean by a lovely young "Genius" at the Apple Store. At the time, a new iPhoto library was established. Turns out, the original library was still on there. All 38,254 images. 

Thirty-eight thousand, two hundred fifty-four.

Startup disc full? Well, duh!

They say that the solution begins when you recognize you have a problem. Houston, we had a problem. But, not one that we could solve. The iPhoto library was locked. We could delete and delete and delete and delete until our fingers bled (not really, but doesn't it sound dramatic?). As soon as we restarted iPhoto ... hello again, there they were.

Our only option? The Apple Store. Stat.

Have I mentioned that we were having a white-out? Have I mentioned we were getting ready for a vacation? Regardless, there was simply no way my daughter could leave town without access to her electronica. OMG. WTF. So, the martyr mother swung into action. I spent the bulk of my Saturday backing up all of my daughter's files onto my system and onto a set of CDs for safekeeping. I made two back-to-back appointments at the nearest Apple "Genius Bar." (A word to the would-be wise: they will only address one device per appointment.) I picked my daughter up at the stable and we drove through a veritable winter wonderland to the mall several towns away. As usual, the "Geniuses" saved us. We had to delete photos (Genius Two somehow unlocked iPhoto), then (under the supervision of Genius One), we had to do a manual backup, then reload all the iPhone software. 

I was wary about doing all this at home (where, no offense to my family, "Geniuses" are few and far between), so we grabbed some counter space and went through it all onsite at the Apple Store. Guess how long it takes to reload iPhone software? 65 minutes.

But, it worked. Phew.

When we finally left the mall, the blizzard was upon us in earnest. It was a white-knuckled, rather squirrelly drive home. The ABS kicked in not once but five times. The icy snow under my wheels seemed to chant a mantra to my daughter "You owe me, you owe me, you owe me."

Thank you, Apple Store. We left for our vacation on time and with all our technology intact. (Hopefully, the new router will be waiting and WiFi will be restored when we get home.) My daughter is happy. There's only one thing ...

My startup disc is full.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Think Twice, Text Once

About twelve years ago, I was running a much larger ad agency than I do today. There were good things about it: a schnazzy office, a corporate credit card, a reason to wear something other than yoga clothes. There were also significant downsides ... 

45 creative, passionate people. 45 sensitive, supersized egos. 

In a word ... drama.

One afternoon, a vice president account director rushed into my office in a panic. "What do I do? What do I do?" It wasn't so much about what he needed to do as it was about what he had already done. He'd received an unfortunate email from a colleague. When I say "unfortunate," I mean she was snotty, stubborn, downright condescending. He immediately forwarded her email to me (I was his and her supervisor) with a snide observation including a term that rhymed with Ducking Rich (hint: try an F and a B). As often happens in the wonderful world of email, he did not in actuality send it to me. He accidentally sent it back to her.

"What do I do? What do I do?"

When email became the norm for interoffice communication, we had to teach all of our staff some new rules for this new world. Don't use all caps (IT WILL SEEM LIKE YOU'RE SCREAMING). Never hit "reply all" unless you really, truly, absolutely, unequivocally want to reply all. Don't hit "send" without proofreading the message first. Don't say anything negative about clients or coworkers (or the Bush administration). 

And, perhaps most important, never put anything in email that would be better communicated in person.

Alas, our teens need similar guidelines in their all-text, all-the-time social lives. There are many conventions (and assumptions) that I don't understand. (For example, did you know that if you include a period in your text sentiment it means that you're mad? Ugh, I can't keep track. Period.) But, what I do understand is how words can clear things up or muddy them completely. How you can diffuse a potential storm or stir one up out of seemingly nothing at all.

And, in this at least, my daughter recognizes and truly appreciates that I can help.

Typically, my intervention (she actually seeks it out, believe it or not) occurs in the car when I'm driving her somewhere. Or she bursts into my office — whether I'm on a conference call or not — distraught because so-and-so misunderstood what she said about what's-her-name. "What do I do? What do I do?"

While I hate to see her so distressed, I welcome these opportunities to teach her about all the nuances of effective communication that they simply do not cover in the Honors English program. Like ...

• Giving the other person a graceful way to save face (even when you think they are — and should admit they are — utterly in the wrong).

• Apologizing for any misunderstanding (even when you believe that any such misunderstanding is theirs and not yours).

• Backing away from a conflict (even when it would be way more satisfying to stay and fight it out).

• Realizing that less really is more (even though you have so much more you want, need, frrrrkin' must say).

• And, finally, giving up a new argument in order to save an old friendship. 

Teen girls (I can only speak for the girls; it may be very much the same for teen boys) are all about the drama. They are quick to find offense and not always quick enough to forget it. And girls like my daughter wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or, these days, on the text screens of their iPhones.

