Friday, 23 November 2012
Canadian Thanksgiving has passed, Christmas is coming. This is a time for reflection on the
things we’re thankful for. It’s a stretch, because I spend one-third of the year thankful for sun
and warmth, so the gray, dreary days of November leave me downright crusty. But at least I
have my iPhone.
Oh iPhone, you came into my life a mere two months after my precious daughter. The gap was
probably a good thing — any sooner and that whole attachment parenting thing might not have
happened. I attached to you like a newborn kitten desperate for that first suckle, clambering
over the baby to get to you when I needed my fix of Facebook and Sudoku. Your Daniel Craig
wallpaper reminded me that I was still a silly girl; your iBook app reminded me that I was still
literate. When I was trapped for hours under a feeding baby, you allowed me to avoid watching
The View and instead listen to NPR podcasts or stay in touch with friends who were out in the
world doing things and going places and drinking lots of wine. You caught my tears when I read
their wine-related status updates. You recommended a wine to go with my post-partum rice
During long sleepless nights spent bouncing and rocking and pacing, you kept me awake with
mah-jongg and Twilight books; you told me what I’d missed on The Soup; you provided the
lyrics to “Hallelujah” — all twenty-seven-or-whatever verses (FYI, not the most appropriate
lullaby, but I was running out of ideas, and most of the ones your Safari provided were pretty
lame). For these things I will be eternally grateful.
Now you hold thousands of pictures and videos of Cookie. And she knows this only too
well. “Video of Cookie!” she pleads, grabbing you in her grubby hands and punching uselessly
at the passcode keypad until she dials emergency services. I’ve added a few apps she might
like, but I’d rather have you all to myself. You send me countless tweets that distract me from
my work and lead me down the Internet rabbit hole to dangerous and exciting places. You play
all my favourite songs when I need a lift. You let me know when (if) the sun will shine again.
But now you’re not well. I can no longer clean your screen. Your button is not responsive to my
touch. Our time together isn’t over; according to our contract, I have to wait three more months
to update you. I won’t wait so long next time. Next time I’m getting a two-year contract. I want
you to stay young forever, since neither I nor Cookie can.
-East End Mama