My daughter is 15. My son is 12. They both have smartphones. And in some ways, it’s great.
I can (almost) always reach them when I need to — unless, of course, their phones die (which they do, sometimes, and often at the most inopportune moments). I can send them money with a few taps. Sometimes, we can even have better, more honest conversations via text. There are definitely upsides.
But also? It can be a lot.
Because every parent knows: the moment you see a text from your kid that says “MOM” and nothing else, your soul leaves your body.
So, this is a letter to my teen kids that I’ve been working on. I wanted to share it here in case anyone else is going through something similar and would like to use it as a template. Think of it as a Mother’s Day gift from me to you.
My Dearest Children,
When you text me “MOM” with no context and no follow up, I, your mother, immediately assume the worst-case scenario: A medical emergency; a fire; any possible number of natural disasters.
WHY ARE THERE NO WORDS AFTER “MOM” FOR 20 MINUTES UNTIL YOU FINALLY FOLLOW UP WITH… “nvm”?
“Nvm?” Not cool, bro. Not cool.
And while we’re at it, also not cool: Texting me at 11:17 a.m. on a Tuesday from school to say things like: “They don’t have mac and cheese and I’m starving.” or “I got a B+? It should have been an A-” or “My stomach hurts.”
I love your confidence. I love your spirit. I even love that you think I can fix things. But also, this stuff? It’s called just being a person in the world.
My advice? Take Pepto and strap in.
Also, in these instances I kindly ask that you lose my number. Here’s why:
When I was in kindergarten in 1980, teachers didn’t email parents. They wrote notes by hand and safety-pinned them to us. That was the communication system. It worked fine.
I grew up in New York City. In fourth grade, my mom gave me a bus pass, showed me how to get on the Lexington Avenue bus, transfer to the 79th Street bus, walk four blocks home, gave me a house key, and then she said, “Okay! Have a great life.” She didn’t say that exactly, but that was my takeaway.
Sometimes I’d stop between buses and get a hot dog without the dog — just the bun — with onions and squeeze cheese from a can (don’t judge) and sit on a New York City curb. There was no Purell (bacteria was our friend then), no water, ever (I don’t think I drank water until I was 24) and no way to contact anyone on earth. And guess what? Last I checked, I’m still alive.
When I was your age, there were no smartphones. No Life360. No text updates. No “Find My Friends.” You had to actually go and find your friends if you wanted to see them.
In high school, if I wanted to call home, I had two options:
- Convince the school nurse I had a limp and/or a migraine that would necessitate a call to my parents who both worked and may or may not have been available to take my call at that moment.
- Walk down nine flights of stairs during my free period and wait in line for the ONE pay phone. Like I was in prison. Except I needed exact change. If the phone even worked which often it did not.
So, guess what, kids? It was so difficult to simply call my parents that I ended up figuring a lot of stuff out on my own. I had to. I became resourceful; I made decisions. I learned to problem-solve. I grew up.
And because I didn’t text my mom every time I had a stomach ache or every time I was disappointed by lunch menu options, we actually talked about our days after school and work. Conversations. About new information never shared before! In person! Undistracted. Well, mostly. I mean, we did have Tetris back then.
My point is… I am your mom. I love you with a ferocity that could puncture the earth. I am always here for you in a real emergency. No hesitation. No delay. Call me. Text me. Send a bat signal. ET phone home. I am there.
But if you’re in the middle of math class and you think your teacher is being unfair, or lunch is not what you hoped, or your friend is annoying, or your toe sort of hurts but also you maybe forgot which foot?
Lose my number.
Not forever. Not completely. Just, like, for a little bit. Just long enough to figure things out on your own first.
Because I believe in you. I trust you. And also, I’m begging you to stop texting me “MOM” in all caps with no follow-up.
All my love,
Mom
Jordan Roter is a screenwriter, TV writer, producer and author of the new novel MOMS LIKE US. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, kids, and their dog, Alfie.