The generational gap has manifested itself in full-fledged glory this evening.
My mother and father spent the day at the Verizon store. Both were proud new owners of their very own iPhones. PapaStavo has an iPhone. GrammaJ is sending pictures of my dog nephew in an attempt to master the iPad camera.
Suddenly this Mayan prophecy thing doesnâ€™t seem quite so wackadoo.
Meanwhile, back in the Silicon Valley, the muppets were having an argument over who was going to play with the Leapfrog iPad or laptop.
NEW BLOG ENTRY chirped the laptop.
Search was focused. Heâ€™s been paying attention. He was probably detailing the adventures of his brother â€“ adventures that heâ€™d already likely googled and â€œsuggestedâ€ to his brother.
Destroy was scaling the media cabinet. When I looked over, he was horizontal, reaching toward the red toy box. Itâ€™s the toddler foxhole of our living room. He ducked down.
Search side-eyed me. Yeah â€“ I saw you kid, even as you determinedly punched keys like he was aware of nothing else. Casually, he slid over the arm of the couch and began clicking the home button of the original iPad.
From a distance it looked like he was activating the Wheels on the Bus app Iâ€™d set up for him. But lets face it, Iâ€™m pretty sure he was electronically communicating with his twin.
Technological telepathy perhaps?
Destroy popped up, scrambled up the end table and rappelled down the lighting electrical cord â€“ television remote clutched to his side.
The boys traded off at the iPad. (This wasnâ€™t the gentlest or quietest handoff. Searchâ€™s banshee screams of â€œMIIIINE!â€ were obviously a diversionary tactic.)
Destroy was over at the television. The screen flickered to life. The little Pixar lampshade stomped down the â€œIâ€ and Finding Nemo began playing for the seventh time today.
Search went back to typing on his Leapfrog laptop.
I do not watch television when I visit my parentsâ€™ house. This may seem odd, as lounging at the home of the youth is a perfect place to pretend I have no more responsibilities than my teenage self â€“ when the end of the world revolved around a physics test and the results of the student council election. However, I canâ€™t figure out how to turn their contraption on.
Yet it seems those born in this second decade of the new millennium are genetically programmed to manipulate technology.
My parents have gone google. My brother is holding technology lessons at his beach house. I am afraid of what gizmos and gadgets I will be struggling to comprehend when the tables turn and I become my mother.
Maybe I should just become a Luddite now. Theyâ€™ll think I am anyway.