Parents probably slept peacefully all night in those dark ages, before the mobile phone invaded our lives. Now, thanks to its intrusion, there is no way you can snooze even a half-hour without the alarm going off to remind you to check whether the children are home from their nocturnal gigs. Because the kids dislike what they describe as being “policed”, I’d devised an elaborate code for when we could or could not call. First, a harmless “All well?” SMS would ping their way around midnight, to be answered by a “Having fun” by my son, or a “Just reached, don’t call” by my daughter.
“When home?” would go out 30 minutes later, and the response would be “Later” from my son, “Da-ad!” from my daughter. Two SMSes later I was allowed a call, so having dozed off for a half-hour, I’d be up to check their whereabouts and read them the riot act about their extended Cinderella hours. “Just chilling, not drinking,” my son would assure me, “leave the front door key under the mat.” (“I’m up reading,” I’d fib, “just make it back fast.”) “I have to wait for someone to drive me home,” my daughter would protest. (“Someone,” I’d shout, “What do you mean someone?” “Sorry, got to go now,” she’d pretend exasperation, “I’m wanted on the dance floor.”)
More SMSes, more phone calls, threats on my part to drive over “right now” to pick up either, or both — depending on who was out — became part of our pagan ritual that played out through the week. “Where are you?” my son would cheekily text if his mum and I stayed out later than usual. “When are you coming home?” my daughter might call to ask on the stray occasion when she was home and we were not.
College life was good — but waiting to trip them up, almost as though divinely planned, were their summer internship programmes. Cribs about “whole days of work” turned mute when they realised that, as cheap and convenient labour, they were expected to pitch in “above and beyond the call of duty”, as they complained, whenever something urgent came along. Our daughter did the unthinkable — chip in with her hands, something she’d never managed at home despite our repeated pleas to help out with arrangements for parties. “How do I know where the napkins are,” she’d whine, “I can’t find the spoons, I can’t reach up for the dishes….” Yet, here she was, supervising where the water bottles were to be placed for a promotional event, directing the layout for the chairs, adjusting the awning, tagging the reserved tables, and all this at a time when she would normally have been out in the company of friends.
“Where are you?” my son called late last night to chide us while we were out to dinner. He was likely to be working till the wee hours, he explained. “I’ll call you when we’re leaving,” I assured him, which turned out to be later still than we had expected. “Why so tardy?” our son SMSed during one break; “Go ahead, enjoy yourself, while I toil,” he griped in his next coffee time-out. “We’ll be home soon,” I promised him, but he was not consoled: “Will you go to sleep or wait up for me to leave office?” he asked. I told him I was tired, but he could call me any time he wanted, which turned out to be quite frequently that night. “I set alarms for every half hour,” he explained, when he’d woken me yet again at three in the morning, to say he was finally on his way home. “The key’s under the doormat,” I advised him, “Don’t wake me when you get back.”
