1-800-MOTHERS

by Patti

S "forgets" a lot of things. She "forgets" to brush her teeth, take a shower, comb her hair, use deodorant. She "forgets" to clear her plate, put her cup in the sink, put away the milk. She "forgets" to feed the dog, where she put her glasses, where that library book went. But the one thing she never, ever forgets? MY NUMBER. My cell phone number is permanently programmed on speed dial in her brain, and she uses it frequently and without pause. I'll admit: I've "screened" my kid. It's just that, after the fourth phone call to tell me that her pants are too short, or that Gaucho won't stop licking her, or that she is bored, well....

The best is when I'm at work, surrounded by co-workers, and she calls me to ask me where her left shoe is. Never mind that her father is home. Apparently his shoe-finding skills pale in comparison to mine, especially since, you know, he's RIGHT THERE, and I am 20 minutes away AT WORK.
"Honey, I don't know. You wore them last, not me."
"But, Mo-OM! Where ARE they? I KNOW I put them in my closet."
That right there I know is a lie since she puts NOTHING in her closet except for things that are not supposed to go into her closet, like scraps of paper and thumb tacks and stuffed animals that are coming un-stuffed.
"Honey, I don't know because I'm not there and I can't help you look for them. Ask Papi to help you."
I hear the blender in the backround, and I know M is making a smoothie and so not helping her, and I feel a slice of white hot rage go through  me because, really? Then, as if my white hot rage somehow found his neck and choked it a little, I hear him tell S to "deja mama que trabaje" (let mommy work), and then I hear S's whines grow to outstanding proportions, and then, I can't help it: I hang up on her.

But because my number is on speed dial in her brain, my phone rings again almost instantly, and I, with a stab of guilt in my gut, simply slide away her call.

When my brother and I were young, we were latch-key kids for three hours a day after school. I remember loudly tumbling into the house, tossing our bags and books haphazardly here and there, and immediately calling my mom at work to let her know we'd made it home. Then we'd get to preparing ourselves after-school snacks, so we'd call my mom again to ask where the mayonnaise was. Then we'd eat and get into some sort of fight, so we'd call her to tattle on one another. Then we'd be fine and then call her to ask her to bring home ice cream or maybe a puppy, PLEASE? Then we'd call her to ask her a question about our homework.  Back then they didn't have the lovely "ignore" feature on phones; they didn't have caller ID; they most certainly did not have cell phones, so, since we were calling her at work and she had no way of knowing whether or not it was a Real Person or just her annoying kids, she had to answer the phone. Honestly, I'm surpised she was never booted.

What amazes me is that we never thought to call my dad. I mean, like M is to S, he was a hands-on dad to us. So why, when we needed something or wanted to vent or were bored, did we only think to call my mom? Much like S has my number imprinted in her brain, my brother and I had our mother's imprinted in ours. Hers was the only number that provided results, and, it appears, S feels the same about my number.

But now? Ah, yes! I have technology on my side. And I can press ignore; I can slide away that call; I can choose not to answer.

But I do. Almost every time.