Last season on an episode of Parenthood, the 16 year old female character accidently called her parents from her cell phone—a butt dial. And the parents were in the car when they received the call. And the call came up on their Bluetooth. The sounds the parents heard from the daughter’s butt dial clearly were sounds of passion. And the parents flipped out. They nearly got into a car accident arguing over what they could not believe to be true. The writers did a good job of mimicking reality. Luckily I never had their exact experience. But I have been butt dialed on many occassions.
Kara is the youngest of my three children. She was sedately wild in high school. Her behavior was consistent with that of normal teenagers. And she was more skilled at flying under the radar than her sisters—she managed to walk inches behind the boundary line.
On a Friday afternoon Kara butt dialed me. Had I answered the phone I would have said Hello? Hello? and when I got no response I would have hung up. But this butt dial was special. I was not home when she called. Her call went to the house voicemail. The ensuing conversation was on tape.
And when I came home from food shopping I pressed the messages on my answering machine and starting putting my groceries away. This was typical daily behavior for me. And then I heard Kara’s voice—clear as a bell—no handbag or jean pocket muffling—and she was telling the girl she was driving home from school all about her Friday night plans. Kara had made plans with some friends to take the train into Manhattan to go to a restaurant for a friend’s birthday dinner. I had confirmed the restaurant plans earlier with the Mom of the birthday girl. I was okay with the plans—I was also okay with the posse of girls she was going with.
But the butt dial provided added information--and I learned from the taped message where the pre-gameing would take place and who was providing the alcohol. And I learned the type of alcohol that was to be transported in the flask--and where the flasks were to be hidden during the journey. And I learned who had the fake ID in case they needed to replenish the supply. And then I shut the answering machine off. I was past the Mommy saturation point. The accidental phone tap gave me way more information than I had wanted to know.
And now I had a choice. Ignore what I had heard or pursue the punishment. And I was conflicted. Because while on the one hand I knew I had a parental duty to pull the plug on the event , the fact was that she hadn’t drank a single drop of alcohol yet. Kara was getting in trouble for intent to drink—not actual drinking. There was still the possibility that she wouldn’t imbibe at all. I could have let her go and have fun and then punished her after the crime. And to a large extent I actually found it humorous that the child’s first time for getting into trouble for drinking might occur when she was stone cold sober.
And had the intended imbibing remained just here in town I would likely have given her the rope to hang herself with—but imbibing and traveling into Manhattan was the prohibitive stop. So when Kara got back home, I confronted her. I said I know about your plans for drinking tonight and you are no longer allowed to go into the city. And she said what are you talking about? And I said you butt dialed me and all your plans were recorded in a voicemail—would you like to hear what you said? And she said no. Game over.
And Kara stayed home. And the others went. I was the meanest mother in the world. And when a parent or two inquired why Kara was no longer allowed to go into the city, I remained silent—I said it was private. I learned long ago to keep my information to myself. If the other parents wanted to know what their kids were doing they would have to get their own butt dialed call. It wasn’t coming from me. I learned in the most severe way from previous years’ experience that when you tell other parents about intended or purported bad behavior, they do not embrace it—even if they say otherwise in public. I learned long ago that the only child you have to worry about is your own. It doesn’t take a village to raise a child—that is a myth voiced by parents who do not know any better. The only person responsible for raising your child is you. Raising a child simply takes one or two mindful parents—not a village--or an accidental butt dial recorded on your voicemail.
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