Texting Mother

When did mothers suddenly become so popular? I have spent the past few weeks pondering the question.

I am not talking about the preschool set. Mothers have always polled exceptionally high among that demographic, especially those with persistent separation anxiety. I am talking about teen-agers. They who roll their eyes at their parents’ sage suggestions. They who bud their ears to avoid adult dinner conversation. They who lol with their bffs when their homework, which never seems to get done, beckons.

Last week, in an hour-long high school honors class I confiscated four different cell phones, one mid-test. This despite my oh-so-pleasant request, prompted by a student blatantly texting as I introduced myself as their substitute teacher, that they put their cell phones away. Because my request only prompted half of the class to act, I followed up with a not-so-veiled threat to confiscate any phones that I saw in use.

“But it’s my mother,” the first boy protests as I demand his phone. I hope he is cleverer in class than he is in his texting. Only a few feet from my desk, he has assumed the “standard” classroom texting pose, both hands under the desk, the phone centered in the lap held just under the edge of the desk.  A pose that often prompts colleagues to embarrass the violators with innuendo as to their actions.

I can only assume from his furtive glances from test to phone that he is cheating, texting a friend or searching the Internet to find the answers he does not know. But, not ready to unleash a firestorm of privacy and first amendment issues, I dare not look at the text. I put the phone in my pocket without so much as a glance. I treasure my paltry income as a substitute teacher. I then lean down to pick up the fluorescent blue study guide stretched out underneath the desk of his less tech-savvy neighbor. My how the nature of cheating has changed.

Does his mother know, I wonder. Not that he cheats, but that he blames it on her.

The second student attempts the “camouflage” pose. She assumes her prime spot in a back corner of the room and her large bag situated just so on her desk protects her texting from my purview. She is far more interested in reading her texts than the class novel. At least she has finished her test. Aware of my presence as I move into her zone, she does the “quick slip,” a quick slide of the cell phone from the desktop to the pant pocket, a move not nearly as discreet as most students presume. She hopes the bag hides her move. But it does not. And, like a shy child hiding in her mother’s skirt, she hopes to hide behind the excuse of texting her mother.

It is March 25^th.  Perhaps she celebrates Mother’s Day in Slovenia, I think. Perhaps she forgot to buy her a present. Perhaps she worries her mother will feel neglected. Perhaps.

“It’s her mother,” a voice claims automatically as I ask for the third phone. My eyes are no longer young, but I am fairly certain the gallant defender cannot read her text from his desk two rows behind her, even though she has assumed the “about face” classroom texting pose, her torso uncomfortably twisted, leaning into the aisle, in order to face the rear of the room as she texts. Like a two-year-old who covers her eyes and assumes the world can no longer see her, this student assumes her back turned to me makes her cell phone invisible. She has heard my threat. She has seen me confiscate. She has recognized my intent. But there is an urgency she cannot ignore. She is driven to text.

Mother must be a helicopter parent, I conclude.  Or a tiger mother. Compelled to please, she has aced the test and cannot wait to share her success with her mother. Her text is clearly worth the risk.

The fourth student does not even try to hide his cell phone. There are eight minutes left in class. He employs the “it is my right” pose. He sits on the front row, elbows planted on the desk, holding his phone up to eye level as his thumbs fly over the keys, oblivious to my stare as I stand a few feet away. He seems genuinely surprised when I move only inches away and hold out my demanding hand, flat, palm up in the universal classroom sign language for “hand-over-your-phone.”

“But I thought class was over,” he protests. Which translated means, “If I do not find the class work compelling and if there is less than ten minutes remaining in class, then I have the right to use my cell phone.” A god-given right, I am sure, if I were to poll the class. At least he does not claim he is texting his mother. Surely she must feel neglected.

Two years ago pollster Joel Benenson found that the average student sends more than three texts per class. That means that there were at least sixty-three text messages sent during that honors class. (Perhaps a few less if I were to factor in the four confiscated phones.) If I were to assume that by average, Benenson means a true arithmetic mean and not a mythical average like that in Lake Wobegon, and if I were to assume that there are at least a few students in my class who do not just appear to be, but are actually completing the test and reading their books instead of texting, then I am led to an astounding conclusion: there are two or three students in my class who love their mothers so much that they sent them at least five texts during the hour I was with them. (I certainly hope those mothers appreciate my efforts.) Furthermore, if all these students text their mothers as often as is claimed when caught, then the average mother should receive at least fifteen texts from each child every day. Imagine all those average, happy mothers. Getting texts, affirming they are far from average in their children’s eyes. Every day. Every hour.

None of my three children sends me a text each day. They whom I have willingly nursed and diapered. They for whom I have whooped and cheered unreservedly during tediously long little league games. They for whom I have applauded wildly as I shivered during torrential downpours at band competitions. They who have unlimited texting for which I pay. I consider myself fortunate to receive an occasional text requesting a ride home. Which, as I consider these statistics, creates great maternal angst. And questioning. Why am I so unpopular with my children? Am I not average? (For my children are certainly far, far above average.) Do my children not love me? Have they forgotten my number?

And ultimately I am led to choose between two conclusions: either my children do not use their cell phones during class or they do not love me. Naively I am assuming the first.