I was two and a half years old before I ever saw my mother without a telephone held up to her ear. The sight so terrified me that I ran and hid and refused to come out from under my bed until my dad dragged me out by my feet. This particular trauma may also have something to do with the fact that I did not start talking until I was three and a half.
Okay, I exaggerate, but only a little.
The telephone was my enemy, it was not just a ferocious rival for my mother’s attention—it was clearly the undisputed victor. My mother could happily chatter into that strange black device for hours on end. And no one could interrupt her. Even a dirty diaper had to wait before she would change it. After I became ambulatory, she assumed I needed even less attention. Communication with her was possible only through the telephone and I didn’t have one. I couldn’t even ask permission to go outside and play while she was on the phone. She simply ignored me or waved me off, her way of letting me know that I would always be less important than the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. The Mah Jong club and the PTA girls were more important than her own experiment in genetic recombinance.
I did finally get some small revenge. Years later, when I finally had a house of my own, a phone of my own, and an answering machine of my own—I never picked up when she called. I always made her leave a message. And if it was an angry one, I didn’t return the call.
Eventually, I figured out that it wasn’t my mom I was angry at, she had a heart as big as her mouth. No, it was the telephone itself I despised and the effect it has on human relationships.