The child has a life in politics ahead of him I think. With a straight face, he will be able to tell the media that the money was only resting in his account, and get away with it too. I’m not sure why my child’s life in politics is set to be filled with corruption, however I do know he’s in training to pull it off while still looking good. Bertie, the Teflon Taoiseach, will have nothing on him. What has brought me to this conclusion? Just a stage we seem to have hit in the BadMammy house.
A few weeks ago, I noticed my phone was gone missing. It had last been seen the night before, and I tore the house apart looking for it. No sign. It literally vanished into thin air. I searched bins, toy boxes, the fridge, the oven, anywhere stupid you can think of that a phone would end up, you name it I searched it. That phone was gone.
Of course, this all happened with incredible timing. I had just gone back to work, child was in full time childcare and being collected by people who didn’t normally collect him, and himself was out of the country. I had no phone, no method of being contacted if anything went wrong, complete panic stations. This was amplified by a delay in getting a replacement sim card for my old Samsung, because apparently so few people want to be Eir customers that Carphone Warehouse doesn’t bother stocking them. Thankfully I had the use of an iPod Touch in wifi areas, so I was able to check in with the people collecting E from creche. However, it really did leave me feeling anxious about potentially missing calls from the creche or if any other emergencies happened. Not the most fun feeling in the world.
Not only that, I began to realise just how much of an extension of my right arm my phone had become. This filled me with a slight horror for two reasons: lack of access to said right arm extension, and the feeling of “what the hell is wrong with me, I shouldn’t be this dependent”. It’s apparently a thing, this smart phone addiction malarkey, and this experience has definitely made me think about just how much time I waste flicking through apps and social media aimlessly.
It’s got my life on there. My camera documenting every single move the precious first born has made. My Notes, containing random thoughts, health insurance policy numbers, and lists of things I really should get done. Access to all social media on the go, phone numbers, and of course, the bloody creche being able to contact me. I live in fear of missing their call (and that’s only slightly out of fear of the strict manager).
I had insurance which I’d purchased with my phone back in September 2014, with Carphone Warehouse’s Geek Squad. So, in I trot to get the form, annoyed that this can’t all be done online. I head to the Garda station to explain my plight to the Garda. I may have fudged some details and perhaps not explained that my phone had vanished within my house. He duly stamps the form, which I drop in the following evening. Phone network has been contacted (it takes a record FIVE different chat advisors to get them to blacklist my phone, most don’t understand what I’m talking about). Now I wait.
My week with my Samsung phone is not a ringing endorsement to go back to Android. In being fair – it’s a Samsung Galaxy S3 with a cracked screen, that hadn’t been updated since 2014, so took some major updating just to get it to function. But the lack of cohesiveness of how the damn thing worked, and the fact that it decided half the time to do the exact opposite of what I wanted did not entice me to abandon my iPhone.
On WednesdayÂ I got a call saying come collect my phone, it had been dropped off in the store. I get out of work at 5.30, the store closes at six. I prebook a cab on Hailo, to give myself the best possible chance of getting there with plenty of time to spare. Clearly the entire city decided to park their cars in the road from my work to the shop. I wind up hopping out of the cab at 5.53 and RUNNING across half the city. I get there at 5.59. The door is already locked. I nearly cry.
Two staff members are inside, one girl who I was dealing with previously. They chat amongst themselves, and then that girl comes to open the door. It’s 6.01 when she opens the door, and tells me I’m too late, they’re shut, she’s really sorry. I state, breathing heavily, hoping I don’t collapse, that I was technically there before six. I have been this girl, annoyed at the customers who show up at the last possible minute, but she is pleasant. It is her manager who comes over and rudely tells me “You weren’t here on time, some of us have a bus to get and kids to feed at home”. I storm off, clearly getting nowhere and rage to myself for the evening. It takes me a while to get my breath back. I vow once this is over to never deal with that specific shop again.
The following day, the store is open later so theres less of a rush after work. Thankfully neither party from the previous evening is there. The transaction goes off without a hitch, I hand over money, she hands over phone, I leave. I’m back in the land of the living.
Then, we fast forward to today. Three weeks later. My son comes out of his room after playing and hands me something that looks rather familiar. My phone. “I hiding Mummy, I hiding”. Oh, he certainly was alright. All I can do is laugh. At least I got the cover back, right?
Moral of the story: never trust the toddler. The phone is always only resting in their hidey-hole, wherever it may be.