With careful wordsmithing, together, we have extricated my darling girl from many a thorny text situation. She appreciates this ("She likes me. She really likes me.") and I derive more than a little satisfaction from our successes.

It's nice to feel that mother knows best once in a while ... even if it's only once in a very, very long while.

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Tween and Phone, Like a Moth to a Flame

I'm a little bit concerned. All right, I'm quite concerned. Any loving parent would be.

My daughter has always been perfectly healthy and generally happy. We've had our ups and downs, our likes and dislikes, our triumphs and disappointments. She went through phases, certainly, but nothing too serious. Short-lived obsessions with a particular board game, the High School Musical DVD, bacon.

I never worried that she was in over her head. That things had gone too far. That she couldn't control herself. Now, everything has changed.

They say that admitting we have a problem is the first step, so here goes ...

My thirteen-year old daughter is an addict.

It's true. My daughter is addicted to her iPhone. Her connection to that slim 4 1/2-inch machine cannot be ignored. It is physical, chemical, emotional. It is bigger than both of us.

And she's not alone — although this doesn't give me much comfort. If I pick her up after "homework club," I see dozens of other girls with smart phones in hand, glued to their screens, thumbs moving miles a minute over minuscule keyboards, breathlessly catching up on everything they've missed while they've been subjected to forced phonelessness in school. These girls are surrounded by other girls, classmates, teammates, friends for years. But they can't be bothered with anything as old-fashioned as a face-to-face conversation.

They need their digital fix. And they need it, bad.

I see the same alone-with-my-phone-in-a-crowd behavior patterns when I'm carpooling. A sedan full of kids used to make for a fairly raucous ride. These days, I can have three tweens in the backseat and another up front, yet my car is surprisingly quiet. A quick glance in the rearview confirms what I already know to be true. The girls are fully engaged ... but not with each other. They're texting, playing games, listening to music, dipping in and out of Facebook or watching YouTube. Some afternoons, I confess, I welcome the peace and quiet. With three or four girls lost in their own cellular worlds, I can relax, unwind, listen to my own music. Which leads me to wonder ...

Am I an iPhone enabler?

Yes, blame it on me. It was my idea to give my daughter her own iPhone for her birthday. But, I had good reasons. She was starting junior high and would be walking to and from school without me every day. My agency had switched over to a group plan which meant I could take advantage of a discounted rate — she could have all the fancy functionality of an iPhone for about the same price as a plain old ordinary mobile. And, she already had my old MacBook so we could synch and share apps and photos and music. At the time, it made a lot of sense. It really did. And, I thought I could control it.

Foolish, foolish woman!

The first few months were fine. The phone was still a much appreciated novelty; it hadn't become a necessary lifeline yet. Then gradually it took on a bigger and bigger role in her life.

We've had rules about the phone all along. It's not supposed to be used before school except for a quick "r u walkn?" exchange between my daughter and a couple of other neighborhood seventh graders. It's not supposed to be used after 8:00 pm. It's not supposed to be used until homework is done. It's not supposed to be in her bedroom overnight. I would say that my daughter is fairly compliant, probably follows the rules more often than not. But, she's a tween and I'm her mom. My authority is ... um ... less than absolute.

Like any addict, my daughter's behavior is not always rational. In the evening, for example, we might be watching TV together. Assuming her phone is charging in the kitchen (where it's supposed to be), she may hear a text message coming in. She knows she isn't supposed to get up and get it, but she suddenly finds it impossible to sit still. Her fingers start to quiver, her eyes dart back and forth across the room. She tries to ignore it, but just as she's refocused on whatever show we're watching, the incoming text signal goes off again. She shoots me a hangdog look of dejected despair and practically leaps to the kitchen in a single bound.

Addiction is an illness, isn't it. How can I get mad at her?

If the phone is off or out of sight, out of mind, we still have to be vigilant. She'll just as quickly pick up my phone or my husband's. I can pretty much guarantee that there are no texts for or about her on my phone (sadly, they're mostly business), but she can't resist. Like a preteen moth to an open flame, she is drawn to any digital device within reach.

If she isn't near the phone she loves, she loves the phone that's near.

So what's a mother to do? Basically, I nag. I tell her, "Get off your phone," and, to her credit, she does. But, her memory is short and the pull of the phone is strong. I say, "Get off your phone," again. I say, "Get off your phone" a couple of dozen times in any 24-hour period.

There's no easy answer. This is one of those works in progress, I'm afraid. But, it's 8:20 pm and right now, I have to wrap this up and head downstairs.

I can pretty much guarantee my daughter's on her phone.