These days, there’s a brand new ritual when I call my daughter’s house. Whether I’m talking to my son-in-law about the sorry state of our favorite professional football team or exchanging general niceties with our eldest girl-child, my grandson will inevitably want to join me for a little phone conversation.
I’ll admit that it’s cute – sort-of – but only after our gabfest is complete. Going from point ‘a’ to point ‘b’ is not so delightful, and we do not go gently into that transition.
More often than not, I’ll hear little Justin whoopin’ and hollering in the background, and then, much like a tiger on an unsuspecting villager, he pounces on the in-use communication device.
“My turn.”
Once I hear the child utter these two words I know the beast that guards hell has been unleashed.
Yesterday, as my daughter and I discussed plans for the weekend and one of my most recent appearances on a local radio station, I could hear the cry of ‘my turn’ building to a fevered crescendo.
My son-in-law is quick to hand over the phone. Having lived with my daughter for quite a few years now, he obviously understands the white flag concept.
My daughter – or Pol Pot as she’s known to my grandson – however, turns on that mom gene that blocks out all the noise the boy can muster.
I don’t think she understands that I possess no such genetic material, and the perpetual harping of myturnmyturnmyturnmyturn drives me batty.
But not as loopy as, I don’t know, my daughter screaming in my ear that it’s NOT YOUR TURN, IT’S MOMMY’S TURN.
‘Honey,’ I say, ‘go ahead and put Justin on the phone.’
‘Yeah, I will,’ she replies, turning on the former teenage gene that blocks out everything the old man says.
“JUSTIN, it is mommy’s turn, when it’s your turn I’ll let you know. IT’S MOMMY’S TURN.”
I keep waiting for her to bark at the boy that it’s time to clean the latrines.
Justin could care less if it were the Queen of England’s turn; he feels he is next in line for the phone throne.
Once my daughter thrusts the phone into his breadbasket (I’m just guessing here), she chastises him for phone-related infractions.
“Put it up to your ear.”
“Talk into it the right way.”
“Don’t PUSH any buttons.”
If I were the kid I’d throw it away like a live hand grenade and go screaming into the street.
Just a side note of useless knowledge for you: Did you know the very first telephone operators were boys? True story. Young males had done such a great job of working in telegraph offices that the very first phone companies thought they would be a natural for the operator position. As boys are wont to do, however, they started wrestling around the switchboard, crank calling folks, and even hurling curse words at callers.
Women were hired not long after; upper management’s reasoning was that they were better behaved than males, and could be had for half the wages. Really. Pinky swear. Google it if you doubt the Poo-Paw.
Where was I? Oh yeah, running screaming into the street.
But rather than flee for his young life, my grandson gathers himself and says, “Hi Poo-pa.”
He doesn’t quite have the ‘w’ sound down yet.
For the next couple of minutes I ask him what he’s doing (‘play cars’ being the standard answer) what he had for breakfast (‘eggs-n-cheese’ are always the menu item of choice), and if he was being a good boy (‘yes’ is the stock reply).
With Pol Pot for a mother, would you admit to unruly behavior?
The next few minutes are spent trying to unscramble garbled sentences recognizable only to fellow toddlers and those who are in the Satan-possessed phase of speaking in tongues.
And then, as I wait for him to return the phone to the Supreme Leader (and question my sanity for calling in the first place), the sweet little gnome utters, “Bye, Poopa. Wuv you.”
I think I’ll be calling everyday from here on out.
By J. Doug Gill