I have a confession to make. I stalk my children. I stalk my husband, too. I don’t know why I do it, actually. It’s a sickness, I guess—an unhealthy obsession with knowing exactly where my loved ones are at practically every moment of every day. Thanks to the fine people at Apple and my friend, Drew, some time ago I downloaded the Find My Friends app on my iPhone and immediately began tracking the whereabouts of the aforementioned people.
The trouble is, they’re not particularly fond of it. Translation: They despise it.
“Mom, quit stalking us. It’s creepy.”
Creepy or not, however, apparently I get some peace of mind out of knowing what my kids are up to 24/7. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. The same goes for my husband, except that it’s more about convenience to know where he is at a given time. That way, for instance, I can “see” that he’s in the grocery store and know that it makes perfect sense to call him and tell him that we’re out of Cheetos. I don’t like to be out of Cheetos, ergo I feel compelled to inform him of such a dire situation.
The conversation goes something like this:
Me: “What aisle are you in? We need Cheetos.”
My husband: “What? How’d you know I’m in a store? Oh, that’s right; you have that blasted thing on your phone and you’re watching me like Big Brother. Remind me to SHUT IT OFF so you can’t monitor my every move.”
Me: “Wait. What? No. I like being able to see where you are, then I can call and give you helpful information that you might need—like the fact that WE’RE OUT OF CHEETOS. How would you know otherwise? You’re welcome.”
The conversations we have while he’s in the liquor store are strikingly similar except that they usually involve a dwindling supply of wine.
At any rate, I find the app to be remarkable in that I can even tell in which part of a particular building my kids happen to be situated at any given moment. Rest assured, if they’re supposed to be in chemistry class and they’re in chemistry class, my heart is happy.
Me: “So I noticed you went to Denny’s during the break between finals today. Was it fun? What did you order?”
Child: “Mom, that absolutely weirds me out. Why do you do that? It’s just not normal.”
Me: “I don’t know. I guess I like to see what you’re doing throughout your day and it gives me more stuff to talk about with you.”
Child: “Why not just ask me where I went and I’ll tell you?”
Me: “Yeah, but isn’t it more impressive that I already know where you went and we can skip ahead to other parts of the discussion?”
Child: “No. Not really. It’s just creepy and you should stop doing it.”
Unfortunately, I can’t stop doing it. At this late stage in the game, I have become hopelessly addicted to tracking my people and there is no turning back. There is something strangely comforting about looking at that tiny screen and seeing those familiar icons pop up, reassuring me that the people I care about are where they’re supposed to be—even if they’re worlds away for weeks at a time.
In an instant, I can gather a wealth of information—like which door to pick up someone at school and whether or not my progenies are still on the marching band bus, coming home from a late night competition or football game. Almost instantaneously, I can verify that all is right in my little corner of the world.
Strangely enough, looking at the map and those smiling faces within the teensy, tiny circles on my phone warms my heart—no matter how far apart they happen to be. It’s like holding my family in real time in the palm of my hand.
Of course, they would likely beg to differ, suggesting that they’re all under my thumb. Literally.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably poring over my Find My Friends app. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.
Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel
As love affairs with cell phones go, the one I am about to describe is epic. Not that I’m the only person ever to become enamored with his or her smartphone—because I’m not. Plenty of idiots like me cling to their dear Droids and BlackBerries, inextricably fused to the deliciousness of those handheld wonders and to the epitome of shameless egocentrism. It’s just that I have trouble wrapping my head around the hideous nature of my fixation.
Planet Mom 