Last week someone asked me if we had a curfew for our children. I don’t usually think in terms of curfews; I think in terms of “when do you think you’ll be home?” kinds of questions to which I then occasionally provide the person with whom I am conversing an answer that might satisfy us both. Sometimes. I do, however, know how to text.

I learned how to text when my brother was going through colon cancer and everything else that went with it at the time. He was a pro; I, a novice. I can still see myself trying to text “Hallelujah” to him in response to some good news. I couldn’t get past the auto-correct or spelling help or whatever it is that kept my message at “Hipps”. This particular message came as I was waiting for a moms’ prayer group to start, and none of the other women there was any help at all. To acknowledge that I was the most tech savvy among them at the time is really saying something, though the entire group would rather not acknowledge what.

Texting has now become a way of life for me in communicating with people under, oh let’s just say 30. I’m not sure how great it is for kids to have parents able to communicate any time of the day or night. Phone calls, at least, have a built-in limit in that unwritten rules suggest a ringing phone during some hours isn’t the best idea. Ditto multiple phone calls in a row.

My youngest is probably the most affected by my new skill. In fact, I’ve gotten a little lackadaisical with it to the point that now, if he is without a vehicle from our vast collection of cars (often), and I’ve driven to wherever he needs to be picked up, I just hit some buttons to let him know I’ve arrived. Instead of “here”, he gets messages like “cabbage”, “common”, “gig”, or the like thanks to the phone making assumptions from a few taps on the same key.

However, I am grateful for a way to kindly suggest that it is getting rather late for him to be out. Here is an exchange from earlier this year:

Me: “Tell me where you are or I will find it necessary to take the red velvet brownies hostage.”

Son: “Ohhh nnno!! We are heading back home”

M: “Too late. I’ve already cut off one of its fingers.”

S: “Okay..that is mean! Leave the brownies alone!!”

M: “You weren’t here to protect and defend. One is whimpering quietly in the corner.”

and so on and so forth.

Texting isn’t only for kids, perverts, and politicians, you know. And you thought you needed to set a curfew.