Loving the Phone

I’m not a fan of talking on the telephone. Blame it on years of working with phones and feeling like a slave to them all day long--by the time I come home in the evening, the last thing I want to do is answer the telephone.

The cherry chocolate cell phone is another matter—that’s a great little toy that plays “Strict Machine” for its ringtone and carries pictures and music along with it. But the other phone—it’s just not my favorite thing.

Last week, however, we received a puzzling call that we really enjoyed. The phone rang, and the CID said the number was that of my stepson and daughter-in-law. When he picked up, though, all DH could hear were ambient room sounds and Mommadrool’s voice in the distance. DH also noticed that the baby was babbling near the phone. “Hello! Hello!” cried DH.

No one there.

“Hello!” Finally, Mommadrool picked up the phone. “Hey!” we cried, “Who called us?” “Little Man called you,” she replied. Somehow the baby had picked up the phone, pressed the two keys to unlock it, and selected 63 to speed-dial the grandparents. Mommadrool has no idea how he did it.

I will forever maintain that he was calling to invite us to his 1-year birthday party, that he knew exactly what he was doing, and that his intelligence level is in the 100th percentile.

After getting that call from the baby, and having had a very grown-up conversation with his nearly-three-year-old sister, I’ve decided that I like the telephone, after all.