It’s 10:45 PM, and after a sun-washed day at the farm, two sleepy boys have crawled onto the air mattress in the guest bedroom of my mother- and father-in-law’s home. I switch off the lights and sit beside their jammied torsos. Before we finalize our Snoozetown plans, H is fast asleep.
Meanwhile, O whispers into the darkness, telling me stories about Captain America and the rest of the Justice League heroes. I remind him it’s past his bedtime, and that he needs to close his eyes and go to sleep. Instead he laces his arms around the crook of my elbow and whispers and whispers some more.
I hear my iPhone vibrate on the dresser, so I reach up to read the incoming text messages.
I see this:
H eating..."snores"?
And this:
O? Eating...popsicles?
I laugh. SC. What a funny guy. I like how I know my brother’s work without even having to look at the sender details and…
Wait. Whose phone number is that?
Where did these photos come from? Why have I never seen them before? Why is someone with a mystery phone number texting me photos of my children?
When I panic, my brain chemistry does two things without fail. First, I grow instantly cold, and my mind is wiped clean, like someone has taken a power washer to the muddy thoughts I’ve smeared across the cool, smooth glass of reason.
Next, I feel a flash of heat, a rising anger, a seething clarity. I wait for this upsurge. And then I text back.
Me: I don’t recognize this number. Who is this.
{Pause.}
Texter: Someone tall, dark and handsome.
Me: I’m not kidding. Who is this.
{Minutes and minutes and minutes pass.}
Texter: Who are you?
O touches my hand and says, “Mama, do you fink Batman wikes donuts?”
“Shhh,” I say, trying to concentrate. “Go to sleep, buddy. It’s late.”
Me: Stop *$%@ing around. Who are you?
And then nothing. No reply.
~*~
For 10 minutes, I wait with trembling hands while O keeps this running dialog: “Tony Stark and da Hulk used to not wike each other. Then, they were fwiends. And they rescued people! H is Aqua Man. I’m Fwash. Who are you, Mama?”
I murmur, “Silver Surfer. I’ll be right back, buddy. Be a good boy.” Then I slip through the door and into the light of my mother-in-law’s living room. She’s sitting on the couch with GB. They’re entrenched in the center of some conversation.
She looks at me in my furious, furious fury, and she’s instantly concerned. “What’s wrong?” she says.
I shove my phone into GB’s hands, and the three of us huddle to peer at the tiny screen.
I recount the story and the questions I’ve wrapped tightly inside my anxiety. Is this someone we know? Has someone crazy found my blog? Who does this kind of thing? Where did these pictures come from?
And then, the phone buzzes again.
Texter: Who is the only person you know who would do something stupid like put mustaches on your kids?
Me: I don’t recognize this number!
Texter: It’s me—SC! Your brother! I’m using my work phone.
This wave of relief. It’s enough to make me sink to the floor.
~*~
So there you have it. Another example of how a vivid imagination can go from Eden to Apocalypse in 30 seconds.
I’m not surprised my mind unrolled into the deep end like this. I worry constantly about these boys, and it extends way beyond online privacy issues. I’m the mom who says no to toy guns and army guys and riding on the lawnmower with dad. I tsk tsk at parents who give their kids too much freedom on the playground. I hover and say “be careful!” more often than these guys deserve.
And when I receive mystery texts from a mystery phone number with crazy photos of my kids, I freak out.
When I hear the boys talk about those Justice League superheroes, I wish I had a few super powers of my own to pass along to them. Force field power, to protect them from the physical nicks and dings they’ll sustain over the years. Super strength, so no one will try to mess with their hearts or their heads. Super speed, so they can run as fast as they can from disaster. Invisibility, so they can escape from any bad decisions they make. (I’ll leave out the X-ray vision, even though, 10 years from now, that’s probably the power they’d want most.)
And for me, I’d want Wonder Woman’s golden lasso, to collect them and reel them back when they’re lost or scared or wandering. But then maybe that’s what maternal instincts are–a magic rope to be loosened and tightened as little boys grow.
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