Tech Support - PLEASE?

If there's one role in my life that's working out, it's my job in tech support. Finally my lifelong nerdiness has paid off – for my parents, that is. While I was never enough of a geek to cash in, I am enough of one to be responsible for solving all computer problems in my immediate family.

When you're in tech support, you actually don many roles. When it's time to update some software, I'm called on as an instructor. When it's time to consider updating computer systems, I'm a serving in more of a financial advisor role. And, when files disappear mysteriously, I'm called on for divine intervention, and sometimes, grief counseling.

All of which reminded me of an observation made by a friend of mine, Lizette. Life, she noted, needs tech support. We really need someone we can call when life's hard drives crash, when the mental software locks up, when everything begins to mysteriously end up in the recycle bin.

While I'm fulfilling the role as tech support on the computer end of things, I am still looking for a bit of tech support in my own life role as mom.

There are many times as a parent when I could really use some significant tech support. Frankly you can call your family for advice only so often before they just grow silent on the phone, waiting for you to figure it out. Like you'd be calling if you had a clue.

That would never happen with Parental Tech Support.

I can see it now. You'd ring up the special number given to you as you exited the birthing room, the number you'd have since tattooed to your palm. You'd be on hold for an hour and forty minutes, listening to periodic assurances that you are important. Then you'd make your selection from a long menu of choices, many of which have changed to keep you from zipping through. You'd never hit 0 for customer service, because that would be cheating. Plus it wouldn't work anyway.

You'd almost be lulled to sleep with the soft rock music and repeated admonishments to not hang up or else you'd lose your place in line, when you break through. You'd suddenly be talking to a real, live person. They'd be reading from a script on their computer screen in New Dehli, or Florida, or San Marcos, or some other exotic call center locale, giving you hours and hours of advice. They'd send you up the chain of expertise until it seemed like you were talking to Dr. Spock himself, and you'd get more advice, all of which would, in the end, be completely useless.

Still, you'd feel so much better. You'd feel like you had help, like you weren't in this alone. You'd come away knowing you and your tech support person had tried absolutely everything to get your child to eat something other than frosting, or read something that didn't involve ball gowns. So hours later, when you ended up reading Sleeping Beauty for the 27th time or watching as all the tops were eaten off the donuts, you'd understand.

This is a hardware problem.

Fish out of water

(that's me, when I was waaaay smarter. At least as smart as a goldfish.)

Just recently two people I have known for a long time as young and footloose childless people have become expectant parents. And they've got that look. That deer in the headlights combined with intoxicated over-the-top happiness look.

I want to help them, I really do. Because I remember vividly how completely clueless I was when I was pregnant the first time. And the worst part about it – I had no idea I was clueless.

Outwardly I pretended to be aware that this was a whole new adventure I knew nothing about. But inwardly I was sure I knew what was what. I'd listened carefully to all the advice and act as if I was taking notes. I might even have written a few things down, like "carry a bottle of antibacterial soap at all times" (still the best single bit of advice I received).

But inside I just knew I had it all figured out.

Right. It's like the goldfish in its bowl thinking, "Man, if I could just get out of this bowl, you wouldn't believe the places I'd go. I'd rule the world!"

That goldfish thinks we're all swimming out here.

I knew, for example, I'd never panic over a mild fever. In reality, we went to the emergency room when I was pretty sure Sierra's cough sounded just like a barking seal.

I knew, once again, I'd never stick a lollipop in my kid's mouth just to have some peace and quiet on a long drive. In reality, there's a box of them in my car.

I knew I'd never park my child in front of the television. In reality I would never have gotten through a shower for the first five years if it weren't for the combined power of Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues.

And there was absolutely no way my children would have anything but a balanced breakfast. In reality, Sweeties Donuts are a regular feature in our 'we're running late, let's eat kolaches' dietary plan.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days in the fishbowl when I was so much smarter than I am now. I knew everything and there was a certain comfort in that skewed reality.

But once you jump out of the bowl, there's no going back.

Out here, mommies and daddies just have to flop our way through as best we can.

Bag, Man...

Dearest bagger,

At this time it seems necessary to explain to you what your goal is when packing my groceries into bags. I say this because clearly something has gone terribly wrong with the training you’ve received thus far. Remember this lesson – always blame management. It’ll take you far in this world.
Number one: You are not my personal trainer. It is not your mission to provide me with a weight training program by packing items into bags so they reach a weight of 75 pounds. It defeats the whole “bagging” thing when I have to remove things from the bag in order to carry the bag. Trust me, you are not developing my triceps.

Number two: This is not Sesame Street. The goal is not to place all similar things together. Think about it. These are groceries. All of these things all ready go together. This is particularly true if it will result in the aforementioned 75 pound bag. I cite specifically your obsession with canned goods.

Number three: This is not one giant Tetris game. The goal is not to maximize spatial relationships. Believe it or not, packing things tightly together actually does not result in safer transport. I cite my punctured carton of milk as the most recent example.

Number four: Appreciate the miracle that I remembered my bags from the trunk of my car. Please fight that primal bagger urge to put at least one thing in a plastic bag. Particularly when I have 20 bags of assorted shapes and sizes for you to work with. I’ve tried to put some variety and spice in this for you, surely there’s a bag there you can use for that candy bar.

Number five: Milk is heavy. Adhere to the two half gallon cartons per bag limit. Do not, under any circumstances consider that a waste of a bag. Just because there are only two items in the bag doesn’t mean you must add other items to the bag, particularly sharp, pointed items in a tight bag (see number three).

Number six: Marshmallows. They are not the grocery store equivalent of packing peanuts. Trust me, the taste loses something under extreme compression.

I hope these six guidelines help. Remember, baggers of the world, your job, thankless as it can be, is the final lap in the grocery run relay.

Don’t drop the baton on the bananas.